by Tania Hutley
I open my mouth, the urge to confess growing stronger by the second. The words “I did it” are clambering up my throat, crawling toward my mouth. My hands itch to cover my lips, to stop the words bursting out. But I can’t move, I can’t do anything other than fight the compulsion to admit guilt for a crime that’s not mine.
The words are too strong to hold in. I need to speak them.
My body shakes violently and I pant for breath. Sweat drips into my eyes, stinging them, and I can’t blink it away.
I won’t let the Veritas win. I refuse to say the words.
Pain rises out of my soul, deep and excruciating, until it takes over my whole body. Ribbons of agony roll over my skin, dig into my muscles and send needle-like jabs through my body.
Is this how the desperate, frozen people in the lobby were convicted? Were they forced to say the words, whether they were true or not?
Are they even now feeling this level of torture?
I’m not going to bend. I did not kill my parents. I did not kill Sylvia. I did not kill Mireya. No one can make me say I did.
I clench my fists, feeling my muscles tighten. My arms are strong and I focus all my attention on squeezing my fists as hard as I can. Anchoring my body. Anchoring my mind.
I am tough.
You cannot crush me.
I’m made from the same rock as the walls I build. I’m solid. Unbreakable. Stone.
A sound forces its way out from my lips, but it’s not words. It’s a scream. A long, lung-burning scream that tears at my throat and adds another level of pain to my already suffering body.
I don’t know how much longer I can take this. I can’t see the girl in front of me, she’s disappeared behind the black dots and tears in my eyes. But I can feel the pressure of her magic on me, squeezing me until I feel like I’m going to burst open like a piece of ripe fruit.
And then it stops.
I collapse to the floor, gasping for breath. I can’t do anything other than lie flat for a long time. When I finally lift my head, the girl’s eyes aren’t glowing anymore.
Did I pass the test? What happens now?
I push myself up to sitting, though my body feels boneless, like I’ve been fed through a pasta maker and turned into noodles. I’m not sure I’ll be able to stand up.
“You’re free to go,” says the Veritas.
“What?” yells Dallas. “No, you can’t let her go.” His fists are clenched and he starts forward as though to attack me. “Death follows her. Wherever she goes, witches are murdered. She must know something.”
I flinch as he looms over me, but he freezes in the act of reaching for me, as though he’s hit an invisible wall.
“I passed?” My voice comes out as a croak. “You believe I’m innocent?”
“You’re free to go. That is all.” The Veritas is holding Dallas back with her mind, but there’s no trace of effort on her young face.
The other witches in the circle murmur, as though they’re not entirely convinced I didn’t pull some sort of trick. But Magnus speaks up. “Only the innocent can withstand the compulsion to admit guilt.”
“The Veritas is too young,” snaps Dallas. “She’s not powerful enough.”
Though my throat’s bone dry, I can still give a derisive snort.
“Can you stand, Saffy?” asks Uncle Ray, coming forward to help me to my feet. “I’ll take you home.”
But I yank my arm out of his grip and shoot a glare around the room that I hope is full of the contempt and anger I feel for them all.
“I’d rather walk.” And as weak as I am, I manage to storm out without falling over my own feet.
Fifteen
It’s been four days since my enforced visit to the Veritas. I’ve finished the job I was supposed to start on Monday, building a small block wall. The work took three days, though if I hadn’t been so strung out and distracted, I’d have finished it in two.
Now Agnes and I are in my backyard, glaring at each other like we’re two prizefighters before a match. The last few days haven’t made her any fonder of me. Though I’ve tried to explain what I’m doing, she won’t listen. We circle each other warily, facing off, assessing who’s going to be the first to make a move.
We’ve been at this for what feels like forever.
I’ve sliced shallow cuts in both my palms, and I can feel my magic pressing against its bonds. With two council members dead, the bonds are weaker now, and it takes all my strength to restrain my magic. I’ve never held it in like this before, and I’m starting to shake with the effort. I have no idea what effect being in this state is having, but it feels like my magic is building up, getting stronger and stronger.
