Cold Burn of Magic (25 page)

So I started struggling again, bucking and heaving and thrashing with all my might. The men easily subdued me, but I kept fighting. And finally—
finally
—I felt that first faint chill of magic deep in the pit of my stomach.

I just hoped it would be enough to save me.

The men tightened their grips so much that their fingers pressed against my bones. I couldn't move a muscle—not a single one—but that chill slowly began to grow colder and colder, morphing into something more, something greater. I had to draw this out for as long as possible.

Grant stopped in front of me, and my gaze locked onto the dagger in his hand. It was an ashy black, just like my mom's sword, although the edges glinted, thanks to the lone light burning above. Black blades were unbelievably sharp, with the sort of keen edges that would filet you like a fish. And you wouldn't even feel the wound until it was too late—and your guts were spilling everywhere.

Grant grinned when he realized that I was staring at the dagger. “Do you know why they call them black blades?”

I didn't answer because I already knew. My mom had told me all about black blades and how dangerous they could be.

His grin widened. “Because the more blood you get on them, the blacker the blade turns. I've always wanted to find out if that was really true. Now, I finally have my chance, thanks to you, Lila.”

I struggled again, forcing the men to use their strength to hold me still. One of them cuffed me upside the head, putting a bit of his magic in the blow. It took me a moment to blink the white stars out of my vision and focus on Grant again.

He raised the dagger, resting the pointed tip against my heart. “You know, I'm actually sorry about this, Lila. I really did like you.”

“Just not enough to keep you from trying to kill me multiple times, right?”

“It's nothing personal.” He shrugged. “I never liked anybody all
that
much.”

I thought he would pull back and plunge the dagger through my heart. He hesitated, as if he was considering the idea. But in the end, he wanted my Talent too badly to kill me outright. He dropped the dagger from my heart and twirled it around in his hand a final time.

I looked past him at Devon. Once again, our eyes locked, and I felt all of his rage, worry, despair, and guilt—guilt that he had dragged me into this.

“Don't worry,” I called out, trying to reassure him. “Everything's going to be okay. You'll see.”

“Mm! Mm-mmm!” Devon tried to scream through his gag, probably yelling at Grant to stop.

But it was too late.

Grant gave me an evil grin, then stabbed me in the side with the dagger.

F
or a moment, I didn't feel anything.

Not a nick, not a cut, not a brutal stab, nothing.

I looked down, staring at the dagger embedded in my side.

Then the pain rushed to my brain in one blinding, white-hot blast.

I screamed when Grant thrust the dagger into my side, and I screamed again when he yanked it back out. He held up the weapon so that everyone could see my blood staining it a bright, glossy, sickening red.

But my blood didn't stay on the blade for long.

Almost immediately, the stains began to vanish, bit by bit, drop by drop, as the bloodiron soaked up all the liquid that coated it. I could have sworn I could actually
hear
the metal sucking up my blood, like a kid chugging down a glass of cherry soda through a straw.

And Grant was right. The more of my blood the metal absorbed, the darker the blade became, going from a dull gray to a deep midnight, until it was almost glowing with blackness, if that was even possible.

Grant's eyes lit up with delight at the macabre sight. Devon kept screaming through the tape over his mouth. The two guards looked mildly bored. No doubt they would have killed me by now and been done with it.

“You were right, Lila. Practicing on you will be
loads
of fun,” Grant said in a cruel, satisfied voice.

I kept screaming and screaming, wondering if the pain would ever end. Hoping that it would. Praying that I hadn't miscalculated, and that my own magic would kick in and save me the way it had so many times before.

But there was just pain . . . and more pain . . . and more pain still . . .

Finally, I couldn't even scream anymore, and I slumped forward, sweat streaming down my face. The only thing keeping me on my feet were the men propping me up, and the ropes tying me to the meat hook above my head. Still, more and more pain thrummed through my side, spreading to every single nerve ending in my body. The pain warred with the magic inside me, trying to snuff it out. So I concentrated on that faint, cold chill of power, trying to focus on it, instead of the red-hot pain of the stab wound in my side.

“Don't worry,” Grant cooed. “I didn't hit anything vital. Not yet, anyway. We need to get more of that blood pumping out of you first so I can take your power.”

In a way, black blades—bloodiron—were eerily similar to my own transference power. I soaked up magic from people, and so did they. The more you cut someone with a black blade, the
hungrier
the metal became, until it actually pulled the blood out of a person's body—along with their magic—sucking them dry like a leech.

