by Sarah Piper
It takes me less than one second to realize it’s soaked in piss.
Asshole remains unfazed, tightening his grip on my arm as we continue down the filthy corridor.
Drops of urine roll down my cheek, but I don’t complain. Just do my best to wipe my face on my shoulder, and keep on trucking. My visitor, whoever it is, represents a change in routine. And change? That’s an opportunity—however dim—to find a way out.
It’s the first flicker of real possibility I’ve felt since I got here. I won’t risk it by starting trouble. Not now.
Cattle prods at the ready, they shove me down a few more corridors until we reach a large steel door at the ass end of the complex.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or afraid.
Sure, there aren’t any inmates around to torment me.
But there’s no one around to hear me scream, either.
“Where are you taking—”
“Quiet, witch.” Asshole digs his bruising fingers into my arm, then turns to the other two guards. “I got it from here.”
He waits until they leave, then punches a code into the keypad. The door beeps, then unlatches, and he shoves me on through to yet another maze of hallways. Our adventure finally terminates in a windowless, Easy-Bake oven of a room, hot air looming in a dense, sour cloud as if the door hasn’t been opened in years.
There’s a table in the center, a chair on each side. He shoves me hard into the first chair, my teeth clacking together from the impact. Blood coats my tongue. My headache slides from a dull throb into borderline migraine territory.
“Comfortable?” He grins, then jerks at the cuffs behind my back, wrenching my arms up.
I press my lips together, taking the abuse. Waiting for the right moment. My eyes water.
A cockroach the size of a shoe skitters across the floor beneath my chair, probably sweating his little bug balls off. Asshole stomps on it, grinding it into the concrete.
“You’re next, witch,” he hisses in my ear. “So don’t get any ideas.”
He yanks hard on the cuffs, so hard I’m sure my bones are about to snap, but just before they do, I sense a presence in the doorway behind us.
“Restraints aren’t necessary,” a male voice says, smooth and commanding. “Remove them.”
I can’t see our new arrival, but the guard’s energy shifts from disgust at me to aggression toward the new guy.
Whoever my so-called attorney is, he’s no friend of the Asshole in Charge Around Here.
I like him immediately.
“You sure about that, counselor?” The guard jerks on my cuffs again—one-note-wonder, this fucker—forcing me to lean forward to relieve some of the pressure. “This one’s dangerous. Mouthy bitch, too. My opinion? She deserves to be tied up.”
“Nevertheless, restraints will only make the task more difficult.”
After a long, uncomfortable pause, the guard finally releases his death grip and removes the cuffs. My arms fall to my sides like wet noodles, shoulders burning, but I don’t dare turn my head. Something tells me to remain absolutely quiet and still, to wait until the guard is gone.
To conserve my strength.
“Anything else?” the guard asks.
“Leave,” he orders. His voice carries so much authority, I find myself sitting up straighter. Wishing I were a bit more presentable. Hoping, truly, that he’s on my side.
Asshole in Charge doesn’t like it one bit. “Listen, fuckstain. I’m in charge around here. You don’t—”
“The longer you stand here wasting our time,” he says, “the longer it will take me to do my job. The longer it takes me to do my job, the greater the risk for both of us.”
Another heavy pause, then I feel the guard’s aggression fade as he retreats toward the door.
“You got one hour,” he barks. “Get it done.” Without another word, he storms out, slamming the door behind him. It latches and beeps, sealing me inside with the man who—for the moment—holds my fate in his hands.
Firm steps thud against the cement floor as he walks to the other side of the table and sets down his briefcase, looming over me across the expanse of cheap wood and metal.
For a tense, silent moment, we assess each other.
I can only imagine how I must look to him—unwashed, bruised, reeking of piss. Shame heats my cheeks, but I hold his gaze.
