by LJ Swallow
This isn't happening. Twenty-four hours ago, I was at work worrying about the Senate's future. Since then I've witnessed the aftermath of murders I'm implicated in and Alaric's game playing has ramped up several notches. I'm certain all I am is bait. Either that or the man genuinely wants to exercise the power he has to crush me. But why? I'm nothing.
An that's the point. Nothing.
My hand twinges where Mattias cut me, and I explore the wound with my fingers. Still hot and painful, still frightening. Will his blood kill me before Alaric can achieve anything?
My book. I'm prompted to delve into my bag for it at last night's memories. Can anything in there work again my situation? I laugh at myself. Sure, against the most powerful witch in the Sector.
On the first page, words I haven't seen before:
“This is a curious book”
Mattias.
My hand shakes as I flick through. Why did he write that?
My book is ruined. Black scrawl covers the spells I carefully copied, years of work obliterated. In some places, letters are circled and new symbols drawn in the margins. I run my fingers across them. Why the hell did he do this? What's the point giving me a trashed book?
As I temper my anger, I look more closely at the pages. Despite the randomness, something could be hidden here. I rip a blank sheet from the book and dig into my bag for a pen. As I copy the circled letters in page order, words appear but they make no sense. They're not sentences but spelled-out numbers and words. Forty-two. Protect. Sixteen. Open. Eight-nine. Cloak. One hundred and three. Lock. Always blood is the only text halfway to a sentence.
My head aches in frustration as I doodle circles around them.
I flick through and write down the page numbers where Mattias drew pictures. Runes, but unlike those I've seen before and nothing like those I have copied in my own book. The symbols match page numbers. Alaric drew a pattern on the man's chest, but that's not in here. Mattias once traced something on my neck but I never saw that. Hyland runes? Why show them to me? I have no ability to use magic. I chew the end of my pen. Perhaps he's pointing them out so I recognise them when they're used, if somebody uses them against me?
My head fills with aching tiredness, the confusion not helping. I lie back on the bed and stare up at the corniced ceiling. The eye in the Hyland rune woven into the pattern in the corner looks down at me. Tomorrow I draw these runes.
16
My second day in the strange prison begins as quietly as the last. Alaric hasn't visited me, but I've heard him in the house, yelling and barking orders to his servants. People come and go, some I recognise from the Senate and others I've never seen before. Witches.
This world is screwed.
I spend the next day repeatedly copying Mattias's runes from the book onto paper until they begin to resemble the ones on the pages. I practice the protection rune the most, but the cloaking rune is the one I manage to copy the most precisely. Not that half-baked human magic is likely to work against a powerful witch. Still, a cloak could be enough to help me past human guards and through the gates.
I pull up my left sleeve and trace the cloaking rune onto my forearm. Then I take the paper and tear into tiny squares, obliterating my activity.
Blood. I hesitate and look at the scissors on the bedside table. Always blood.
The zip makes a satisfying sound as I close my bag, and then I drag it onto my back. I spent the afternoon scouring the perimeter and one entrance is only manned by magic. I’ve drawn the rune as best I can, the one with cloaking written on the page. Who knows whether it will work or not.
Alaric repeated his promise to release me from the house and engagement if I give him information about Mattias. He refuses to believe my denials and my anger with Mattias for leaving grows. Mattias knows what his brother is like. He should've expected this. Mattias should've taken me with him if he wants to protect me this much.
Nobody will help me apart from myself. I'm sick Alaric perceives me as weak; as an appendage to his brother, he can play with in revenge for stupid sibling battles. What point is there in subjecting me to this?
The day passes in fear, in impossible escape plans and even more impossible dreams that Mattias will step in to help me. Alaric walks around the house and shouts throughout the day. Visitors come and go, and I watch from a distance. Some I recognise as Senate members, others I don't. Men from the Enclave who support him in his quest to smooth out the rough edges in the world he's taken charge of. Security steps up, Alaric's fears for his life illustrated by the show of force around him.
Which means it's harder for me to leave.
The last visitor leaves and I watch from where I sit out of sight on the top of the circular staircase, attempting to hear their discussions. As the door slams closed, Alaric's voice echoes through the hallway, demands to his servants that somebody bring food and drink to his quarters. I hold my breath against him requesting me too. The one mercy is Alaric hasn't attempted to touch me, goading me with promises and threats for our wedding night.
Satisfied Alaric no longer prowls the building, I snatch my chance and take a walk to the kitchens. This evening, nobody is around. The surfaces gleam, not a crumb or out of place item anywhere.
A girl stands at the sink, water running over her trembling hands. The girl from the first time I arrived; the one who walks meekly around the house not meeting anybody's eyes. I approach and she startles, water splashing across the sink.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Her sleeves are rolled back and red marks join the circled bruises I saw the other day. When her haunted eyes meet mine, an angry sickness pours into my stomach. Her neck is red too, but what fuels anger as I take in her dishevelled clothes is her bleeding lip.
“What happened?”
The girl fastens the buttons on her shirt and tucks it back into the short skirt. “I'm okay.”
“No, you're not. Did somebody hurt you?”