It could be a slow, torturous process, with dozens of wounds inflicted, or you could stab someone through the heart and take all their blood and magic at once. Either way, when the black blade was brimming with blood and magic, the person wielding it could turn it on himself, stab the point into his own heart like a needle full of adrenaline, and inject all of that stolen blood and power into his veins and fully make it his own.

Apparently, Grant was in favor of the slow, torturous method because he stabbed me again, this time driving the dagger deep into my left thigh. More blood spilled out, and he laughed again. I was getting real sick of hearing that sound. But before I could brace myself against this new wave of pain, he brought the dagger up again.

I hissed and arched my neck back, but blood dripped down my face from the shallow cut he'd opened up on my right cheek.

“Don't worry, Lila,” Grant said. “I'll leave your pretty face intact. More or less.”

“Lucky me.”

“We'll see if you still have that smart mouth on you after I cut you some more.”

He looked over his shoulder at Devon, who was still trying to shout through the tape and get free of his ropes. But his struggles were useless.

“What do you say, Devon?” he cooed again. “Looking forward to round two on Lila? Because I sure am.”

Grant turned back toward me and studied me with a critical eye, trying to decide where to stab me next. All the while, blood oozed out of the wounds he'd already inflicted, spattering onto the floor, rolling toward the concrete drain beneath my feet, and disappearing into the darkness below.

And still, I was waiting for my transference Talent to kick in, for the pain to melt into something else, something that I could use to break free of the bonds that held me tight. But all I felt was that faint chill and not the one, big, sweeping, cold surge of power I desperately needed in order to have a fighting chance. No, there was just wave after wave of pain, pulsing through my body.

“Okay,” Grant said. “I think that's enough blood. Don't you guys?”

The men shrugged. They weren't getting my Talent so they didn't care.

“Yeah,” Grant said, answering his own question. “I think one more cut will do to finish her off. Grab her arms again.”

This was my last chance.

So I sucked down a breath, and I bucked and heaved and thrashed like I never had before, forcing the men to use more and more of their strength to hold me still. I even snapped out with my teeth, trying to bite them, even though there was no way I could do that, given the awkward position I was in. But one of the men slammed his fist into my face, momentarily stunning me.

“What am I paying you idiots for? Hold her still!” Grant snapped.

The men finally wrenched me back into place. Grant raised the dagger high into the air, ready to drive it into my heart and deliver the final, fatal wound that would let him rip my magic out of me before I died.

And I realized that the red-hot pain of my injuries had faded away, and that all I could feel was that cold burn of magic roaring through my veins, stronger now than ever before.

Grant raised the dagger even higher, then brought it down, the weapon whistling like a scythe of death through the air—

I snapped my wrists apart, breaking the heavy ropes that held them together like they were no thicker than strings of thread. I ducked, and Grant missed me, the dagger slicing into the shoulder of one of the guards instead. The man howled with pain and staggered away, blood spraying out in an arc from his deep wound.

Grant whirled around to face me. I shoved the ropes off my hands and got ready.

“How did you do that?” he hissed.

“Wouldn't you like to know?” I mocked him.

He let out an angry roar and charged at me.

I stepped up to meet him, sliding past his defenses and the weapon whistling toward my head. Instead, I drove my fist into Grant's face and took hold of the dagger at the same time. Even though the edge sliced open my palm, I yanked it out of his grasp. In one smooth motion, I flipped the dagger up into the air, grabbed the hilt, and stabbed him in the shoulder.

Grant screamed, but I paid little attention. I was too busy pulling the dagger out of his shoulder and ramming my fist into his face again. He dropped to the ground. I would have finished him off then, but the second guard charged me, his hands arcing out into claws, as if he wanted to rip me limb from limb.

I lashed out with the dagger again. The guy might be strong, but he wasn't very quick, and I opened up a wound all the way across his stomach, making him fall to his knees. Not deep enough to kill him, but enough to put him out of the fight for the time being. The other man was still staggering around and clutching at his shoulder.

“Mm! Mm-mmm!” Devon tried to shout through the tape again.

I didn't think I had enough magic left to finish off the men. Besides, saving Devon was my priority, so I hurried over to him.

“Hold your arms out behind you, your hands as far apart as you can get them.”

He did as I asked, and I went to work, slicing through the ropes with the dagger. I helped Devon shove off the heavy ropes, ripped the tape off his mouth, and pulled him up onto his feet.

And just like that, the last of the magic burned out of my system, and I was my regular self again. I took a step forward, my injured left leg almost buckling beneath me.

“Run,” I told Devon. “Get out of here while you still can.”

He shook his head. “No,” he rasped. “Not without you.”

