Page 10 of Wicked Dove
“I believe you,” I insist, hoping to stop him in his tracks.
“Good,” he grunts, shifting back to the man I’d woken up to in the blink of an eye.
What the fuck is going on right now? Where the hell is Walker, and why the hell am I tripping out so hard when I didn’t take a single drug? Not one. Instead of yelling all that at him, I take a deep, trembling breath. “W-what now?”
He nods, tugging at the collar of his loose shirt. “Now you await trial. Have you not been listening?”
I restrain the urge to huff and roll my eyes at him. “Trial for what, exactly? You’re being pretty vague,” I mutter, and he raises a brow at me. My back stiffens, ready for him to turn into a monster again, but to my surprise, his shoulders relax as he sighs.
“The Sanctum is to decide if you are fit to live.”
I gape at him. “Fit to live? There’s nothing wrong with me,” I breathe, and he shrugs.
“Dormant magic, remember?”
I think I’m going to be sick because he sure as hell doesn’t look like he’s joking right now!
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re riddled with old magic, and no one likes that,” he states as though that makes any sense.
Smiling, I step toward him. “Take it back then.”
His laughter fills the room a beat later, echoing obnoxiously in the air as he ignores me and heads for the door. “Unfortunately for you, that’s not how this works.”
I don’t think I have a clue how any of this works.
He reaches for the door handle, leaving me to scramble words together, desperate for more information.
“If I’m not fit to live?” My words hang in the air as he slowly glances over his shoulder at me.
“Then you die a thousand deaths.”
I gulp.
That doesn’t sound like fun.
“And if I am? Fit to live, I mean…” I cling to whatever hope I can, but the look in his eyes tells me I’m clutching at something that doesn’t exist.
“Then you’ll enjoy The Vale.”
“What’s that?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
“Irrelevant until you’re deemed worthy of life, Miss Blackwood.”
Dismissing me, he moves to step outside as if it’s not just air and clouds out there, but I rush toward him, grabbing his arm desperately as he turns a withering look my way.
“What am I supposed to be?”
“A scythe.”
I frown, running my tongue over my dry lips. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“No one wants to be a scythe,” he states, shaking his arm out of my hold.
“Why?”
He shifts, the looming monster appearing before me as he balances on the cusp of the doorway.