She sucks her lip. “I'm okay.”
No. She doesn't deny this. “Alaric. Does he hurt you? I've seen the bruises before and now....” I gesture at her.
The girl's look is vacant, not fear as usual but one of somebody switched off from their surroundings. This is more than physical. “He's assaulted you, hasn't he?”
“It's part of my role.”
I stare and shake my head, positive the words weren't said, or if they were, shouldn't be. “Role? As a housemaid?”
“I belong to him,” she whispers. “He owns me.”
No. No. No. “What does he do?” I don't want to hear. I don't need to ask. “This is wrong. He can't.”
She laughs in a soft, sad tone. “He can do what he wants. He's Regent.”
The next thought crashing into my head is interrupted by the girl's words. “When Mattias was here, things weren't as bad. The girls who work for him aren't...” She swallows. “When Mattias sees, he stops Alaric.”
“And now Mattias has gone.”
“Yes. I don't know what will happen to me now. Alaric is bored and wants somebody new.”
I run my fingers through my hair, wanting to reach out and touch this scared girl. She's my age—younger even—and subjected to unimaginable things by a cruel man who controls her life.
“I won't let anymore happen to you,” I say. “If he makes me Regent Queen none of this will happen.”
The girl shakes her head. “I don't think so. You wouldn't want him to do to you what he does to us. You'll want another girl to take that role. Believe me. He's...”
Cruel. Sadistic. The words flood into my head, suspicions I've held realised in her. “I'd kill him rather than he subject me to whatever you're hinting at.”
The girl steps back and covers her ears. “No. I don't want to hear you say that. I know you work with Mattias. Is that why you're here? To kill Alaric?”
The man's paranoia spreads through the house, engulfing everybody he touches, and I shake my head. “No. But I will.”
“You can't. I
t's impossible. You're a human girl. He's the most powerful witch in the sector. He'd crush you, but only after he makes your life hell.”
“I think that's why I'm here.”
“No, he's waiting for Mattias to come for you.”
“Well, that's not happening, clearly,” I retort.
The girl picks up a nearby towel and wipes her hands. “Then I'm very sorry. Maybe your bruises and pain won't show on the outside.”
“I don't think that would bother him,” I say. “Who would dare question him?”
The girl folds the towel into neat squares, not looking at me. “Mattias. I thought he would. I was sure Mattias would take control and take on his brother. Instead, he ran.”
And left me to this fate.
“Maybe he will come back?” I suggest.
“To his death? I doubt it.” She smooths the front of her creased shirt and picks at a sleeve. “I don't think you understand half of what happens in this house. Nobody leaves to tell.”
Her trembling fear delves into my heart. “What's your name?”
“Alice.”
“Alice, I'm leaving. Come with me and—”
“If I leave and Alaric finds me... If you leave and he finds you...” She shakes her head and reaches out to me. “Don't.”
But how can it be worse? “I can't walk out of here and leave you knowing he abuses you.”
She shakes her head. “I knew he would before I started working here. Everybody knows what he's like. The brothers come into the sector and find girls.”
“Both of them?” I interrupt.
“Yes.” There's a curiosity in her face. “Don't you know a lot of the maids hired started as lovers, although with Alaric, he's not what I'd class a lover.” Her expression grows distant again.
“Come with me.”
“And go where? Back to the sector where they'll find me and throw me into the Wastelands.” She catches my look. “Yes, that happens, you know it does. I've heard people who've seen this happen.”
The possibility this could happen to me crystallises in that moment, but right now I don't care if that's the outcome. At least the ravagers out there will kill me quickly.
The girl resigned to her fate, to whatever existence she somehow signed up for nods reverentially at me when I can't find the words to respond. “Good luck.”
She sinks into the chair and rubs her face, as the tears she should shed reach my eyes instead. She's right. I'm powerless. My bravado I'd walk away from this life and join a new one has been slashed apart.
But I will leave the house. The Enclave. The screwed up world. Even if it kills me, because either way I'm dead.
17
The security guards patrol the estate's perimeter in a clockwork unison I've studied over the last couple of days. They change over at the guardhouse every three hours and this distraction is what I wait for. Two guards in particular spend longer than the others chatting during the changeover, and this is the point I need to attempt the cloaking spell.
I recognise the guy who parks his four-wheel drive car outside the gates and approaches the guardhouse. He's skinnier than the others, which in a way is a bad thing because less weight equals a faster runner. I chew my lip as I watch their back-clapping welcomes. Should I've tried the rune out before I reached the fence?
The wound on my hand throbs and tearing through with my teeth isn’t hard. I wince as I bite into the hot skin and taste my blood. No other family uses blood in their magic apart from the Hylands, the ones also responsible for keeping the sector barrier intact. Where does the blood come from for that? How many people know their higher magic powers are from blood?
The rune on my arm looks pathetic compared to the ones I studied but it has to work. If this is Mattias's blood in the mix triggering my magic, a poorly formed rune could work. If not… I haven’t planned for that outcome.