Despite my protests, Devon put his arm around my waist and took most of my weight. Together, we hurried away from the injured Grant and the two guards as fast as we could.

 

Devon helped me over to the door at the far end of the slaughterhouse. He tried the knob.

“Locked,” he rasped again. “It's locked!”

“Let me go.”

He did as I asked, and I passed him the dagger. He watched our backs while I reached up. The two chopstick lock picks I had put into my hair earlier were still there, so I plucked them out of my ponytail. I shoved the loose strands of hair out of my eyes and went to work on the door, sliding the picks inside and searching for the tumblers.

“Come on, baby,” I cooed at the lock. “You know you want to open for me.”

Behind me, low moans sounded, but I shut the noises out of my mind and concentrated on the lock, the feel of the picks in my hand, and the way the slender bits of metal needed to slide.

“Hurry, Lila,” Devon croaked. “They're getting back on their feet.”

I shot him a quick glance. “Can you use your magic on them? Your compulsion?”

He shook his head and arched his neck to one side. Ugly purple bruises ringed his throat. “They took turns . . . strangling me. I can try . . .”

But he didn't think it would work. Not given how low and raspy his voice was. He was barely more than whispering as it was, and I had to strain to hear him.

“Don't worry. We'll find another way.”

I redoubled my efforts on the lock, ignoring the sweat and blood on my hands and the faint tremors in my fingers. And finally—
finally
—the tumblers slid into place.

I turned the knob and yanked the door open. Devon put his arm around my waist again, taking my weight, and we staggered outside and away from the slaughterhouse.

 

The night was cool, even for late May, but I breathed in deeply, wondering if it would be the last bit of fresh air I ever tasted.

“Come back here, you bitch!” Grant's scream chased us outside.

It wouldn't be long before he grabbed a weapon and his men regrouped and came after us.

Too bad we had nowhere to go.

The slaughterhouse was in one of the many bad parts of Cloudburst Falls, and the door opened onto a dark alley. Devon helped me down to the end and then over to the corner. I looked up at the street signs, and my heart sank. I knew exactly where we were—and that there was nothing and nobody around for miles to help us. Sure, there were houses and people, but nobody in this neighborhood would open their doors to us, assuming we didn't get attacked by a monster in the meantime. Still, we had to try.

“That way.” I pointed to the right. “Hurry.”

I shoved my chopstick lock picks back into my ponytail. Then, with Devon's help, I hobbled down the street. With every movement, every step, blood dripped down my face, side, and leg from where Grant had stabbed me.

One by one, eyes winked open in the alleys we passed, burning like all the jewels I'd stolen—ruby red, emerald green, sapphire blue, citrine yellow. Drawn by the scent of my blood, shadows slithered away from the walls and crept out from behind the Dumpsters. Faint spits, hisses, and scratches sounded, as claws, talons, and tails scraped over the walls and cobblestones around us.

“Lila,” Devon croaked out a warning, hearing the same things I did.

“We have to keep going.”

But we both knew the truth—that if Grant and his goons didn't get us, the monsters would.

Either way, we were moving slow—way too slow. I couldn't exactly run right now, not with the stab wounds in my face, side, and thigh throbbing with pain. Devon was helping me as much as he could, but he'd been badly beaten, and he was limping along almost as slowly as I was. The only thing that was keeping us going was sheer stubbornness, and I didn't know how much longer that would last.

We'd only gone half a mile from the slaughterhouse. Any second now, Grant and his men would come running down the street and kill us—and that's if Grant didn't decide to drag us back to the slaughterhouse and finish what he'd started by stealing our Talents—

The words rattled around in my mind, and I glanced at Devon. His face was set in grim, determined lines as he hobbled forward, dragging me along with him. My eyes locked on to the bruises around his throat. He couldn't shout loud enough to use his compulsion magic on Grant and his men, not before they cut us down.

But maybe he didn't have to. Maybe all he had to do was use it on
me
.

I checked the next street sign we passed, making sure of our location. In the distance, about half a mile away, the lochness bridge curved over the river. And a crazy idea popped into my head, a way that I could save Devon and myself—and kill Grant and his men.

“How strong are you?” I asked Devon as we kept hurrying along. “Your magic? How strong is it? How long does it last?”

“Depends.”

He wheezed out a few more garbled words, but I couldn't understand what he was saying. He gave me a frustrated look, then cleared his throat and gestured out with his hand.

“We need to run.”

I nodded. “You're exactly right.”

Devon gave me a strange look, but I pointed to the lochness bridge up ahead.