Pretty soon, I’ll have to let it escape, and I’m more than a little afraid of what might happen, like when a river is dammed but about to burst. But if I’m going to change Agnes back I have to attempt it.
Agnes has her wings spread. She struts stiff-legged, using her wings to help her move, watching for an opportunity to carve a chunk out of me. Behind her, an egg sits in a makeshift nest she’s fashioned out of grass and torn paper. The worst part was when I heard her clucking as she laid it. It sounded painful.
“I’m trying to help you,” I tell her for the hundredth time. “Let me touch you and maybe I can change you back the way you used to be.”
She feints at me, but when I reach for her, she jumps away and all I get is handfuls of feathers. My magic almost escapes and I just manage to haul it back, but now my hands are coated with feathers attached to my now-sticky blood. When I shake them, the feathers don’t come loose. “Damn feathers,” I mutter, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Damn stupid chicken.”
But I should know better than to let myself get distracted.
With a loud cluck-cluck-claar, Agnes leaps for my face. I jerk my hands up, trying to grab her out of the air. My bloody hands brush her body and my magic bursts free.
The animal magic explodes out of me. Literally.
It feels like a bomb detonating. The force rocks me back, and hundreds of feathers rain down over me. Heart racing, I stare up at where they’re coming from. Feathers fall into my mouth and land in my eyes.
What the hell just happened? Have I killed Agnes? Did I tear her to pieces?
Before I can see more than feathers, I feel my earth magic launching itself into the courtyard’s paving stones. They fly up like missiles and I stagger back, throwing my arms over my head to protect it.
My knees give way, and I sag to the ground, sputtering feathers out of my mouth. There’s now a crater in the courtyard. Broken paving stones are scattered everywhere, and a layer of feathers coats everything like fluffy snow.
In the middle, seemingly unharmed, stands Agnes. Chicken Agnes. Her brown feathers are intact, so my animal magic must have conjured the feather storm out of thin air.
At least one question is answered. Chickens can blink. Agnes blinks very slowly, and the eyelid that comes from the front of her eye is milky and semi-transparent.
“Are you okay, Agnes?” I ask.
She blinks again, a little faster. Then she flaps her wings, sending up a cloud of feathers. She looks as shocked as I am by the mess I’ve made of the courtyard.
“Saffy? Was that you?” Jess’s voice comes from inside the house, making me jerk with surprise.
I leap for the back door, just getting through and closing it before my roommate appears.
“Saffy?” She stops when she sees me. “Did you hear that noise?”
“Oh yeah. Neighbor was making a racket.” I ran my hand over the top of my hair and pull out several feathers. “Agnes complains about our music all the time, but I think she must be giving a drum lesson to an orangutan. Nothing else can explain a crash that loud.”
Jess frowns. “You’re covered in feathers. Did something happen to the chicken?”
“The chicken’s fine. It just laid an egg. What are you doing home? I thought you had band practice?”
“Your cousin Sylvia�
�s funeral is today, isn’t it? I’m going with you.”
“You don’t need to—”
“I’m going with you,” she repeats, and I recognize the set of her lips. No use arguing., and I don’t protest too hard, even though she’s a mundane, and therefore won’t be welcome. I need all the support I can get.
When we walk through the doors of the old chapel in the far corner of Druid Hill Park, and all I get are glares from the other mourners, I glare back. If they don’t like a mundane being here, tough.
It’s not until the service starts that it occurs to me they could be glaring because they think I’m the one who’s killing witches.
Good thing my response works either way.
“Tough crowd,” murmurs Jess in my ear after the service is over and everyone’s filing out of the chapel, giving us a wide berth as they head toward the refreshments that are being served in the lobby. “I feel like a slab of steak at a vegan buffet.”
