by Katie Cross
To his credit, Mikhail didn’t cower. His ruddy face reddened further. “I vill take care of it,” he said.
Mabel studied him, pulled in a deep breath, and sat back on the throne, forcing herself to calm down.
“And the troubles we previously discussed?” she asked, her eyes flickering briefly in my direction. “Do they continue?”
“They’re under control,” he snapped.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you do not vorry about my problems. I need more pover.”
“I’ll have new West Guard recruits to send to you next week,” she said with a wave of her hand. Mikhail’s scowl grew.
“No,” he said, his massive nostrils widening. “I need more pover.”
I kept my eyes averted, staring at a stain on the floor. My heart pounded. Mabel released a long-suffering sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger.
“Must we go over this again?” she asked, her tone suspiciously even. “I’ve given you plenty.”
“You’ve taken avay plenty,” he said, leaning forward. “I need magic to get done vhat needs to be done. You want Husseldorf? Give me pover! I can’t fight a vitch like Derek vhen I don’t have pover. You’re holding back!” He stomped a foot on the floor. “You agreed!”
Ah, I thought. The relations between Mabel and Mikhail went deeper than a mere Network alliance. When they broke the Mansfeld Pact, Mikhail’s whole Network had lost their ability to use magic for the duration of their lives. Perhaps even children born to their witches in the future would be stripped of power—no one knew. But he was somehow using Mabel to borrow magical power, and I had no doubt she was loaning him Almorran magic. I tried to imagine a life where I couldn’t produce what I needed with a spell or transport where I wanted to go, and the idea made me sick to my stomach. No wonder he sounded so desperate.
“You’ll receive more power when it’s needed to fulfill my purposes,” she said.
Mikhail recoiled. “Your purposes? Vhat happened to our agreement?”
“Yes,” she hissed, baring her teeth. “Mine! You’re too foolish to be trusted with any more power!”
No wonder he looked at her with such hate.
“I agreed to vork vith you because ve vere supposed to vin,” Mikhail said, tilting his bulbous chin in the air. “But ve are not vinning. Derek is strong!”
A bolt of black fire appeared from Mabel’s hand and slammed into Mikhail’s chest. It doubled, then tripled, expanding until it formed a ring of fire around his little body. He screamed. The air thickened with the power of Almorran magic.
“Stop!” Mikhail cried. “It vill kill me!”
“Derek is not stronger than me!” she screamed. “No one is stronger than me! The magic is all-powerful. You will not question its strength!”
My ears began to ring with the familiar strains of a small, agonized voice.
Make the pain stop! I’m sorry I missed the question.
I pressed my hands to my head, resisting the pull of her mind. The fire stopped. The song of her mind receded. Mabel curled her fingers into her palms while Mikhail lay on the floor, moaning and writhing. If he hadn’t been such a horrid little witch, I would have felt sorry for him.
“He’s not stronger than me,” Mabel said again, though her voice trembled. “You’d do well to remember that. I will not give you any more power until you accomplish the tasks I’ve set for you. All of them.”
Mabel started forward, and I scrambled after her.
“Get your Network under control.” She kicked Mikhail in the stomach as she passed him. “Or I’ll take the Southern Network and make sure you live long enough to watch a voman win the war without you.”
His agonized groans rang through the empty castle as we transported away.
“Jikes,” I muttered under my breath. “That will never feel normal.”
Fur sprouted from my two hands and climbed all the way to my shoulder. Where fingernails had once been, I now had claws. Black spots filled my pale yellow fur. When I flexed, long, gleaming claws spread out from my paws.
“Nice.”
The sound of Juba’s dinner hitting the floor echoed through the chamber. He stood, padded away from the bathroom, and immediately returned to stand just outside the door. I spoke the counter magic under my breath. If there was anything Juba couldn’t tolerate, it was waiting to eat, and he was too stubborn to leave his post, the mongrel. The fur shrank, retreating into my pores. The claws grew long, thin, and jointed, becoming fingers again. Luckily, transformation didn’t hurt; it just tingled.
