Chapter
One
HAVEN
Ikept my voice soft as I wrapped my arm around the crying girl’s shoulders. “No one will hurt you. Not here.”
She flinched, her entire body tensing, as if my touch was a threat, not a comfort. Her fear was raw. Tangible. Terrible.
“You’re safe,” I promised.
The girl cried harder, her anguish clear in each gut-wrenching sob. Why did men do this? What drove them to hurt children?
Gritting my teeth, I rubbed a soothing circle on her back, the gentle movement at odds with the need to track down her attacker and exact justice. This rage was nothing new; it was fueled by each teary-eyed girl who appeared at our door, a far-too-regular occurrence.
The girl, Khouri, huddled beside me on a threadbare couch in the front room of the aged building Grandmother and I called home. The light seeping through the windows was weak, barely enough to brighten our tired, worn parlor. The room might have seen better days, but the scent of Grandmother’s herbaltea, the hand-crocheted blanket that draped over the couch’s arm, the dog-eared books that crammed the bookshelves, and Grandmother’s knickknacks were comforting. At least to me.
“You’re safe here.” I was all too aware of the irony. Grimswood was the most dangerous area in all Legacia. With its narrow streets, buildings that sat nearly on top of each other, and the choking smoke from its factories, the neighborhood was dark, grimy, and beset by poverty and crime. “You’re safe with us,” I amended.
“I’m not. I’m never safe. He’ll find me.” Khouri’s voice trembled with panic, her shoulders shaking under the pressure of her sobs. She pressed her tightly furled fists against her trembling mouth. “He always finds me.”
The muscles in my back and neck tightened. Did Khouri carry a tracking spell? Such spells were ruinously expensive. So much so that only a handful of men in the entire realm could afford them. I studied the girl more closely. Her dark hair was glossy. A gold chain circled her slender neck. And her clothes? Silk. Expensive. Khouri reeked of fear, but I also smelled a hint of jasmine perfume. She came from money.
Dread settled heavily in my stomach. If Khouri did carry a tracking spell, she’d bring immense trouble to our home. This haven Grandmother and I had built wasn’t much—quite the opposite—but it meant hope and safety to the girls who lived here. Now it might be at risk.
Not that we’d ever turn Khouri away. We’d never turn away any girl. Especially not one with bruises blooming across her jaw, a torn skirt, and blood staining her upper thighs.
“How old are you, Khouri?”
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Fourteen.”
“You’ve run away before?”
Her red-rimmed eyes overflowed with misery, andshe brushed her swollen cheek with the back of her hand before holding up two fingers.
“Twice before?” Twice she’d run from her abuser. That she’d tried a third time told me she hadn’t given up hope for a better life. Khouri was strong. Courageous. And in need of our help.
I tamped down the worry gnawing a hole through my stomach. “Who did this to you?”
Her breath caught, and she leaned forward, causing her shiny brown hair to fall across her face, but not before I saw jagged terror flash in her eyes.
“It’s okay.” I kept my voice low and soothing. She wasn’t ready to talk about him. Some experiences—some men—were too traumatizing. I tried a different question. “How did you hear about this place?”
“Girls talk.” A shudder traveled from her shoulders to her hands. She smoothed the tattered remains of her skirt and whispered, “At least the desperate ones do.”
Rich girls. Poor girls. Too many girls needed us. Grandmother had built a life on sheltering girls who needed an escape from men who treated them as punching bags or sex toys. Toys to be discarded when the man was done, tossed on a refuse heap like garbage. For the past twelve years—since I’d turned thirteen and Grandmother deemed me old enough to truly understand the darkness we fought—I’d helped her dry rivers of tears, clutched countless hands, spent more nights than I could tally holding girls haunted by nightmares. With each tear wiped dry, with each nightmare soothed, my rage grew.
The nails of my free hand cut into my palm. Useless. My rage was useless. There was no way to fight. Treating girls badly was the norm in Legacia. And the more power aman had, the worse he treated those around him. Men and power were a lethal combination.
Grandmother was a rare woman with powerful magic. She might have used her gifts to gain prestige or riches. Instead, she lived in Grimswood, a neighborhood so poor that the rats paid rent in crumbs. Grandmother stayed to ease the burdens of those who had no power. She’d created a sanctuary.
Unlike Grandmother’s, my magic wasn’t terribly useful—I couldn’t stop men who abused girls, and I couldn’t heal the broken portions of the girls’ battered souls, or make them whole. I was a shield, able to protect myself and others from magical attacks. If I concentrated like crazy, I could teleport small objects. And I healed quickly—so quickly that Grandmother thought it best we keep that ability a secret.
“He’ll find me.” Khouri wrapped her arms tightly around her narrow torso and rocked back and forth. “I know he will. I’ll never escape him.”
“Who do you think might find you?” I hated to press, especially when she seemed so fragile, but we needed to know what—who—we were up against.
She buried her face in her hands, and the tension radiating from her hunched shoulders was palpable, saturating the air with her distress.