He, on the other hand, immediately commands respect. Tall and broad-shouldered, clean-shaven, with wavy black hair that’s just starting to gray at the temples and hard, flint-colored eyes that seem to take in every detail, every nuance. He’s dressed in a black suit with thin blue pinstripes, a crisp white shirt beneath, and an understated gold tie tacked with a small silver pin in the shape of a shield.
My skin burns under his penetrating gaze. Like his authoritative voice, something about those eyes makes me feel like he can read every lie, see every flaw.
If he’s truly a lawyer, he’s probably a damned good one.
I try to get a read on his emotions, his intentions, but he’s locked up like a vault, totally shielded.
I can sense his power, though, if not his feelings—he’s definitely a mage. A well-practiced one at that; it’s no easy feat to totally shield your emotions. Usually a little bit leaks out around the edges.
He sits down across from me and inches closer to the table, giving me a better glimpse at the silver pin on his tie. It’s etched with four symbols—a cup, a sword, a wand, and a pentacle.
The suits of the Tarot.
He pops the latches on his briefcase and removes a fist-sized crystal, placing it in the center of the table. Holding his hand over the top, he whispers an incantation I can’t hear.
“Hematite,” he explains. “It’s a shielding stone. It will ensure our conversation can’t be recorded or overheard.”
“Handy,” I say.
“Trust no one, Miss Milan. That is your first lesson.”
“Even you?”
A tiny smile tugs at his lips, but he locks it down, ignoring the question. From the briefcase, he pulls out a stack of papers and file folders, setting them up in an orderly row before selecting one and paging through its contents, taking a few notes on a legal pad as he does. The pen is silver and black. Expensive-looking, just like he is. His handwriting is small and neat.
I’m dying to ask questions—who are you? Who sent you? Who’s paying the bill? What did the guard mean, ‘get it done?’—but I don’t dare interrupt.
The thing is… I do trust him. I can’t get a read on him, but some part of me, some voice inside, tells me he’s here to help. Circumstances being what they are, I’ve got no choice but to listen to that voice.
For now, anyway.
I shift in my chair. My traitorous stomach lets out an embarrassing grumble.
A dark eyebrow arches beneath his hairline, but he doesn’t look up from his task. Just reaches into his briefcase and procures a bottle of lemon kombucha and a square glass container with a plastic lid, sliding them across the table to me.
My mouth waters at the sight of the rich, colorful bits of food visible through the glass.
“Eat, Miss Milan. We’ve got much to accomplish today, and we need you strong.”
“Thanks, but I can’t take your lunch. I’m—”
“No need to stand on ceremony.”
My stomach growls again, begging me to dig in.
“I don’t suppose you have a napkin or something?”
Still not looking at me, he retrieves a packet of hand sanitizer wipes from his briefcase and hands it over. I tear open the wrapper, the pungent smell of alcohol so clean and bright I could almost cry. I wipe my face—dry skin be damned—then scrub my hands, doing my best to cleanse away the prison grime.
I feel like a new person already.
Without wasting another moment on politeness, I pop the top off the glass dish and dig in, devouring the veggies and hummus inside, the boiled egg, the cubes of cheese. The kombucha tastes like nectar of the g
oddesses, fizzy lemon goodness exploding across my tongue, filling my body with much-needed hydration and nutrients.
Maybe it’s my last meal, and this is all some crazy setup. Maybe it’s poisoned. I don’t care. Nothing has ever tasted so delicious, and with every bite, my body begins to heal again. I feel the bruises fading, my muscles strengthening, the kinks working themselves out of my back.
Miraculous.
After a few more minutes of non-conversation—me happily scarfing down the food, him scratching in his note pad, he finally sets down the pen and lifts his chin, meeting my gaze.
The air between us crackles. I grip the edge of the table, as if I need to steady myself for whatever comes next.
“My name is Dr. Cassius Devane,” he announces. “I’m a professor of mental magicks at the Arcana Academy of the Arts, an extremely powerful mage, and your only chance at getting out of here alive.”
Eight
STEVIE
The food that was so delicious minutes ago turns into a lead ball in my stomach.