Dressed up for the funeral, Jess looks like a totally different person from the one I’m used to. Her normally wild blonde hair is swept into a tidy bun, and she’s wearing a black dress and high heels instead of her normal jeans. She even has a little black veil, like widows wear to funerals in movies. It partly covers her eyes, and I was hoping she wouldn’t be able to see all the glowers we’ve been getting.
“They’re just upset about Sylvia,” I lie. “It’s not personal.”
“You sure?” Through her veil, I see an eyebrow arch. “Because I know you well enough to be sure you’ve done something to upset them.”
I have a wad of tissues balled in my hand, still soggy from the service, but Jess’s certainty makes my lips twitch. She’s kinda right.
Magnus Fox and Uncle Ray walk by, heading out of the chapel. My nostrils flare as Magnus brushes past. He definitely has a scent that reminds me of dogs.
Uncle Ray doesn’t stop to speak to me, probably because Magnus is murmuring something to him in a low voice. Didn’t Uncle Ray mention that Magnus was going to step down from the council soon? My uncle’s probably doing some political maneuvering and that’s why he doesn’t want to be seen talking to his misfit niece. Not that I’d talk to him anyway. I’m still mad over the whole drugging me and handing me over to the Blood Council thing.
Aunt Therese is still sitting in the back row of the chapel though everyone else is filing out. Her head is low and her face deathly pale. I was hoping to have a chance to talk to her about the piece of paper she stuffed into my pocket, but she looks even sicker than when I saw her a few days ago. Her eyes droop like she’s fighting to stay conscious. I’m afraid talking to her would only upset her.
Afternoon tea is being served in the lobby outside the chapel. Not that I want to stay for it.
“Let’s go,” I say to Jess. “I want to get home, change out of this dress, toast Sylvia with a cold beer, then put something on the stereo that’s loud enough to guarantee we’ll need hearing aids by the time we’re thirty.”
Jess tucks her arm into mine. “Sounds like a plan. My feet are killing me. I remember now why I never wear heels this high.”
“The last time I wore a dress was to my parent’s funeral,” I say with a sigh. “Pretty soon I’ll start having a nervous reaction every time I see a dress.”
“At least you got all the feathers out of your hair.” She hesitates. “Seriously, Saff, what’s the deal with the chicken? Yesterday I saw it pecking at the fence with its beak. It was scratching out words.”
I blink and silently swear at Agnes. “You know, I read something the other day about how our brains are wired to look for patterns. We’re always looking for meaning in simple co-incidences. Like calling a certain coin lucky if it happens to be the one that wins a prize. Amazing, really, how you could have seen letters in random chicken scratchings.”
She narrows her eyes and her tone turns dry. “The chicken had written, Help, I’m a person. If that’s a trick my brain was playing, I’d better see a doctor.” She looks at me like she knows more than she’s letting on, but there’s no way she knows the truth.
“Wha—?” I manage to turn my shock into a cough. “Oh, sure. I think Sylvia taught the chicken how to do that as a joke. Crazy, right?” I force a laugh. “My cousin might have been bookish, but she had a wild side.”
“Smart chicken. Could be a judge on America’s Got Talent.” Jess’s bone-dry tone makes it clear she doesn’t believe a word that’s coming out of my mouth.
Actually, I’m amazed at how well she’s taking this. If I were her, I’d probably have booked both the chicken and myself into therapy.
I’m searching for a change of subject when I spot a tall figure in a corner of the lobby, his gaze roving over all the mourners as though he’s taking mental notes about each of them.
Xander.
I haven’t seen him for days. What’s he doing here?
He’s wearing a much nicer suit than the one he was wearing when I met him, so he’s either being respectful or he’s making an effort to blend in. I don’t normally go for men in suits, but he looks good. Very James Bond. Especially with his square jaw, chiseled features, and the secret-agent way he’s scanning the room. His icy blue eyes seem to miss nothing.
