by Janeal Falor
I peek around the corner and examine the street. No one is coming. When I’m sure no one’s there, I slink out and hurry away from the tainted alley. The extra energy coursing through me after almost being caught wanes. I pass several alleys before I finally pause in front of one.
This isn’t where I want to hide. What makes this alley different from the last one? It could be just as tainted. My eyes drift closed as I try to find a solution. My body sways out where anyone could see. The realization means it doesn’t matter if the alley is tainted or not. If things stay like this, I will be caught.
I enter, taking my time and carefully sniffing. It doesn’t smell pleasant, like mildew and kitchen waste, but at least it doesn’t smell like a water closet. I make my way to the back and hunker down behind the bins. The stench of waste is stronger here, but at least I’m out of sight.
I shift around to make myself comfortable, but it’s impossible to gain any sense of comfort in this place. I give up and simply huddle tight with my eyes closed. The swirling drift of coming sleep quickly follows.
A drip wets my face. I jolt awake, fearing someone is now using me like the previous alley. But there’s no one. Just another drip and another. Coming faster and thicker. It’s raining. Of course it is.
It’s cold and wet. All. Night. Long. At least my gloves supply warmth, little though they add. And my thick skirts protect me some, but still manage to get soaked through.
Morning comes just as wet and cold. My stomach aches, reminding me the elements aren’t my only problem. I need to find food, and hopefully better shelter than I had last night. There’s much to fear from wandering about, like what will happen to me if someone should recognize I’m unchaperoned, or worse, Edward’s recent purchase in need of punishment followed by a swift return. Yet, if I continue like this, there won’t be anything left of me to punish.
I peek around a bin. There’s no one in the alley, though two warlocks pass by on the street without glancing my way. I jerk back. It’s not so bad being cold, wet, and hungry. Telling myself that doesn’t work as well as I think it ought.
Suppose I’ll have to pretend to myself as well as everyone else. The only things I have are the clothes and jewelry I’m wearing. When father was my master, I used to keep food hidden on me somewhere, a habit I should never have given up, even if things seemed safer. I sigh and comb my hair back with my fingers before returning it to a bun, letting my magic smooth it down.
Once I’m feeling a little more prepared for what may await me, I stand and plod to the street. No one is paying me any mind—yet. I step out and move along as if this is exactly where I belong, keeping my face lowered, and pretending like I’m following someone even though no male leads me.
People wander around, walking down the street, going in and out of shops. Mostly males, but occasionally a woman accompanies one. I make my way to an empty area and stand next to a building, out of the way, not knowing what to do or where to go. What I need is information. And food. And shelter. A bath would be nice as well. But where does one go to discover any of that? It’s not like I thought this through. If I had—no, if I had thought it through, I would have done the same thing. Except to perhaps make a plan for what to do afterward. Then again, maybe not. Plan making isn’t a skill I’ve ever excelled at.
For the most part, I’m ignored. Save for one man, with an umbrella protecting him from the downpour, hiding his features from me. Every time I peek down the street he’s still there, hovering. The only reason he’d have for watching me isn’t good.
He’s thin but in a strong sort of way. The way his coat hugs his frame speaks of trim muscles, not the bulge so many warlocks carry. He's short, at least short compared to Zade, though probably just taller than me. I can’t know for certain without him coming closer. And he is coming closer. Blast.
Pretending a nonchalance I don’t feel, I head away from him. My legs throb with the desire to move faster, to race away, but I force myself to stroll. Slowly, I increase my pace until I’m going as fast as I dare. Is he following? I can’t look back. Which is safer? Stay on the main streets or use a side street? If I take a side street, it could be another dead end, but the main streets have warlocks who will side with him.
My stomach rumbles, growling with a gnawing pain as if I needed to be reminded of one more problem. I’m hungry and dirty and tired, sloshing as fast as I dare through the mud, without any idea what to do.
Suddenly, the warlock is at my side, strolling next to me as if this was planned all along. Except I don’t even know who he is. He’s perhaps a year or two older than me, my height as I suspected, with dark skin just like the way I make a cup of chocolate with a dollop of cream stirred in. It tugs at a memory of others having darker skin at the tournament last year. Deep-brown eyes hiding behind the framed windows on his face also stir memories. Those like him wore red at the tournament, I believe.
There’s a faint smile teasing his lips that, despite its size, seems to radiate joy. Probably not the type of joy that will bring me any happiness.
“Can I help you, miss?” His odd request drawls out in a slow, lazy sort of way.
My pulse is pounding so hard it almost hurts, yet I don’t know what’s making it faster this warlock or my quickening pace. Probably both. I’m careful to keep my head lowered and voice submissive. “No, I don’t think so, sir.”
The statement doesn’t deter him from continuing on, nor does it stop him from staring at me. Not that I expected it to, but things would have been easier.
“Are you certain? You look lost.”
This statement does the strangest thing to me. Tears build, stinging for release. But it’s a feeling I know how to suppress. What’s harder is suppressing the fear. “I’m fine.”
He gives a small snort as if he doesn’t believe me, then gives my neck a not so subtle glance. “Is your owner around?”