“I’m coming!” I called, hoping to buy myself a few seconds before he barged in. “I heard your meal.”
Trying to secretly perfect a new skill used some of my cooped-up magical powers, although I still jogged around in circles every day to keep them at bay. While I wasn’t about to explode, I didn’t feel calm either. After putting the magic into motion, I felt less on edge.
Juba’s head slammed into the door. I stood and pulled it open before he could force it. He surveyed me with a snarl, sniffed the air, and trotted over to his food once he was satisfied I’d done nothing suspicious. The knot in my stomach unraveled. Every attempt at transformation was a risk. If Juba caught me, who knew what he’d do? My only chance to find the Book of Light—and possibly change the direction of the war—would be gone.
Juba ate his dinner, stretched out for a lazy catnap, and started snoring. I perked up. Was Zane coming back? Perhaps he knew a way to break me free. The longing to return home overwhelmed me, sending my powers into turmoil. I paced across the balcony to burn them off.
A moonless night fell—no accident, certainly. With less light came less risk of being seen. Zane free climbed again, wearing the same garment as before. I waited between two blooming cacti.
“How are you?” he asked when he surfaced, as down-to-business as I’d expected. His tight jaw and the creases in his brow meant he wasn’t in as lighthearted a mood this time.
“Fine,” I lied. “Nothing has really changed. Have you found a way to bring me home yet?”
“I can remove the manacle, and I can transport you back to the Central Network, but I can’t safely get you out of her room. I have a few ideas, but … ” He trailed off. “They’re risky, and Derek has made it abundantly clear that I have no margin for error.”
“Oh.” I rubbed the tip of my finger along the cool surface of the manacle. Papa would never approve of my plan, but if Zane hadn’t found another way out, transforming into a cheetah might be my only option. What about Isadora? I thought. And the Book of Light? I didn’t want to leave the West until I had searched for both of them. Mabel’s unhinged visit to Mikhail replayed through my mind. I didn’t have much time.
My stomach lurched, nervous over what I was about to propose.
“Well … what if I told you I think I can get out of the room?”
Zane lifted his eyebrows. “You have my attention.”
“I won’t tell you the details,” I said, swallowing. “Because then you’d be held accountable to Papa. You’d have to tell him what I plan to do, and you’d be obligated to stop me.”
He hesitated. “I’m not sure I like this.”
“Can you put Juba to sleep again tomorrow?” I asked. I felt pretty sure that Grandmother’s sleeping potion would work, but it wouldn’t be as strong as I’d like. Also, since I was a little short on parsley, it might take longer to take effect.
“No. It won’t put him to sleep unless there’s time between the doses.”
I bit my bottom lip. I’d have to make do with Grandmother’s. What if it doesn’t work because of Zane’s sleeping draught? As if I needed one more thing to dilute its effects.
“Fine. Let’s just plan on meeting somewhere in the Arck tomorrow.”
He sucked in a deep breath. “Tomorrow?”
I nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“No,” I said. “But Mabel’s losing sanity
with every passing day, and I want to get out of here. There’s a chance.”
“If you get out of the room,” he said, “I’ll get that manacle off your wrist and get you home.”
My stomach fluttered with hope. “Consider it done. Tell me where to meet you. Describe how to get there as best you can.”
He leaned forward. “Get to the kitchen first. It takes up half of the second floor. When you reach the bottom of the stairs, you’ll see a large pantry off to the left that witches rarely go into. Hide behind the flour barrels.”
“Noon?” Juba’s breakfast arrived at ten. That would allow enough time for the potion to put him to sleep and for me to explore the Arck before I met up with Zane. Juba should sleep at least two hours if all went according to plan.
Zane nodded. “Noon.”
“If I’m not there by 12:30, I won’t be there at all.”
He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Don’t let that happen,” he said. “For both of our sakes.”
Although Papa was usually an understanding witch, I couldn’t imagine the pressure he must be putting on Zane to break me free, especially if he couldn’t come save me himself.
