Page 3 of The Ordeals
I smile, leaning in to close the last few inches between us and place my octagonal glass firmly on the table. I’ve got all I want out of him. I know the location, the time, and finally, I’ve had the confirmation I needed about Killmarth. Victory is so close, I can taste it, I canfeelit, and it takes all of my carefully trained restraint to tamp it down, to seem regretful. I want to ask him how he’s preparing for it, but I don’t want to seem too obvious. I’ve got a few hours, there’s time, and I can’t leap up now and leave. Besides, maybe I like this stranger. Maybe I could linger a little longer.
Maybe I want him to kiss me. ‘So does this count as prep for this entrance exam?’
He grins and shakes his head. ‘Probably not the prep Ishouldbe doing.’
‘Oh?’ I ask softly, edging tantalisingly closer.
‘But this is far more interesting.’ His gaze dips to my mouth as he closes that final inch between us, then his eyes meet mine, searching for approval.
‘Let me make it even more … interesting.’ I murmur against his lips. Feather light at first, his kiss is the softest brush that sends a shiver of delight all through me. He tastes delicious. Smoky and sweet, an enticing elixir that makes me instantly light-headed, like he’s my first taste of the finest golden toquay.
His hand slips round my back, drawing me into him until our bodies are pressed together, and my senses are consumed by his touch, his skin, his intoxicating scent. His hand moves up my back, fingers threading through my hair, pulling me tighter, deepening the kiss, and I moan softly into his mouth as his tongue flicks against mine. I run my own hands over those powerful arms, feeling the shift of his muscles. I’m sinking into him, tumbling, drawn like a moth to a flame, heat sparking deep in my core, my need for him beginning to pulse. But even still, it’s my mind that’s on fire. All he just said, everything he imparted, the information about Killmarth College, the Crucible …
Killmarth has wards, powerful ones. They measure your magic, and strip any magic away, except your own…
I press myself a little harder against him, enjoying the feel of him, his skin, his touch, but my thoughts are exploding, calculating, assessing. The bracelet even now is a whispering warning, shivering against my left wrist. I’ve tried cutting it. Heating it, twisting it, tearing at it. But it’s bound to me just as I’m bound to the Collector,growing heavier and heavier the further I have strayed from the city, the whispering warning against my wrist becoming weighty and thick as rope.
I’d given up all hope. There seemed to be no way, no possibility of ever … but this is my way out, I’m sure of it. I commit the place of this entrance exam to memory, Alabaster House, and the time, midnight. Could I? Would I be able to scrape through with the illusion I can wield?
I break away from him, slightly breathless, and reach for my drink. Then I toss back the dregs before winking at him. His mouth is all flushed and swollen, eyes glittering with the promise of more, and it takes all of me to wrench myself away. He would have been one of the best distractions in some time. ‘I really do have to go,’ I say, steeping my voice in husky regret. ‘It’s been fun, though. Nice meeting you.’
‘So soon?’ Desire ebbs away on his features as I rise, tucking my blouse back into place, wiping at the corners of my mouth. ‘Without even telling me your name?’
His hair is all mussed, the top button of his shirt undone. He’s leaning back in the seat like some reclining god and my breath stutters. He’s beautiful in a lethal sort of way, with his come-to-bed eyes, those high cheekbones, the way his shirt pulls across the planes of his chest. At any other time, I would have gladly fallen into him, spent the night wrapped in his arms, the contours of our bodies melding … but I have things to do. Maybe if this all pans out, I’ll see him again at Killmarth and we can finish what we started today. ‘I got what I wanted,’ I say.
He exhales, watching me with those dark, glittering eyes. ‘Perhaps I did too.’
For a heartbeat, I wonder what he means. But with a final smouldering glance over my shoulder, I walk towards the door andleave the Pickled Gargoyle, waving goodbye to Pewter on my way out. As I hurry through the afternoon streets of the city, back to the antiques shop, my home, I know I have one more lie to spin. A final goodbye to make. And a Crucible to prepare myself for. My fingers flex over the silver bracelet and for the very first time, hope ignites like a flame in my chest.
Chapter 2
A Serpentine Sprawl
At first glance, the antiques shop blends perfectly into the ashen street on the wrong side of the river. The display cases haven’t been changed in a decade, dressed in moth-eaten purple velvet, the windows themselves clouded with age. The lettering above the shop door is faded, but still faintly visible if I squint.
A.A.Benedict and Sons
Of course it means nothing. It’s just a front for what the Collector really trades in. I lower my eyes to the door, turning the brass doorknob to step into the shop beyond. After closing the door quietly, I walk across the polished floorboards and breathe in the scent of the antiques. Dust, wine and the faintest hint of cloves. Not a single item has shifted in all the years I’ve lived at this shop. Any bewildered potential customers who wander in are swiftly sent on their way with the promise of an appointment that never materialises.
A creak sounds from behind the counter and I glance up, finding Dolly standing watching me. She’s worn the same outfit for as long as I can remember: an emerald green gown and draped over her shoulders a silk dressing robe with a peacock emblazoned on the back. Her eyes are outlined in kohl, her skin leathery from a frittered youth spent on expeditions in the sunny south of Theine, our neighbouring territory, with little care for creams or parasols. ‘Took your time,’ she says, crossing her arms. ‘Run into trouble?’
‘I know the rules, Dol.’ I wink at her, sliding around the side of the counter to embrace her old, bony frame. For a beat, I remember that this might be the last time I see her in a while, and my heart constricts. But I can’t show it. I swallow, moving away from her, forcing down the sudden stab of emotion. ‘He in a good mood?’
‘Is he ever.’ She snorts, rifling through the counter drawers. After a moment she plucks out a box of matches and an old-fashioned cigarette holder. If anyone raised me in this place, it was her. She made sure I had clean clothes, a steady diet of books to read and knew how to use an illusion to cheat at cards.
It was my uncle who taught me the rest. How to be silent, to never show fear. How to steal from someone without them ever suspecting what they’ve lost. How to think on my feet, faster than the nick of a blade and how to sift through the ordinary and find the details that would allow me to blend. He taught me how to defend myself, how to handle a weapon. Mostly, he taught me how to be his hunter.
‘You should quit,’ I call over my shoulder as she takes a long drag on the cherry-scented cigarette. ‘Those things will kill you.’
She cackles, taking another long drag. ‘Darling, in this place, I’m already dead.’
I move further down the corridor, away from the dusty antiques and Dolly with her twenty-a-day habit. The back of the shop is a labyrinth, old storerooms and offices, cluttered and coated in cobwebs. Most of them are locked, left to stew in a fitful slumber. It’s only my uncle’s office that is well used, and it sits right at the back of the ground floor, opposite the vault.
Sealed with a thick metal door, the vault holds no light, no window and no furniture. Only a cold stone floor, whitewashed walls and my collected memories of childhood terror. The room I was shut in, powerless and alone every time I failed my uncle, theCollector. That feeling, of not knowing when I would be released, of being trapped, alone, with no control, still haunts me.
Knocking three times on his office door, I wait for the Collector’s summons. When I hear his creaking voice, I enter, schooling my features to not show how much I despise him. It’s not the biggest room in his antiques shop, nor is it the most comfortable. There are no windows, so it’s always dim, lit by a desk lamp illuminating the harsh planes of his features and two wall sconces throwing out pools of light and shadow. The only furniture is my uncle’s desk, his chair behind it and two cracked leather armchairs facing him.
But what draws the eye is the map.