My unbranded skin says I should still be under my father’s control. I cover it with my hand, but it’s too late. Should have stayed in my cold, little alley. Might as well hope the truth can save me before something drastic is needed, like a spell. “The only owner I have is myself.”
His eyebrows rise. “Serena?”
Her name startles me into looking straight into his rich, brown eyes. It's only for a brief moment before I remember myself, yet it's enough to prove my willfulness. Of course warlocks know her name. Am I going to spend the rest of my life having my status compared to hers? “No.”
His eyebrows crinkle together, creating a thin line between them. It makes me want to look at him full on instead of out of the corner of my eye and discover how true of a reaction that really is as he answers. “But she’s the only Chardonian woman who isn’t owned… Unless you’re not Chardonian?”
“I am.” Unfortunately. The way he keeps staring at me makes me wonder what he’s planning that he doesn’t want to let me out of his sight. At least it gets rid of the desire to look at him closer. He is the enemy, I remind myself. All males are except Zade.
“My status is newly acquired.” As in, so new I don’t know if Edward has told anyone else yet like I’m hoping he’s done. Like he must do if I’m to survive.
“Ah. I see.” His smile widens. “Is that why you look so lost?”
I have an urge to ramble a reply, one that would likely turn into my life story if I started. This man is making it difficult to keep myself in check. Why doesn’t he just do whatever it is he’s going to do to me? Why do they always have to turn it into a game? “I do not look lost.”
His smile shifts to one that says he doesn’t believe it, but he’ll humor me. Like the type of smile one would give to a small child who doesn’t know better. “Forgive me if I misinterpreted your standing out in the rain, watching everyone go by with big, hungry eyes like you don’t know what to do, as lost.”
I scowl at him. Has he been watching even longer than I thought? And then I realize that my emotions are slipping through. Again, apparently. What is it about
him that is making me lose control? It’s not him. It’s the situation. I’ve never been in one like this before, and it’s making me break. I grasp my emotions back tightly within while keeping my head lowered.
“Thank you for your concern, but I assure you, there’s no need for your assistance.”
“Hmm.” He nods his head like he finally understands what I’m saying, but instead of leaving like I hope, he says, “Then I imagine you’d turn down an offer to share my umbrella?”
I most definitely don’t want to share an umbrella with some warlock. Warlocks are trouble. Not only trouble, but also harbingers of tarnishings and death. Besides, I’m already soaked. Nothing will change that now. Not even a kindly-offered umbrella.
“That would be a correct assumption.”
“What about my coat then? Would you take it?”
Why is he so persistent? Does he have to leave one of his things with me as a way to prove I’m doing something wrong to one of the local law officers? Or is this just the way foreign warlocks behave? At least, I’m assuming he’s a foreigner. “Truly, I’m fine.”
“But you’re shivering.”
The cold had left my mind until he pointed it out, but I really am shivering. I don’t remember the last time it was this cold. And sometime while we’ve been talking, my rapid pace has slowed. Though the season is starting to warm, at any time spring could turn even worse than it is now. Tonight. What am I going to do? Whatever it is, I can at least keep from completely freezing.
“I believe I could accept it.”
His grin morphs into a winning one, yet still manages to stay small and warm. It’s a smile like I’ve never seen before. He hands me his umbrella before taking his coat off. I try to keep the umbrella over him, keeping the rain from dripping on him. It’s heavier than I expect, and my arm wavers. The umbrella tilts to the side. Before I can right it, the water pooling on it falls, splashing on his head, drenching him.
I brace myself for a hex that never comes. Perhaps the mistake didn't bother him as much as I expected? Who knows what this strange man thinks. At least his coat was already off and stretched out toward me so it's still fairly dry? Perfect way to treat the person saving me from freezing to death.
“Sorry.” Did I just apologize to a warlock? One day I’m hexing a warlock, the next I’m apologizing to another. It’s unprecedented. And not to be repeated.
He laughs. “Didn’t really want to stay dry anyway. Rain is refreshing.”
Refreshingly cold. Such an odd male.
He leans away from me and shakes the water from his hair, droplets spotting on the strange framed windows in front of his eyes. The short, dark locks glisten over those now water-sparkled eyes. It’s hard to concentrate as he helps me into his coat, first one sleeve then, after switching the umbrella to his now free hand, the other.
As he reaches out to take the umbrella back from me, our hands brush. I snatch my hand away and pull the coat tighter. It’s warm from being wrapped around him and smells faintly of something sweet and spicy. My shivering abates somewhat only to be replaced by my stomach growling again.
His brows raise again. I glance away, willing my cheeks not to pick this moment to heat and give me away.
“I will be on my way then, miss. Unless there’s something else I can help with?”
Still having a hard time believing the only reason he stopped me was to give his coat, I shake my head.
“Very well then,” he says as if he expected my silent response, and turns.
As he starts to walk away, I call out, “But your coat. How will I return it?”
“Keep it,” he calls over his shoulder and rounds a building.
