Page 63 of The Unweaver

Once, after she’d accidentally brought a dead cat back to some semblance of life, Felix forced her to reanimate a woman’s deadson. Those awful, vacant eyes. The mother’s screams as she tore out of the room, without paying.

“Please,” Cora whimpered afterwards. “Don’t make me do that again.”

Felix didn’t listen. The next time, she pretended she couldn’t do it. The mark left without paying again, disappointed rather than mortified. Felix took what he was owed out on her bruised flesh. Too numb to fight back, she—

Bane’s house trembled, wrenching Cora from her terrible reverie.

Breathing hard and swiping away tears, she stared at the unmarked folder. In her shaking hands was the death certificate of Felix Rabinowitz. The biggest antisemite she had ever met had himself been Jewish.

She hadn’t sensed Felix’s death coming. She wondered why.

Then horror raced through her. Bane had a detailed file on Felix. How much else did he know? How would he use it against her?

Of one thing she was certain. The other shoe had dropped.

Her suspicions of Bane grew dire. The intentions behind his generosity were no better than Mother’s had been. She slammed the folder down. Why couldn’t Felix stay dead?

The urge to flee was overwhelming. Her mind in upheaval, she paced to the window and pried it open, desperate for fresh air.

Outside, people bustled and milled about, unaware of the Gothic house they passed and the turmoil inside it. The familiar Camden neighborhood was near her flat. An overpowering temptation.

She had supplies cached throughout the city, including her enchanted cloak, but most of her meager possessions were at the flat. Her clothes and the miniscule library of dog-eared booksshe’d stolen from other shelves to line her own; stories that had nourished her heart in darker hours.

And most importantly, all her money was stowed in a loose floorboard under her bed. That money was her only backup now this living situation had inevitably proved too good to be true.

Rent had been paid through the end of the month so her things should still be there. Surely her flatmate Mary had noted her absence by now. Did she care that Cora was missing? Or was Mary pawing through her belongings before the other girls got the chance? Mary was the closest thing Cora had to a friend, but she was also pragmatic.

This time of day, most of her flatmates would be at one of their many jobs. Avoiding them and their questions was appealing. She didn’t know how to begin explaining what had happened to her.

Cora glanced down at her filthy dress and coat, both irredeemably stained. Wearing them for the third day in a row was the deciding factor. She’d pop into her flat, grab her things, and be off in an hour, tops. Long before the Realmwalker noticed. There might even be time to pick up her enchanted cloak and last paycheck from the Starlite Club. Those arseholes.

With a lifetime of experience in being overlooked and an intimate familiarity of London’s alleys and sewers, Cora could dodge Mother’s pets for a quick jaunt through Camden. Besides, Mother wouldn’t waste energy on the lost cause of the Unweaver after she’d defected. Not enough to tail her from Bane’s unfindable house, at least. Cora would spot any of the late Verek’s thugs from a mile away. His gang was known for their brawn, not their brains. Without their boss, they’d be too preoccupied with infighting to focus on her.

In and out, she resolved, donning the stained coat for what she hoped was the last time.

Chapter 18. The Interloper

Coal-laced wind buffeted Cora when she stepped onto the porch. The blood stains from Verek’s ambush dripped away with the melting snow. The sky was too overcast on this dreary winter’s day for the sun to peek through. She glanced back at the Gothic house sitting impossibly snug between two brick warehouses and stepped onto the street, choked with smog and covered in sludgy mush.

Her palm tingled then burned with every step away. She cursed. The damn Binding Agreement would severely limit her getaway plans. She’d just grab her things and see how far she could get from Bane and the mountain of dirt he’d dug up on her.

Raising her collar against the chill, she set off for her flat, head down and pace determined. When she glanced back again, the house was gone.

By the time she was down the block, she was half-convinced this was a terrible idea. Her burning palm sent licks of pain up her arm and each step brought her closer to the edge of full-blown paranoia. Was that stray mutt following her? Was the crow on the barbed wire fence watching her?

The flash of a copper’s uniform sent her ducking into an alley. Pulse roaring in her ears, she waited until his footfalls receded before peeling herself from the shadows and continuing.

Pain needled her arm. Another block and it coursed through her shoulders. Another and it ensnared her ribs, making each step more difficult than the last. But she was almost there. Her flat came into view, looking more rundown in the light of day.

She stood on the street where she’d lived for years and felt out of place. It was familiar but she was not the same. A gap, narrow but deep, separated her from all those muted, broken dreams. She was an interloper in her own past.

How easy it had been to disappear from her own life.

Mary appeared, climbing the steps with Cora’s cloche hat on her ginger head. So much for flatmate loyalty.

Cora hid behind a parked lorry and deliberated. If she went inside she’d have to face Mary, and she could tell her anything except for the truth. Half-formed stories flitted through her mind when something brushed against her ankles. Yelping, she leapt back.

A scraggly cat wound around her legs. Was that a lambent eyeshine in its eyes?

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