“I’ll try,” I said. Zane shifted, as if he were about to leave. “Wait!” I cried. “I’ve seen a few things I think you need to know about. They could be important. I have to tell you now in case things go badly.”
He readjusted his grip. “You have three minutes.”
“I met a maid named Zoe. She’s young, about ten or so, and is the only staff member I’ve interacted with. She was kidnapped from her village in the Southern Network and forced into servitude here. Her family is gone. They might be dead, but they might just be working for Mabel, too. She hasn’t said.”
“Forced into servitude here?” he repeated, the skin between his eyebrows wrinkling. “From the Southern Network?”
“Yes!” I cried, all my suppressed angst spilling out in a single word. “Mabel is forcing people to give up their agency and swear loyalty to Almorran magic. I’ve seen the swearing-in ceremony. If they don’t support her, they … they die.”
His eyes glimmered. “Interesting. I knew they were swearing their lives to the magic, but I didn’t realize she’d brought them up from the Southern Network. It must be recent, or I would have recognized them in the West Guard ranks.”
“That’s not all,” I said. “Mabel took me with her to the Southern Network, and I think something is going on there as well.”
Zane listened without interrupting while I recounted the visit, including the small details I’d been puzzling over ever since, like Mikhail’s dirty castle and their cryptic conversation about something going wrong.
“I think Mikhail’s staff left the castle. Everything was filthy. Even he was unkempt. Something there isn’t right.”
“There have been many revolts against Mikhail,” Zane said, his eyes tapering in thought. “Most of the witches in the Southern Network are livid that he took away their magic. He’s survived many, many assassination attempts.”
“So my suspicions are right: There are witches in the Southern Network that want nothing to do with Mabel or Mikhail. Right?” I asked. “And that’s not the only case I’ve observed. The other night, a young man from the Western Network clans tried to break in and kill Mabel.”
“The West?”
“Yes!”
“You’re certain?”
“Of course. From the outer clans, if his tattoos meant anything. Look, this means her own witches are trying to get rid of her. We need to get them on our side! Think of all the witches that may be willing to fight for revenge. What if they fought alongside the Central Network?”
He gave no response, which I took to be a good sign. Juba’s soft sighs hadn’t stopped, but their intensity had lessened. Zane’s arms shook.
“I’ll look into it,” Zane said, readjusting his grip. No doubt he’d transport to the Southern Network as soon as he left and do what he did best—spy.
“How’s Papa?” I asked quietly. What I wouldn’t give to smell the spearmint and forest on Papa’s clothes, to hear his deep, exasperated laugh when Marten gave him a report on my argument with a Border Guard who thought the Eastern Network was spying on them through a sack of potatoes.
“He told me to tell you to pay attention and don’t run your mouth.”
I laughed under my breath. “That sounds like him. Have you found out anything about Isadora?”
“No.”
I waited for more, but nothing came.The sound of West Guards walking below silenced both of us. Juba stirred with a low huff, and his front paws twitched.
“You’d better go,” I said.
Zane bit the inside of his cheek. “She actually took you with her to the Southern Network?”
“Yes.”
“Any mention of going back?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Any mention of traveling anywhere else? Like maybe the Northern Network?”
“The North? No, definitely not the North. Going to the Southern Network was a spur-of-the-moment thing. She didn’t plan it.”
He stared off into the distance for a minute. “I’ll be nearby,” he finally said, shaking off whatever thoughts had plagued him. His eyes drifted back to my neck. “And make sure you pay attention.”
My breath caught in my throat. Although the bruises were fading and I’d kept my hair down, he must have seen that I’d been injured. I nodded, grateful he didn’t inquire about it. Zane let go of the wall and plummeted downward, transporting as he fell.
“Merry part,” I whispered into the breeze.
I turned and faced Mabel’s chamber—my prison—again. Because I had to. Because this was a game, and I—the High Priest’s daughter—was the most valuable pawn on the board.
And the next day, I planned to make my grand escape.
Don’t Give Up
I ground up the dry sleeping potion early the next morning, just after Mabel left.
