by May Dawson
That’s what they believed.
That’s what we believed.
I’ve frozen, but it doesn’t matter. He pushes me on toward the police station.
Now I’m even more scared than when I thought this place was full of people who might want to hurt me. My enemies and my so-called-allies are equally terrifying.
In the interview room, Leo glances at the blank mirror and then says, “I’d take your cuffs off, but I don’t want anyone knowing you’ve got friends here.”
My mouth is dry, but I cock my head to one side and attempt a winsome smile. “How many friends?”
He touches his finger to his smiling lips. “You might be surprised.”
“Good,” I lie.
I’m thankful when he closes the door between us, even though I’m trapped. At least I have a few moments to gather my thoughts. I twist in my chair, facing away from the mirror, seeking what little privacy I can.
I can understand how people agreed with what my father believed in. He believed that Avalon would be stronger if it gave up its technology. “We dance on the blade of a knife, and they dance without realizing where they are.” He wanted our magic to grow wild and natural, the way it used to, and he wanted to close the portals. No one hated dirt-side like my father.
What I can’t understand is how anyone still follows him after the methods he used. Maybe there were some shreds of truth to his argument. Even thinking that makes my heart race, because I can never take my father’s side now, can I? But what he did to achieve his ends was an act of terror. Thousands dead in one night. My father claimed the Ravengers came through a portal, that he was only trying to save us all.
I believed that for a long time. It was hard to see my father as a monster.
Sometimes moments come to mind from my childhood. Once I woke him up when I had a nightmare. He had turned on every light in the house as he went room-to-room, with his wand in hand, until I was giggling. He worked steadily at his desk, starting a revolution, but when I tapped on his study door, he’d drop everything to make me a cup of tea. Just thinking of those moments make me guilty; I was his daughter, and he loved me—in his imperfect way—and I should have been able to stop him. It would be easier to forget him, but no one will let me…either because they hate him or because they still adore him.
I should’ve stayed dirt-side and take that job at the Shake Shack.
Chapter 26
Detective Cutter comes in, but doesn’t sit down. He leans against the wall.
If he’s not going to talk, I’m not going to talk. I cross my arms over my chest and stare at him.
“I saw the footage of your fall in the yard,” he says, finally, and sets a cup of water and a white pill in front of me. “I brought you a Motrin.”
I stare up at him, perplexed. Most people skip drugs for minor ailments where magic can patch them up more efficiently. We’re a bit suspicious about medicine in Avalon; pills can have side-effects, and magic rarely does—last night’s loosening of my tongue and inhibitions aside.
A sudden warmth rises over me with the memory of being trapped between Mycroft and Cax.
But however uncertain I may be about the pill itself—if it’s really even a Motrin and not yet another attempt to keep me from ever reaching my full Donovan potential—I feel a spike of relief when Cutter walks behind me. He pushes my shoulders forward, and my breasts brush the hard wood of the tabletop as he releases my cuffs. I sit back, shaking out the tingle that runs from my shoulders down into my fingertips, as he returns to the other side of the table.
I roll the pill between my thumb and forefinger. “What’s a Motrin?”
“You spend five years dirt-side and you never had a headache?” He raises an eyebrow, finally taking the seat across from me.
I know damn well what Motrin is. I’m curious about what he is, though.
No True would take a lousy pill for their pain.
Of course, most True would have enchanted themselves by now.
I don’t know if he’s True or not. I am sure this is a test, not a kindness. And I don’t want to fail.
I toss the pill over my shoulder. There’s a faint skittering sound when it hits the floor and bounces.
“If you watched the footage of my fall,” I say, watching his impassive face for any flicker of emotion, “Then you know why I don’t feel very trusting right now.”
“Patrol Wilde will be disciplined,” Cutter promises me. “No one should have treated you that way.”
“I’m used to it.” I pick up the cup of water. It’s carved from wood, and I take a sip of cool tap water. The wood feels strange against my tongue; it’s been a long time. No disposable cups here. I place the cup back on the table. “Will Patrol Wilde be washing the dishes?”
“You don’t need to worry about him.” Cutter tells me impatiently.
“I think I do.” I pat the side of my knee.
Cutter sighs. He gets up and goes to the door, before opening it and reaching through for a file. He comes back with the paperwork tucked under his arm.
“What do you remember about finding Luca’s body?” he asks.
I lean back, my crossed arms pressing into my abs; they’re the only armor I can put up between us. What I remember is being so terrified that I froze, becoming useless to Airren when he needed me. The memory is humiliating. “Can you be more specific?”
His eyebrows rise slightly at my tone. “Walk me through it all again.”
“We already did this,” I say.
He glances at the clock above the door. “Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Too bad.”
I walk him through the day again. He’s curious about why Airren and I wandered back into the ruins. My explanation that my roommate said the landscaping was exceptional doesn’t seem to resonate with the straight-faced detective. I wouldn’t believe it either.
I try not to trip over my timeline. It’s hard to tell the truth the same way twice, strangely enough. It feels like there are lies in my story despite my best efforts. All the while, my brain spins, trying to decide what I should tell Cutter about Luca’s body.