The man—Dr. Devane—gives me about five seconds to absorb the shock of his drone strike, then says, “It’s in your own best interests to set aside any preconceived notions you have about our institution. In case you haven’t noticed, your options are severely limited, and you’re not in a position to negotiate.”
The initial shock fades fast, his tone like ice water to the face, and I’m out of my chair so abruptly it tips backward and slams against the floor.
The Academy?
“How did you find me? How did you know I was here?” There’s no hiding the accusation in my tone. The malice.
“Miss Milan,” he continues, “I realize this may be difficult to accept. But whatever your parents told you about us, there are other—”
“You knew my parents?”
A brief flicker of compassion softens his gaze, there and gone in a blink. “The tenure of Connor and Melissa at the Academy predates my arrival, though I’m aware of their reputation. I’m here on behalf of Headmistress Anna Trello, who did, in fact, know your parents.”
My heart hammers, hundreds of new questions tumbling through my mind. Anna Trello? I’ve never heard the name. How well did she know them? Were they close? Was the headmistress a friend to my parents or… No.
Snippets of conversation filter through my memory—pieces of the past Mom and Dad used to argue about. They never mentioned names, but from what little I could put together back then, it wasn’t fellow students who destroyed my mother’s reputation and stripped my parents of all the protections normally afforded to coven members, ultimately forcing them to leave their magickal lives behind.
It was Academy officials.
And Anna Trello, headmistress? That’s the most official witch on staff.
I glance around the room, looking for something else—anything else that might help me get out of here. But it’s locked down tight; even if I could get through the door, they’d probably shoot me before I made it two steps down the hallway.
He truly is my only way out.
I meet his eyes again. A silent understanding passes between us.
I need him. And though he hasn’t said it yet, I suspect he needs me too—or Anna does. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here.
“Why didn’t the headmistress come herself?” I ask.
“Please sit, Miss Milan.”
That voice again. The firm command of it. Every muscle in my body is screaming at me to obey, but I force myself to stand my ground, folding my arms across my chest and leaning against the wall.
He sighs, then continues. “Headmistress Trello is quite busy, so she sent me on her authority, with sincere apologies for our delay. Given the evidence against you, we had to get a bit more… creative.”
“So you’re, like, some kind of magickal superhero?” I press a hand to my chest, making my voice a little breathy. “Dr. Cassius Divine, swooping in to save all the little witches from wrongful damnation?”
He regards me with those piercing eyes, but if I’m getting under his skin, he doesn’t show it. “Some witches deserve to be here, Miss Milan. Many people would say you’re one of them. And it’s Devane. Dr. Cassius Devane.”
“Right.”
“You said Divine.”
Shit. “No, that’s just what you heard.”
“Miss Milan, this—”
“Anyway,” I continue, “I don’t care what anyone says or what your so-called evidence shows, Dr. Devane. I’m not a killer. I’m barely even a witch.”
His gaze snaps to the pentacle tattoo on my wrist, then back to his papers. “In the eyes of the law, you are very much a witch, just as dangerous as any other. More so, perhaps.”
He holds out a folder.
Like a magnet, curiosity draws me close. I cross the room and snatch the folder from his hand, ignoring the little zing I feel when our fingers brush.
Wordlessly, I flip open the folder.
And immediately wish I hadn’t.
Since my arrest, I’ve been so focused on surviving this hell, on trying to figure out an escape, on worrying about Jessa. But now, looking at the gruesome photos before me, the full impact of what happened that day on the Grande punches me in the gut.
Luke was my friend. And though I didn’t kill him, he died because of me—because some sadistic mage set me in his sights and used Luke as the bait.
And he died horrifically.
I force myself to look at every picture, the gore a stark contrast to the gleaming metal exam table beneath Luke’s body. His eyes are gone, no more than smoldering black holes. Under the swollen nose I’d already broken, his mouth is stretched in a perpetually silent scream. They cut out his tongue. They carved a pentacle into his forehead. They cut off his hands and feet. His torso is covered in blackened, burned flesh.