Juba’s morning meal—usually a partial rack of ribs fresh from some poor animal—would arrive promptly at ten. At 9:50, I sat on the divan, faced the door, and clutched the brown packet that Zane had sent the sage and cinnamon in. The dry sleeping potion, which I’d activated with the right spell, filled the little envelope. Over the top of my book, I watched for the meat to come while Juba lay in the shade, his lidded eyes half open.
The moment the heavy sound of approaching feet neared the door, I stood up, raising my arms far above my head in a luxurious stretch reminiscent of Juba himself. My heart beat hard and fast. Everything hinged on this action—me getting the dry potion onto the meat.
The plate clattered on the floor, and the ribs slid into the room on a silver platter. Juba’s ears perked up.
“Oh,” I said, feigning dizziness. “I stood up too fast.”
I sat down on the floor between Juba and his meal, my right hand on my head. My left hand squeezed the envelope, forcing it open. I used a scattering spell, sending the herbs airborne. With careful control of the magic, all the little specks drifted toward his food, as if in a wind, and fell on top of the raw meat.
Juba prowled past me, his eyes narrowed in question. Either he sensed my magic—which I doubted, given the appetizing scent of raw meat nearby—or he smelled my fear. Ignoring me for the time being, he approached his food, sniffed it, paused, and sniffed it again. My heart leaped into my throat. What if he could smell the herbs? What if he didn’t eat it?
Juba licked the top of the carcass and paused. He growled deep in his throat and tore into one of the ribs with savage delight. Relieved, I pressed my back against the wall, hid my face in a book, and waited.
Juba finished his meal at 10:30. With a full belly, he collapsed in a sunbeam, cast a glance at me, and settled in with a sigh. The hands of the clock continued to tick in perpetual motion.
10:55.
11:15.
He lay on the floor, drowsy in the sunshine, his tail and ears twitching. I shifted, tes
ting his alertness. His head popped up, his groggy eyes on me. Still awake. Panic, pure and hot, ran a long circuit through my bloodstream. If this waiting game continued, I wouldn’t be able to look for Isadora or the Book of Light before meeting up with Zane. Or, worse, what if Juba didn’t get drowsy enough for me to slip away? I longed to pace back and forth across the floor to work off all my nervous energy.
When the minute hand moved to 11:43, I heard the first light snore. With nearly silent movements, I set the book aside and tiptoed to the bathroom. Juba didn’t stir.
“Here we go,” I whispered, straightening my shoulders. Since it had taken so long for Juba to fall asleep, I might only have an hour before he started to wake. If all went according to plan, I’d be back in the Central Network by then. Likely without the Book of Light. I grimaced. Was escaping worth it if I couldn’t find the counter magic?
The transformative magic fell over my body one wave at a time, first coursing through my right arm, then my left. Heat flowed down my fingertips and through my legs, ending in swirls at my feet. The beginning of a tail began to pull out of the small of my back. Hair sprung out on my skin. I kept my eyes closed and the magic at the forefront of my mind. Half-transforming would be worse than not transforming at all. Once the heat abated and I’d completed the spell recitation, I opened my eyes to find the floor only a breath away. When I awkwardly hobbled out of the bathroom—uncertain how to use four legs instead of two—I found the closest mirror a few paces away and stared into the golden eyes of a cheetah.
The whiskers were a bit skewed, the fur wasn’t very lustrous, and I knew the ridge between Juba’s shoulders was thicker, but I’d at least come out with four legs, a tail, and the right color of spotted fur. The lines below my eyes were too thin to be Juba’s, and I was significantly smaller. Juba must have been a massive witch to become such a large cheetah. Although transformation changed the witch to fit the magic, vestiges of personality and body still shone through. I couldn’t change my leaner build and shorter tail.
Relief flooded through me first, and then I faced the disconcerting realization that I had to learn how to walk with four legs. The manacle weighed heavy on my paw, but its dull color faded into my fur. Unless I stood in direct sunlight, the manacle would likely go unnoticed.
