Bodies litter the ground, witches, cambions, drabar, Cursed, andPanthera citizens. Too many lay lifeless in the town square. I spot two fallen bodies in the familiar black leathers of the Lower House hybrids, both of them laying facedown, crimson blood pooling around them.
“Help!” someone—a child—screams. “Please!”
I don’t even think about it. The scream comes from an alley. I rush toward it, jumping over piles of trash and puddles of still water and blood. I follow the sounds of sobbing down the narrow back alley. Every movement jars the wound on my cheek. I’m going to need a healer.
“Mama,” the voice whimpers just ahead. My heart squeezes. Was their mother one of the many laying dead in the square?
The crying grows louder, then fades slightly as I run past a bakery. I backtrack, stopping in front of its ivory front door, the fancy scrawl of the bakery name painted in bright pink in the center. The cries are coming from inside. I peer through the bay window. There are scattered chairs and half-eaten croissants, but no crying child.
I step inside, pulling my daggers out just in case. I pass small bistro tables covered in white linens, plates of food left in the chaos. In the back hallway, boxes are filled with imported fruits and unopened bags of flour. A soft glow comes from another room at the end of the hall.
“Shh, it’s okay, Mama,” the voice whispers as it chokes back tears.
The child sits on the ground in the empty, windowless room. A little girl. A lit candle sits on the floor beside her, illuminating filthy clothing, covered in crimson and black blood. Her hair is dark and stringy, hanging limply down her back. She looks down at her hands as they quiver in her lap.
“Hey,” I whisper, but her head remains angled downward, toward her shaking hands in her lap. “Hey,” I repeat. “Are you okay?”
I take a step forward. “Do you nee—” The girl’s head snaps up. The hair on the back of my neck stands. I drop my daggers and scream for my magic, but I’m too late.
Cold hands clamp around my arms, and my magic stutters at the touch.
The girl stares up at me with dark eyes and a cruel smile, then rises to her feet. Her dark aura writhes around her as she shifts.
Into a witch.
“Got you,” she whispers.
Chapter 31
MAE
My head beats like a drum,its pounding incessant and fierce. I keep my eyes closed as I try to gather my bearings. I’m lying on my side. My cheek rubs against something gritty, and pain blooms at the movement. I crack my eyes open, but all I see is gray stone, the scattering of dirt and pebbles.
And a small puddle of dried blood.
I reach to push myself up, but my wrists are bound by something cold and unyielding. My hands are shoved against what feels like a stone wall. Maybe I can blast a hole through the wall behind me. I summon fire, but nothing comes. I dig deeper, but I know it’s gone. Something’s muting my magic.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself not to panic. Thankfully, my feet are unbound. A very, very small victory. I tilt my head to look down. Dirt underneath my cheek punishes the movement and I grit my teeth as another wave of pain radiates through my face.
Good news—my extremities seem to be intact. Another victory.
But my hope dissipates when I see more dried blood on my stomach, then the white-blonde hair that falls over my shoulder. The sigil was destroyed.
I’ve been captured. And they know who I really am.
Motherfuck.
Every atom in my body, every nerve that runs beneath my skin, flares. Normally, this would be the part where I summon some element that would help get me out of this Motherforsaken place. But it’s all muted, and my chest is rising and falling too fast and now it’s constricting and I feel like I can’t draw a breath and?—
Stop it. You are not going to die here. This is not the end.
In. Out. In. Out.
I blink back tears and force myself into a sitting position. I gasp as pain shoots through my stomach, the skin pulling as I move. Fresh blood begins to seep through my already blood-soaked shirt.
Whatever is muting my magic must be preventing my blood from healing my wound. Or wounds—the gash on my cheek pulses, the cold air biting it now that my face is off the ground.
I grit my teeth and get my feet underneath me, then push into a standing position. My wound throbs and I force deep breaths as my stomach churns—in through my nose, out through my mouth.
