I glanced down in time to see a red swirl against the white basin as the water disappeared down the drain. Weird. I turned my hands over, curious. Palms clean. Backs clean. Hang on … I caught my breath, stomach knotting uneasily. I dug at the brown stuff under my nails, creating more red tinges in the water. What did that come from? I lifted one wet hand to my face and sniffed.
The unmistakeable iron scent of blood caused a wave of dizziness so strong I had to clutch at the basin to stay upright, swaying on my red stilettos. What the hell? A sudden vision of my hands, covered in blood, made my stomach heave in protest. I could see them so clearly, reaching … reaching for something. Bloody hell. Had I finally lost it? Was I having visions now? My sight blurred and prickled with darkness, the bathroom disappearing around me. No, not visions. Visions didn’t come with bonus traces of blood under your fingernails. I clenched my hands on the cold enamel of the sink, holding myself up by sheer force of will while I waited in the spinning darkness. My whole body broke out in a hot sweat.
“Are you all right?” A hand on my arm. I turned my head toward the voice, vision returning in speckles of light. The Indian lady hung on to me, though she barely reached my shoulder. I don’t know what she thought she’d do if I fell.
“Yeah,” I lied. “Just a little dizzy.”
“Maybe you’re dehydrated. It’s a very hot day, you know.” Her tone was severe, as if I might not have noticed the heat, and what are the young people coming to these days? “You must drink plenty of water in this weather.”
“You’re right,” I said, splashing my burning face. Summer in Sydney was always sweltering. Maybe I was coming down with something. Sure, something that puts blood under your fingernails. I felt ill. “Thanks.”
I checked my reflection again. The concealer definitely needed some work now. My face was pale and sweaty, and mascara had oozed onto one cheek. My eyes had a haunted look, but that was nothing new. I dug my makeup out and got to work, ignoring the way my hands trembled. A slash of red lipstick. Mascara. Come on, Kate, pull yourself together. I scraped my hair back into a no-nonsense ponytail and clipped a fake fall of hair to it. It matched my own auburn colour and turned my modest ponytail into a luscious length that reached my waist.
Much better. The woman in the mirror looked maybe twenty-five. She was no supermodel, but dressed like this she was definitely a head-turner. Most importantly, she looked nothing like the dark-haired pregnant woman in the frumpy maternity dress who’d waddled into the bathroom five minutes ago.
Time to put it to the test. I had a job to do, and I could worry about mysterious blood later. With the heavy carry-all settled comfortably on my shoulder, I sashayed out of the bathroom and down the corridor, putting a little extra swing into my hips as those red stilettos tapped their way past the crowd at the lifts. I breezed past Sunnies Dude, still stationed at the opening of the corridor, on the look-out for a pregnant lady who would never leave that bathroom.
My swaying denim skirt and long legs had the desired effect. His head swivelled, checking me out as I went past. I concentrated on projecting a calm I didn’t feel as my stomach roiled, but I doubt his gaze got as far as my face. I wondered how long they’d wait before one of them had to brave the ladies’ bathroom in search of their missing woman. Wouldn’t want to draw the short straw on that one.
I strode away to make the drop, ponytail swishing against my bare skin. As I left the centre the heat hit me like a furnace blast. Even down here in the canyons between Sydney’s skyscrapers summer lay hot and heavy. A busker with a saxophone made a half-hearted attempt at jazz, looking like he’d rather be almost anywhere else. At least it wasn’t Christmas carols.
Sweat sprang out on my face, under my armpits—even my feet soon felt sticky in their strappy red heels. Not the greatest choice for walking. The balls of my feet were burning already. Thank God I didn’t have far to go.
I ducked into an arcade that led through to George Street. Where was I going? My steps faltered. Stopped. What in hell was wrong with me? How could I forget something like that? Shoppers and office workers sneaking home early streamed past as I scrabbled through my carry-all for the familiar beige envelope in a sudden panic. I couldn’t even remember seeing it as I’d changed. Some courier I was.
But it was there, right down at the bottom under wigs and stomachs and all the rest of my gear. Maybe a little crumpled. If pristine condition was part of the deal I was screwed. I breathed a sigh of relief as I hauled it out, then stopped short at the address on the front.
Well, not even an address. Just a name.
Mine.
“What the hell?” I leaned back on the glass shopfront of the nearest boutique, feeling the thumping bass beat of their music vibrating against my back, and stared at the shaky handwriting. Kate. Nothing else. No address, not even a surname. Could it be some other Kate?
I turned it over and broke the thick wax seal. Who was I kidding? It had to be for me.
I drew out the single sheet of paper inside. No weird shiny disks this time.
You are in danger, it said. Do not go home or try to contact anybody. Go straight to a hotel and wait for me.
That was it. Frowning, I turned it over to be sure there was no more. No signature, or any explanation of how the writer meant to find me at some random hotel. And I was supposed to take this seriously?
I shoved it back in my bag. Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen.
***
Want to read the rest? Twiceborn is available now!
ALSO BY MARINA FINLAYSON
MAGIC’S RETURN SERIES
The Fairytale Curse
The Cauldron’s Gift
THE PROVING SERIES
Moonborn
Twiceborn
The Twiceborn Queen
Twiceborn Endgame
SHADOWS OF THE IMMORTALS SERIES
Stolen Magic
Murdered Gods (coming soon)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks once again to my usual beta reading crew, Chris, Geoff, Mal and Alana, for your help with catching my oopses and your general support. Special thanks also to Rick Gualtieri for his awesome feedback and to my accidental alpha reader, Connor.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marina Finlayson is a reformed wedding organist who now writes fantasy. She is married and shares her Sydney home with three kids, a large collection of dragon statues and one very stupid dog with a death wish.
Her idea of heaven is lying in the bath with a cup of tea and a good book until she goes wrinkly.
Stolen Magic (Shadows of the Immortals Book 1) Page 19