Last night, the guys and I dug into the furthest spokes of my father’s wheel. We searched for people who might be on campus and connected to those spokes, people who might follow my father’s ideals without having been intimately involved in the day-to-day dark magic.
In the cool light of day, it seems anyone could have carved up a body based on a newspaper clipping and a dream the True could rise again. There’s evil everywhere. Too many people long for power.
I break off, interrupting myself, and lean forward. Maybe Cutter can give me information. “Was there any magic discharge off the body?”
“You tell me.” Cutter’s eyes sharpen, and he leans back in his chair, as if this is just now getting interesting.
Well, it’s not like I wanted to tell him my life story for a second time; he doesn’t need to act as if I was boring him.
“I wouldn’t know.” My legs jiggle under the table, and I tuck my ankles underneath the chair, folding my hands in my lap. When I need to keep it together, boarding school posture always helps, just a little. “I don’t have that kind of magic.”
I don’t have any kind of magic. But that’s my secret to keep.
He jiggles his pen between his thumb and forefinger. He looks across the table with lines of suspicion etched around his eyes, but there’s something about the thoughtful way he looks at me that makes me think he cares about the truth.
“But I assume someone on the police force does, right?” I press on. “They would have tested the area for what traces of magic there still might be…what kind of spell did Luca’s murderer use his body for?”
Cutter’s face doesn’t give anything away; his mouth is a straight line, his intelligent dark eyes slightly narrowed.
My mind races, and I make a bet about the way he’d answer if he were a more talkative man. �
�There wasn’t any spell, was there? The body was just a message.” A message for me? To strike fear into Avalon, all over again? “Or, maybe it wasn’t even that. Maybe Luca was killed for another reason altogether.”
“You have a lot of thoughts about this body.”
“Or maybe he was killed to frame me.” I draw my spine even straighter as I imagine just how easy that would be; anyone with a will to kill and the intent to hurt me could craft a lie that Avalon is eager to believe. A shiver rolls down my arms, and it’s not just because they keep the interview rooms cold as winter.
“Tera Donovan, center of Avalon.” Cutter’s voice is amused.
“You might not have noticed this, Detective, but I have some enemies.”
“You have some friends too, don’t you?” His voice is casual, but his eyes are intent on me and they’re not casual at all. He flips open the folder. “It’s interesting you’d think that maybe the body wasn’t used for magic at all. After all, your father had quite the mass grave behind your childhood home, didn’t he?”
I’m an expert on corpses already. I refuse to look down at the folder he slides in front of me. But despite my best efforts, I catch a good glimpse anyway.
Gaunt, dark faces stare up, empty eye sockets trying to bore into mine. Old corpses. Not Luca’s.
“I’m going to ask again,” he says patiently.
“Not a surprise. You ask everything four times, don’t you?”
“Answers change. So, Tera, what made you wonder if the body was even used for magic? Since you couldn’t feel whether the magic was there or not?” His tone is flat.
I grab the folder and glance down at the photos. Arms at odd angles, slack-jawed faces frozen in horror. Bile riles in the back of my throat.
A man screaming for help locks eyes with me.
My father puts his arm around my shoulders. “He hurt little kids like you,” he says softly. “Everyone is pitiful when they’re scared, Tera. It doesn’t mean they deserve to live.”
I clear my throat so I can speak. My voice is hoarse. “The spines. My father always broke their spines.”
That cracking sound. The memory makes my back ache.
My fingers hover over the images. I don’t want to touch the corpses, even in photographs.
“So, if you were going to kill someone to leech their magic…” Cutter widens his eyes, inviting me to finish the sentence.
I meet his gaze. “I haven’t murdered anyone, and I have no intention. But if I did, I wasn’t raised to waste a corpse. Waste not, want not.”
“You’re a terrifying person, Tera Donovan,” Cutter says, although his face is as neutral as ever.
That’s a funny thought when I’m the one who feels terrified all the time.
“You should see how frightening it is from in here. Can I go now?”
“No.” He shakes his head, leaning back in his chair as if he’s impatient that I’ve asked. “I think there might be a chance that you’re innocent. But mine isn’t the only opinion that matters.”
“I don’t think it’s right to leave me here for fun,” I tell him. “Not when your officers can’t be trusted not to kill me themselves.”
“No one is going to hurt you,” he promises.
“And especially not when your department is riddled with corruption.”
It’s a wild shot, but Cutter leans forward, his lips parting, his face alive with emotion for the first time. He stops abruptly and goes to the door, reaching to flip a switch. A faint shimmer crosses the mirror as some spell dissipates. Maybe it’s been recording our interview.
He shuts the door firmly behind him. “What’s the story, Tera?”
“You don’t really think I murdered anyone,” I sit forward, suddenly sure and suddenly angry, too. “You’re just using me.”
“You’re a witness,” he says. “I hate to tell you, but that’s what you’re here for. Being used to solve a crime and prevent more murders. What the hell do you mean about my department?”
I glance at the mirror. “I’m not talking about this department being a mix of Crown and True unless I’m sure I’m safe.”
“You’re safe here.”