Keep it? As in, it belongs to me now? I pull it tighter around me savoring its warmth but also trying to decipher what it means to have something of my own. Not just something father purchased, and is letting me use, but something truly mine. Perhaps my first thoughts of him giving it to me to use as some sort of leverage with a law officer were correct. It doesn’t make sense though. A warlock doesn’t need such evidence. The fact I’m out here all alone and claiming to not have an owner is enough for punishment to be dealt.
So then why give me his coat?
Chapter Six
A while later, much past time for lunch, I’m still wandering through the town. I’ve become so turned about; I’m not sure how far I am from where the man gave me his coat. At least I’m warmer, but it only does so much good. What I need is some sort of information and help from someone I can trust. Food, shelter, communication with home. But there’s nothing.
There’s been no tarnished to attempt to get help from. They’re the only ones I trust, and even then I don’t know how far my trust goes. I spotted one, and followed her to a house, but she slammed the door so fast my words were good for nothing but banging on the wood. I don’t blame her. Talking to me would probably only lead to her getting in trouble.
Which brings trouble. If my being around causes trouble, I shouldn’t go home. Not that I know where it is anyway, but I had hoped. Perhaps I can still send a message to Serena and she could at least send me a few clothes along with enough money to do… well, something.
The longer I wander, the more my stomach feels hollow and angry. When was the last time I ate? I’ve had water, but food? I don’t even remember for certain. Back at home, there was a small roll for breakfast before Edward came, though with my nerves it was difficult to eat. How long ago was that? Over two days, I think. The pain in my stomach makes it hard to think.
The rain makes my hair soggy, something my spell has dealt with before. It feels as if it’s slipping from its bun, but I don’t dare fix it in public. Even if I were to dart into an alleyway, there are too many people and someone may follow. There’s nowhere safe from prying eyes. It can’t be expected that my hair remain perfect in such weather. Naturally, they can and will, but I don’t know how women manage it without magic. I do my best to smooth it, and hope it’s enough to draw any unwanted attention away from me.
Suddenly, I realize a warlock is striding in my direction. Not just any warlock. Black breeches, orange shirt, baton hook at his side. A law officer. My hands go clammy. Is he coming for me? Have I finally been caught? What’s to become of me if I am his intended target?
I cross the street. He crosses as well. My pace quickens. So does his. My heart races, magic banging about inside me, but I keep my outward appearance in check. This can’t be good. I glance behind my shoulder and he’s almost to me. I pick up the pace so I’m almost running.
“Stop,” he calls out.
Which is worse: to stop and listen, or to run? Neither are likeable options, but I stop. Running can come later if needed, with a hex to give me a head start. Only it’d better not come to that. Perhaps he only wants to tell me to fix my hair and leave it at that. Unlikely, but I can pretend to myself as well as others. I have options. Just not good ones. I keep my head down and my back straight, not letting any other reason for him to find fault with me to slip out.
“Where’s your owner?” he demands.
A few people on the street stop to watch. I don’t know whether it’s good or bad they look on. I do know this is a bad, bad situation.
“He’s just…” Not a he, he’s a she who’s me. Blasted words. If I’m confusing myself. He’s not only going to be confused, but bring more trouble for thinking I’m untruthful.
As if to prove my fears just, he pulls out his baton and smacks it against his hand. “Where’s your owner?”
A beating. That’s what he has in mind for me. My gaze can’t tear itself away from his baton, which slaps against his hand several more times. It will be painful. Not what I want, yet something I can handle. What comes after the beating, though? Why did I think coming to a town full of people and law officers was a good idea?
I open my mouth to say something, though I’m still trying to formulate what, but before I speak, a voice with a drawl says, “Do you have a problem with this woman?”
Coat Man. Without his umbrella now and more soaked than ever. What is he doing here? And why is he interrupting?
The questioning warlock scowls, his crooked teeth bared. “And just who are you?”
“A friend of her owner.”
My owner? Does this mean he’s claiming to be my friend, Edward’s friend, or Serena’s? And why, exactly, would he claim such a thing?
“Doubtful,” the warlock scoffs. “With your looks and accent, you’re not from around these parts. More like someone who needs to be shown their place.”
Coat Man shrugs, nonchalant-like. “Whether you believe it or not, I’m watching over her. And as for showing me my place, I’m here from Chryos preparing for the tournament. Your country so graciously invited me to come.”
Chryos? Tournament? That explains so much. If men from Envado, like Zade, are different, why wouldn't men from other countries be courteous as well? Do they do things like offering their coats to cold women without another purpose? Though claiming to be a friend of my owner is a little farfetched and watching over me?
“Your country may have the coal the council wants, but it doesn’t mean the rest of us are gracious about anything.” The crooked-toothed warlock spits. “Best stick with her. You wouldn’t want your friend in trouble because she’s wandering alone and doesn’t look as she ought.”
“Point taken, sir. Thank you for your help.”
The warlock glares at Coat Man and then at me before storming off. Relief drenches me, easing my magic but not my posture. The gathered crowd dissipates once the law officer is gone, though with many backward glances. The Chryon lingers, thumbs hooked in his pockets.
Once the listening ears are far enough away, I say, “Watching over me?”