Page 33 of The Witch's Heart
"What?" I ask, stepping back from him. "That's not true. That never happened."
"She died, Celeste.” He pauses, studying me. "The woman you hurt died. That's why you're here. Everyone here has taken a life because of their powers.Le Rêveis the only safe place for people like us. For murderers."
8
There’s a loud pop and my door ignites in a flaming inferno. I have no idea how it happens, but I’m too upset to care. As flames lick their way across the door’s surface, Dr. Livingstone calls out for backup. A moment later, three men enter, all wearing scrubs. The first grabs the blanket off my bed and begins swatting the fire to smother it. The other two come straight for me.
The doctor steps back as the orderlies overpower me and force me onto my bed. When one of them produces a syringe, I almost stop struggling. In this moment, I have never felt more helpless.
Dr. Livingstone is a liar. They all are.
Even with fresh sheets and soft carpet, this place is a nightmare.
As the syringe is plunged into my arm and I feel the coldness of the drug racing into my veins, I lock eyes with the doctor and pour every ounce of disgust and fury into my glare.
He doesn’t look away from me.
Regret is etched on his features. And sadness; a loss that seems so deep, I don’t understand how it could be meant for me.
“We’re enemies, you and I. I won’t forget this,” I tell him, the words an oath I make to myself as the drugs begin to lull me.
I stop moving as my limbs turn leaden with the effects of whatever they’ve shot into me.
The orderlies back away, watching me as my lids droop heavier and heavier. The last thing I hear before I’m sucked into oblivion are the whispered words of Estelle who hovers like a specter inside the flames they’re still trying to put out.“No, sister. It’s not him you must defeat. The enemy is inside.”
* * *
“Miss D’LeLune, please have a seat.”
I shuffle to the offered chair and sit, sinking into the soft cushions. My body feels heavy with the after-effects of the drugs. I’m not sure where I am, but at the moment, I don’t really care, either.
“How are you feeling?”
I look at the man who spoke, my vision still blurry. He wears suit slacks with a dress shirt rolled to the elbows. Something expensive and classic.
His cropped dark hair and short-trimmed beard frame expressive eyes that stare curiously back at me. His features are relaxed, and despite the secrets he seems to hold, something about his expression invites me to relax too.
“I’m tired,” I tell him.
“Yes, an outburst like that will drain you.”
Outburst?
The fire. Dr. Livingstone. His accusations.
“I was upset.”
I have no idea if he means to somehow punish me for the damage I’ve caused, but he only nods, affirming me.
“Of course. It’s to be expected.”
I don’t know what that means, but trying to glare with such tired eyes only serves as a reminder of what they did to me.
“I don’t like being drugged,” I say, trying hard to sound angry.
My drugged brain moves slowly as does my sensory processing. All I can focus on are his words, my next breath, and the feel of the chair’s fabric underneath my hands.
“Magic is an emotional thing. We should work on mastering your emotions so we don’t have to repeat such drastic measures.”
