Rumpelstiltskin loophole
deal with the devil escape clause
supernatural contract law
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Her phone showed three hardware stores that claimed to sell iron fixtures. She'd visit them tomorrow, just in case.
The mark pulsed, and for a moment she could swear pine and dark earth filled her nostrils despite the closed windows.
Two days.
She kept searching.
Briar woke at 4 AM with a plan.
Portland International Airport was ninety minutes away. One ticket to anywhere without forests: Phoenix, Las Vegas, somewhere desert-dry and treeless. She'd figure out the rest later. Her credit card had just enough room for a one-way flight.
She dressed in the dark, shoving clothes into a backpack with shaking hands. The mark on her wrist lay dormant, just dark lines on pale skin. Maybe it only worked near the forest. Maybe distance was all she needed.
The house was quiet as she crept to the door. She'd left a note on her pillow:Had to handle something for work. Be back soon. Love you both.
Not a lie. Not really. If it worked, she'd be back. Eventually.
Her car started too loud in the pre-dawn stillness. She held her breath, watching the house, but no lights came on. The dashboard clock glowed: 4:23 AM.
Shemade it twenty-two miles.
The first warning was warmth, the mark heating against her skin. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, pressed harder on the gas. The highway stretched empty before her, Portland's glow just visible on the horizon.
The warmth became fire.
"No." She ground the word between clenched teeth. "Not yet. I have time—"
Pain hit with lightning intensity, shooting up her arm and across her chest. The car swerved. She yanked it back into her lane, gasping, but the agony only intensified. White-hot thorns seemed to grow beneath her skin, piercing muscle, scraping against bone.
Her vision blurred. Her lungs refused to expand. Her foot found the brake through pure instinct as the car skidded onto the shoulder.
The moment she stopped moving away from the forest, the pain eased to a vicious throb.
"Bastard," she whispered, forehead pressed to the steering wheel. Sweat soaked through her shirt despite the cool morning air.
She tried again. Started the car, eased forward—
The mark flared. This time she watched it happen, the dark lines writhing beneath her skin, thorns pressing up through flesh in warning. The message was crystal clear:You can go this far. No further.
Once she managed to catch her breath she turned the car around.
The mark was quiet.
By the time she pulled into the driveway, the sun was rising and the mark had settled to its usual warm pulse. June stood on the porch in her robe, arms crossed.
"Phoenix?" she asked quietly. "Or Vegas?"
Briar didn't answer.
"I tried Detroit." June stepped aside to let her pass. "Made it eight miles before…" She gestured at her arm, where the ghost of her old mark lingered. "It gets worse each time you test it."