When those eyes land on me and widen, I feel myself flush. His gaze goes from my toes to the top of my head before they settle on my face. There’s appreciation in his expression, and I have to fight the urge to reach up and brush back my hair. Though I usually keep it tied back in pigtails, today I’m wearing it loose, falling down my back. I don’t often leave it free because the last thing a stonemason needs is hair falling in her face and getting in the way.
“Don’t look now, but Detective Hotpants is over there,” whispers Jess. “He’s looking at you. And check out those shoulders.”
“His name’s Xander.” I’ve given her an abridged version of the things that have happened since Sylvia’s death, leaving out any mention of magic. Or about the connection I thought I had with Xander, seeing as I was wrong about that anyway.
“He’s obviously into you, so why are you standing all the way over here?” She clicks her tongue. “Let’s go say hi.”
Before I can object, she drags me over to him. “Nice to see you again,” she says with a smile. “We almost met the other day. I’m Jess.”
“Saffy’s roommate.” He nods. “I remember. You’re the drummer, right?”
“Is there a big police file on me?” Jess sounds only mildly curious. “Lots of pages?”
Xander shrugs. I bet there is a thick file about Jess, and he’s read it. First time Jess and I met, there was a fight in the club her band was playing in and she got arrested. And that wasn’t her first brush with the law. Drumming in a band that’s still up-and-coming doesn’t pay well, and she occasionally disassembles cars for a less-than-savory mechanic to make ends meet.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Xander. The last time I saw him, he was hurling nasty accusations at me. He’d better not be stalking me at my cousin’s funeral.
He hesitates. “Just seeing who came to the funeral.”
The way his gaze was searching the mourners as though cataloguing their faces fills in the rest for me. He’s definitely on the case. With all the suspects in one room, no wonder he’s here.
“They’ve lifted your suspension?” I’m relieved despite myself. It wouldn’t have been fair if he’d lost his job because he was helping me.
He shakes his head. “I’m still suspended. But nobody else from the department is here. I had to come.”
Crap. “Oh,” I say stupidly.
“Look, Saffy, about what I said…” he says.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I was taking it out on you.”
“A common theme,” I say drily, but my heart is thumping. I’m not used to people apologizing.
“I was upset. I hope you can forgive me.”
The relief I feel makes me a little edgy. I shouldn’t be this happy
about Xander saying sorry. But he’s the only person who’s prepared to help me investigate what happened to my parents, and that’s important to me.
“I forgive you,” I say quietly. Beside me, Jess pinches my arm. That’s our code for something exciting, when we don’t want anyone else to know about it.
“So maybe—”
“I need to talk to you,” I blurt over top of his words.
“About what?”
Now it’s my turn to hesitate. I glance at Jess, then at the lobby full of witches. They’re mobbing the table of food set up in the corner, though I’m still catching some glares. This isn’t the time or place to ask for his help with secret clues.
“Well,” says Jess after a long, awkward silence. “I have… a phone call to make. In my car.” She gives me a raised-eyebrow look that’s easy to read, even with half her face covered by the veil. Xander can probably read it too. Jess isn’t known for her subtlety. “You should take your time, Saffy. The call I need to make will be a long one.”
As she walks out of the lobby, Xander hunches his shoulders. From his expression, I get the impression he’s uncomfortable with Jess’s too-obvious matchmaking. And no wonder, after the photograph somebody sent to his boss.
“I’m sorry they haven’t reinstated you,” I say.
“It’s not your fault. My boss has been gunning for me for a while.”
“Why? What did you do?”
“Not me. My mother. She’s Anna Trent.” When I look at him blankly, he says, “Come on, Saffy. Surely you’ve heard of Baltimore’s mayor?”
I blink. “Your mother’s the mayor? Wow. Okay. But why would that turn your boss against you?”
“Everyone at the station is convinced it’s thanks to my mother’s influence that I’m the youngest detective on the force.” Xander runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up on one side in a way that’s kind of adorable.
Not that I want to notice things like that, dammit.