As the two men walk into the guardhouse, leaving a gap in the gates, I curl my fingers around the rune, allowing the blood to touch. With Mattias's cloaking, the barrier shimmered around me. Now—nothing. Tears spring to my eyes, and I squeeze the rune tighter.
I will not fail. This will work. I mutter to myself, staring in determination at the guards. They will not see me. The air shimmers in front of me, then folds around, dropping to the floor, as if somebody poured oil onto water and created a slick. I lick away a spilt tear, grasping my resolve as I cross to the entrance in the shadows.
As my nerves grow, the barrier wavers and I focus on the freedom outside and not the fear of what could happen if I fail.
The skinny guard walks out, gun slung over his shoulder and I pause.
The man walks past without registering anything but the song he sings beneath his breath.
Holy crap.
How long will this last?
I run. Fast, hard, through the gate and into the darkness outside. The road leading to the grounds is unlit past a few metres, but I can't follow the road in case I'm found. Who knows how much time I have to disappear?
I plunge into the woods, branches cracking beneath my feet as I grip my arm, willing the barrier to stay. Cloaked. How the hell did I manage that?
The moment the doubt creeps in, the barrier wavers and the world clears again. No. I rest against a tree and hold my panting breath. An owl screeches nearby, echoing through the woods and a different fear sends a shiver through.
This is the first time alone in the woods since the nightmares I had as a child. The monster in the house is one thing to escape. Will I need to escape a monster in the woods?
The Hyland house is a few miles walk from the Enclave and then the human sector another mile from there, and that's the edge where the buildings are thin. The only plan I had was escape, where to—I had no real idea. I have no friends to help outside of the Enclave and the chances I'll hide forever slim.
Mattias is out here somewhere.
The grey streets pull misery onto the faces of passing humans and my dishevelled look following several hours in the woods fits better than the groomed girl who left the Hyland house. The sun struggles behind heavy clouds, as people make their way to their tasks.
People knock into me as I pass and my spine stiffens each time. Nobody stops to look at me, or talk. I'm disorientated. I know the way from the Enclave to the bar I sat in last week, but approaching the city from a different direction throws me off course.
The clouds burst, and I curse under my breath as I pull my hood over my face and pray this is a summer shower. The green hood obscures much of my face and I focus on the street, avoiding puddles as I walk. I pass law enforcers, eyes fixed on their booted feet and don't look up. Many around me behave in the same way, as if not acknowledging them offers freedom. Everybody skirts around the uniformed men and their weapons.
The rain grows heavier, and although my coat and boots keep me partially dry, the water seeps through my jeans. I can't stay out here. I need shelter.
I follow a group into a tall building and step straight into a marketplace. The high ceilings echo voices, and the vendors' tables cram together. People. Crowds to hide in.
I move on, assaulted by the mingling scents: baked bread and raw meat, unwashed people or those covered in perfumes. Some stalls sell luxury items that are commonplace in the Enclave but for a much higher price.
I shift my damp bag onto my shoulders, shivering in my wet clothes. I can change and warm up here while I plan my next move.
I step from the bathrooms at the building’s rear and into the echoing marketplace, treading through the strewn papers along the narrow passageway. At the exit, two men stand, dressed in black uniforms. I back up. This is the first law enforcement I've seen in the building. One man turns his head and narrows his eyes as he studies me. He speaks to the man next to him who also turns. When they step towards me, I freeze. There's no other exit behind me, and my only escape route is the bathrooms.
“You,” growls the bulkier of the two. “You need to come with us.”
I
grip my bag. “Why?”
“You've been accused of stealing. We need to check your bag.”
I take a deep breath, relief calming my thudding heart. “Oh. Okay. I haven't. Take a look.”
The man ignores the bag when I hold it out to him. “Come with us.”
“Where?”
“This way.” The shorter man jerks his head.
When I hesitate, he opens his jacket to reveal a gun tucked into a holster and arches a brow. “Move.”
He grabs my arm and manoeuvres me towards the door. I yank myself away. “I'll come. Please don't touch me.”
The two men lead me along the market's edge until we reach a small room with narrow metal blinds in the window. The market owner's office? They stand behind until I'm forced to walk in.
“In.”
Before I can turn to protest, I'm shoved forward and drop my bag as I fall to my knees. Cold metal digs into my neck. “Don't make a sound. And don't look up.”
The cool tiles hurt my palms where I slapped them against the floor, and I take ragged breaths.
The gun barrel warms against my neck and I close my eyes. “Has he decided to kill me instead?” I whisper.
Bullet through the head. Blame the humans. Or... “Alaric won't care if you kill me,” I whisper. “He doesn't care about anything.”
Still no response.
“Who are you?” I look up in front of me, into the eyes of a man I've never seen before, and instantaneously something hard smacks me across the back of the head.
“I said, don't speak.”
18
“What the fuck did you do?” growls a male voice.
I'm lying on the floor, but this is rough carpet and not the tiles I knelt on earlier. The back of my head really bloody hurts. I open my eyes and peer around the dark room. The place smells of burnt food and mould. At least I'm not back at Alaric's house. The man who kindly smacked me across the back of the head with a pistol sits in an armchair nearby giving a confused look to the man speaking.