I lean forward, my elbows on the table. “I’ll believe I’m safe when I’m in the same room as Airren. Take me to them.”
“You’re not in charge here.”
“Neither are you, apparently,” I snap back. I don’t know if the people above him, who are intent on holding me, are Crown or True.
The look Cutter flashes me is pure exasperation. But he stands and exits the room without any further comment. His back is stiff as he marches out.
I’m not sure if I’ve just made a smart play or a stupid one.
Chapter 27
Cutter comes back in even angrier than he was before. “Let’s go.”
Gladly. I head for the door, but he grabs my wrists. I come to a stop, my jaw tense as he snaps the cuffs back on.
Cold metal latches around my wrists, but loosely this time. “You’d think we could get rid of these. You know, gesture of good will.”
“I don’t have much good will for you,” he says. “I just want my information.”
Well, at least someone is telling me the truth.
“And I think you might be in danger here,” he mutters, almost to himself.
It’s a relief he sees the danger I’m in, but it still feels rough hearing that out loud.
There’s a woman in the hallway in a black suit who looks me over as she hands him over a file.
“Sorry you can’t hold her.” Her eyes study me curiously. “Bad paperwork from Patrol gets you again.”
“What’re you going to do.” He gives her a nod before he steers me down the long hallway.
I grit my teeth as my knee throbs, but at least his grip is loose on my wrist and he matches my slow pace. “That definitely makes it sound like the cuffs should come off.”
He leans dangerously close to me, his voice in my ear. “Shut. Up.”
Airren’s in the lobby. Cutter tenses when he sees him, but my shoulders give in relief as Airren jumps to his feet.
“Finally!” Airren says.
“Shut up, and come with me,” Cutter says, jerking his head toward the door. The three of us exit the police station, and once we’re on the steps, Cutter grunts at me to stop. He finally gets around to unlocking my cuffs.
As Cutter slips the cuffs into his inside pocket, Airren asks, “Why are we walking? You have faster methods at your disposal.”
Cutter makes a noncommittal grunt. I rub my wrists, which are swollen and sore from earlier, and glare at him.
Airren distracts me from my death-stare by wrapping his big hands around my biceps. “Are you all right?”
“I’ve been better. I have a lot to tell you.”
“To tell us both,” Cutter’s eyes meet Airren’s. “Where are you set up?”
Airren looks back at him innocently.
Cutter’s jaw works in irritation. “For the love of God. Come on. I know you’re running your own investigation, because I know Divide Intel, and I don’t give a damn. I do care that your girl claims there are True hiding in my station.”
Airren’s gaze sharpens. “That’s bad news.”
“Really, there’s no one in there who’s a friend of mine,” I say, including Cutter in that assessment. I shake out my wrists one more time, my hands tingling again, and drop my arms to my side. I limp down the stairs. “Let’s get somewhere we can talk.”
“She thinks she’s in charge.” Cutter is a professional at the barely-audible mutter.
“It’s a problem,” Airren agrees.
But the two of them follow me anyway. As we head through town, Airren carefully matches my pace, staying so close to me that his shoulder brushes mine occasionally. He’s wearing one of those crisp button-down shirts of his, the sleeves rolled up to expose the tattoo on his forearm, and there’s something fascinating to me about the way he blends uptight and dangerous.
&nbs
p; Cutter walks a beat behind us, his hands shoved in his pockets. Both Cutter and Airren have a watchfulness as we pass through town, and it’s only when we reach the end of a long, bustling street and head up the winding brick pathway that Airren repeats his question. “Why are we walking?”
“Every jump is recorded in the station logbook,” Cutter says. “You want this written down?”
Airren’s answering grunt suggest he and Cutter speak the same language.
But nonetheless, Airren leads Cutter toward the library. I flash him a quick sideways look.
Airren leans close, his arm looping around my waist so that his lips are against my hair. “I know Cutter.”
“How?”
“We ran into each other a few times during the Divide war and after, before we came here. He’s a good cop, I think.”
“I can hear you,” Cutter says.
“Like I said, he’s a great detective,” Airren adds drily.
When I limp into the warehouse below the library, Cax is a blur as he leaps from the seat. He jumps across the room and grabs me around the waist. As he lifts me off my feet, I grin. My hands settle on his shoulders.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“Excuse me.” Cax sets me back on the floor and makes a show of smoothing out my clothes. “I’ve never fallen for a hardened criminal before.”
“Ha ha.” A wave of tenderness washes over me; Cax’s affection feels like cold, clear water after a long thirst. I school my face, trying to squash down the rising weakness I feel for him. I can’t be a fool.
“I wouldn’t say hardened,” Cutter says, and I have a funny feeling he’s thinking of the protective lump I formed on the gravel outside the police station today.
“Look at that.” Mycroft leans in the doorway. Even Mycroft is happy to see me. “You followed my advice and here you are.”
Oh, nevermind. Mycroft is happy to be right.
“I hope that wasn’t your advice she was following,” Cutter says. “I was this close to booking her for lying to an officer of the Crown.”
God, he’s annoying, but I try to make my answer polite. It doesn’t quite come out that way. “I never lied to you once.”