My stomach roils, and I reach for the bottle on the table, drinking down the last of the kombucha. It does nothing to erase the taste of bile from my mouth, to ease the endless pounding in my head.
In addition to the photos, there’s a stack of articles from the Tres Búhos Daily and other regional newspapers. Through glazed eyes, I scan the headlines:
Local witch torches, kills former flame.
Killer witch spooks small desert town.
FBI’s Magickal Enforcement Unit confirms illegal spellcraft used in wicked attack.
Security heightened across Arizona after local witch’s brutal rampage.
Congress to consider new restrictions on magickal citizens in wake of September’s deadly violence.
So that’s how the Academy tracked me down. Headlines. Sensationalist, bullshit, dangerous headlines.
“Brutal rampage?” I snap. “September’s deadly violence? Does anyone actually believe this crap? Do you?”
Devane shakes his head. “Of course not.”
“Why are you showing me this?”
“I’m not doing it to be cruel,” Devane says. “But I need you to understand what you’re up against. The evidence is compelling. Even if you survive the next several months in here and this case goes to trial, you simply cannot win. They’ll show the jury these photographs. They’ll put the victim’s mother on the stand and—”
“Rita,” I gasp, my chest tightening. I can’t even imagine what she’s going through right now. Luke was her son. And I was supposed to be one of his oldest friends. “Who did this? Do they have any idea? Any leads at all?”
“You are their lead, Miss Milan—case closed. They found traces of your magickal signature on the victim’s body, along with your blood. GPS data from your phone places you at the scene at the time of death. A shirt recovered from the trash at Kettle Black contained large amounts of his blood.”
“And mine.” I drop the folder on the table. “He attacked me first, and I broke his nose in self-defense. Then he stabbed me. He was possessed. Luke—the real Luke—wouldn’t hurt me. He’s my—he was my friend.”
I tell him the rest of the story, the crazy-ass storm, an
d—because I can’t think of any other way to explain what happened—the magick.
His eyes widen at the part about the owl energy, but he doesn’t question it.
“Before that day,” I continue, “I’ve never done any real magick before. Just witchfire.” I hold out my hand to show him, but in my still-healing state, I don’t have the energy to conjure anything—not even a spark. “I left him alive in that cave. Possessed by a magickal psycho, but alive. I have no idea how they got to him, or how the police found him so quickly. This whole thing is a setup.”
“I wouldn’t be here if we thought otherwise.” He glances at his watch, taps something into the screen, then puts the folder with the photos and articles back in the briefcase. “But the fact remains—unless another perpetrator drops out of the sky to confess to these crimes, they’re going to let you rot in here. And at the very end, when your bones are brittle and your mind soft, they’ll execute you. It won’t be a quick death.”
A shiver rattles my spine. Everything he says is true—I can feel it, all the way down to my not-yet-brittle bones.
Still, some part of my mind rebels.
Execution?
“When was the last time they actually killed someone for practicing witchcraft in this country?” I ask.
“Does that matter? Whether you’re the first or the fiftieth, the end result is the same.” He sighs, then finally relents. “It happens more often than you think, Miss Milan. It’s not typically publicized—the authorities know there are still plenty of non-magickal humans sympathetic to witches’ rights, and they don’t want to spark outrage. But yes, it happens. And we don’t want it to happen to you.”
“Dr. Devane, I don’t understand why you’re here. If you’re so convinced I can’t win a trial, why do I need a lawyer?”
“I’m not a lawyer.”
“You know what I mean. A fake lawyer. Whatever you told them to let you in here today.”
“I’m here to make you an offer, Miss Milan. On behalf of the Academy.” He glances again at his watch. It’s the same icy silver as the tie pin, emanating a faint glow that’s definitely not man-made. “I suggest you give it serious consideration, leaving emotion out of it. Your life literally depends on it.”
