A sizzle of electric power fills the air before a bolt of magic slams into me from behind. I’m thrown from the sorcai’s back into a wall as streaks of magic strike painfully all around me.
“What is happening in here?” a woman demands, her hands held threateningly in front of her as more strands of bright yellow power flicker between her readied palms.
The sorcai I was choking shakily pulls the IV tubing from his bruising neck, his loud coughs bouncing off the walls of the room as another man comes running in. He’s a shifter, predator class, although I can’t immediately tell what animal since it’s not one I’ve come in contact with back home. He’s not in scrubs, but the stethoscope hanging off his neck tells me he’s probably a healer.
I scent the air for the telltale sour fetor that all Tainted carry. They try to hide it, but I can always sniff it out. Just like the sorcai I was trying to strangle, this shifter’s scent isn’t rancid, meaning he hasn’t been in contact with anyone I’m running from. The room still smells sharp and clean with a hint of burning ozone that’s growing stronger as the woman just inside the doorway continues to eye me angrily, her yellow magic and her unanswered question still flickering in the air.
“Where am I?” I demand, the question friable and frail as it scrapes out of my throat like fine grit sandpaper.
The unexpected hit of magic has my legs wanting to buckle, but I lock my knees and lean against the wall, refusing to go down. I may feel like I’ve got tissue paper for limbs, but I sure as shit am not going to announce that to any of them.
The shifter healer moves to a machine that’s flashing red and presses a few buttons until the lights fade to a soft complacent white once more. “You’re in Lairwood. Hikers found you in Newden. You were transferred here when your injuries were more critical than their facilities could handle. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Newden?” I croak as shock rings like a gong in my head, making everything go quiet before it gets loud again.
I was on the other side of the divide when I was taken. Ren, our Flight, and I were tracking a Relacour in vampire territory. I didn’t sense the trap until it was too late. I didn’t think the Tainted would risk moving me through so many territories. Looks like the branches of their network are farther reaching than we realized.
“You’ve been here for several days. We didn’t know if you’d wake up,” the shifter tells me as the woman helps the man I attacked to his feet.
He rubs his throat as he looks at me, his pink scrubs now ripped in a few places and disheveled. I’m surprised by the contrition I find floating in his stare. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m very sorry,” he rasps, his voice almost as coarse as mine.
I stare at him blankly, dumbstruck by the apology. Maybe I’ve taken one too many blows to the head while I was held captive, but I attacked him andhe’ssorry. That’s not how things work where I come from. He watches me expectantly, like he’s waiting for my pardon, but the only thing sitting on the tip of my tongue is unease. I don’t know what to do with hissorryother than not trust a breath of it.
I look around the room and I don’t know if I’m searching for answers or an escape. I need to get out of here. I need to get home.
Home.
It dawns on me that homemight be even more impossible to get to than I thought. The realization comes like a kick to the chest, and it’s all I can do not to stagger and sink to the ground. Enslee might have closed the wards to me and Renatta after we were taken. Our Flight would have told her what happened, and she’d have acted accordingly. Which means I may not be able to get back in.
Certainly not if The Horde is on to me. That would bring death right to the hidden front door of the others. I’m sure the Burner king would like nothing more than to discover there are survivors of his successful coup d’état all conveniently gathered together. That would definitely make it easier for him to wipe us out once and for all.
We’ve been successfully flying under the radar, biding our time while we figure out how to break an unbreakable curse. But until we’re free of it, we need the world—and especially the king and The Dragon Horde—to continue thinking that the Syphons are all dead.
A tremor moves through my hands, and my breathing speeds up. The need to run and hide builds in my blood, and I fight the urge, knowing I’ll get nowhere fast without some sort of plan.
I need to get out of here. Then I need to find a communicator—not one in the hospital though. I can’t risk The Horde discovering that I contacted anyone, and they’ll scour this place first. I can’t chance a missing communicator being noticed.
I try to think through what’s coming my way. If I’m lucky, they’ll only send one operative team, or Flight, as dragon hierarchy classifies them. Unlike my ragtag Flight back home, The Horde will have the best of the best. Burners, Channelers, Thrashers, and Renders. But it’s the Thrashers I’m most worried about in this case.
Physical threats in every sense of the word, from their impenetrable skin to their offensive abilities, Thrashers are also the best trackers of our kind and renowned tacticians. It’s possible that the Flight they send might not have one, but it’s not likely, which means I need to get as far ahead of them as I can, and fast.
Fragile threads of a plan in place, I focus back on my surroundings and realize the other two sorcai left the room. The shifter is the only one still here, and he’s apparently talking to me. I tune in, barely catching the last of what he’s saying.
“We’ve given you a concealment charm to help with the scars. It will hide the look and feel of them while you wear it. The charm should last around a month before you’ll need a new one,” he declares, gesturing to a silver band that fits around my right ankle.
My gaze drops to the innocuous circlet. It could easily be mistaken for a trendy piece of jewelry, but I can feel the hum of magic against my skin. The spell work is refined and potent. Whoever did it must have been very expensive. I want to immediately rip it from my body, but when I reach for it, the smooth skin of my arm gives me pause.
I stare at my limb, at the expanse of pale skin that’s no longer carved up and tally-marked. I turn my arm over, seeing the underside is just as smooth. A confusing mix of emotions rushes through me. Pain, relief, shame, anger—everything swirls together and mixes into a whirlpool of turmoil and wonder. I reach behind me and run a hand over my smooth upper back. I don’t know what to think about the absence of scars. I know they’re there—they were gouged just as deeply inside as they were outside—but the shifter is right, I can’t see or feel them.
For a second, I can almost pretend I was never taken.
My blood wasn’t stolen and sold off to the highest bidder.
Renatta wasn’t tortured and killed in the cell next to mine.
If I never remove this spelled band, I can make believe all of it was just some horrible nightmare, a fucked-up figment of my imagination.
If only I couldn’t still hear Ren’s screams or the way she begged at the end. If only the magic anklet could erase every memory I have of being bled as Wistan laughed and carved a tally into my skin solely to commemorate my inability to stop him.
