Page 24 of Wicked Dove
On the far right seat is a blond-haired man with his fingers laced together on the podium before them, but it’s the look of indifference that makes me gulp as I stare at him.
Beside him is a woman with icy-white hair draped down her back. I shiver as my eyes lock with hers. There’s a withering air to her, like she’d happily snap me in two.
Finally, dead center and completing the row of five, is an older man with peppered black hair that’s tucked behind his ears. He looks down at me. The small glasses perched on theedge of his nose remind me of my old high school principal. He hated me, but I get the feeling the man before me hates me even more.
I don’t know how I know it. It’s not just the looks on their faces but the air surrounding me. It feels charged, almost suffocating.
“Confirm your name, child,” he snaps, and I quickly remember he called my name.
Clearing my throat, I nod. “Elodie Blackwood.”
I hate how weak I sound. They’re definitely going to kill me on the spot. I lace my fingers together, hoping to hide the slight tremble that’s vibrating through me.
“Miss Elodie Blackwood of twenty-seven sixteen Cherry Blossom Lane, Lot two-one-three?” He says it like a question, but it’s clear he already has his facts in line.
“Yes,” I say with a sigh.
“Nineteen years old, dropped out of high school, and is yet to make any kind of mark on the world.” Nowthatis a statement. One that makes the white-haired woman smirk.
Bitch.
He cocks a brow at me, though, awaiting my confirmation.
“Yes,” I answer begrudgingly.
“Child to Warren and Georgia Blackwood.”
The drunk and the broken.
“Yes.”
“A scythe?”
The room was already quiet, but now the silence is deafening.
“I, well, uh…”
“Yes or no will suffice,” the blond-haired man hollers, glancing at his watch as though I’m the one keeping him from something important.
I raise my eyebrows and nod. “So I’m told.” Even if I don’t know what that actually means or entails.
“Your dormant magic triggered the moment you killed a Mr. Johnathan V. Marsh.”
I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, which is nothing in comparison to what Johnny faced. I think I’m going to be sick.
“I—”
“Do not speak,” the redhead growls, eyes blazing with rage, and I clamp my lips shut.
“After running extensive tests on your magic, it’s clear your abilities have remained latent. Although you may have lifted the spell embedded into your bloodline, it did not, however, gift you with the dreaded magic of a scythe.”
I blink at him twice, letting his words take root before I clear my throat again. “So I can leave?”
My heart races, but it’s for a whole different reason this time.
Hope.
“No, Miss Blackwood, you cannot,” he retorts, shredding what’s left of my positivity. Tears threaten to prick eyes. I just need Walker. I don’t know how or when I became so attached to him, but he would know exactly what to do in this moment. While I stand here, exposing my naïveté. “But, with the latent magic taken into account, it goes against The Sanctum laws to put you down.”
