Page 71 of The Dark Hiss of Magic
‘Why did you do that?’ he asked softly. ‘Why did you save me?’
What could I say? It had seemed like a good idea at the time, though I was certainly regretting it now.
I stretched my hand and felt a surge of satisfaction when I wrapped my fingers around the dagger’s hilt. I kept my eyes on Hightower, mentally calculating the trajectory and the force I’d need to bring this to an end. As he stared back at me, I registered the furious spark in his expression. Shit. I had to?—
‘Rigor,’ Hightower whispered, the magic of imperious command rippling through the single word.
My body was forced into an immediate response and every muscle twitched until my limbs were tense and stiff. When I tried to move, nothing happened. I tried again but I couldn’t. Abruptly I realised what that witchy bastard had done: he’d trapped me inside my own body. My bones had become a cage from which I couldn’t escape.
What the hell kind of spell was this? I strained, trying desperately to move; if I could fight the magic somehow, there was still hope. I managed to blink my eyes. Okay, that was something. Then my big toe pulsed, which was even better, but I couldn’t feel anything else. Fuck. I couldn’tdoanything else.
A spasm of panic overtook me. Help.HELP.
My fear was almost my undoing. My heart was hammering against my ribcage, my throat closing up. It was like I’d forgotten how to breathe. My vision started to blur.
At least there wasn’t any pain. I’d envisaged my death a million times and in a million different ways over the years, but none of those imaginings had come close to this. The flare of panic that had assaulted me faded away. Everyone dies sooner or later; it was simply my time.
It was that state of calm acceptance that changed everything. As soon as I was no longer expending my effort and energy on fighting the spell, I saw the strain on Hightower’s face. His forehead was oddly shiny and he’d stopped talking. The power needed to maintain the magic was too much for him; it would be too much for anyone.
Feeling oddly detached, I watched his body sag – and suddenly I was free. It was as if a heavy weight had been removed: I could breathe, move and, most importantly, act.
I grabbed my dagger then stood up and snatched his cravat with my other hand. I swallowed and murmured slightly to test my vocal chords. I was alright. I was still here.
‘That’s a pretty scary spell you’re pulling there, buster,’ Isaid aloud. ‘But you don’t have the stamina for that sort of magic.’
He reached into his pocket for another pinch of magical powder but I batted his hand away. I felt slow and sluggish in the aftermath of the rigor spell, but Hightower had been affected too and he was suffering far more than I was. The energy he’d expended to blast that spell at me had sapped his strength.
He tried to kick me. My reaction time wasn’t great but, still holding his cravat, I avoided his foot and jumped to the side. Despite my grip, Hightower twisted and tried to kick me again. Sod this. I pressed the dagger into his neck. ‘Please,’ he croaked.
Here we go: it was time to listen to him plead for his life. I wondered how much money he’d offer me, or if he’d tell me that his family and his coven needed him. Once you’d heard one ‘don’t-kill-me’ plea, you’d heard them all.
A bead of blood appeared on his tanned skin; it would stain his silly suit. What a shame. ‘Don’t hurt the nymph,’ he said. ‘She’s done nothing wrong.’ His eyes implored me. ‘She doesn’t deserve to die.’
I blinked then pulled back the dagger. ‘So why did you come here to kill her?’
His brow furrowed. ‘I came here tosaveher. You’re the one who wants to kill her.’ Hightower’s voice sounded weak and thready. His lips were tinged blue and he was sweating even more than before. ‘Aren’t you?’
I squinted at him – then his eyes rolled back and his body went limp. Huh.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
If being attacked by a rigor spell was now on my list of things to avoid, so was hauling the body of a semi-conscious witch through the streets of Coldstream with an annoyed cat weaving in front of me.
‘Stop trying to trip me up,’ I hissed at He Who Guards. ‘This is hard enough as it is.’ The tabby cat miaowed. Loudly. ‘I told you already. I want to hear what he has to say, too, but right now he’s going into shock. He needs proper medical attention.’
A leprechaun stopped in the street in front of us, his gaze swinging from me to the moaning, staggering figure of Quentin Hightower and the hissing cat beside us. As he looked at us uncertainly, I lifted my head and stared, allowing my pleasant cat-lady façade to disappear and reveal the dark core beneath. His green skin paled dramatically then he scurried past us, avoiding looking in our direction. Wise choice.
He Who Guards eyed me with newfound respect. ‘I know what I’m doing,’ I told him. It was only partly a lie. ‘Trust me.’
The cat sniffed but seemed to decide that impeding my progress wasn’t helpful. He trotted beside me instead, takingcare to avoid Hightower’s feet as they dragged along the cobbles.
Adrienne’s neighbourhood might have been upmarket but it was also wholly residential, so I had to haul Hightower down several streets before we reached anywhere useful. Finally I spotted a grocer’s and a gentrified witchery store; if I dragged him inside the witchery shop they would raise the alarm and find him the help he needed. It was the fastest way to get him medical attention – and also the way in which I’d lose control of the situation. I’d probably never see the damned witch again. I was in too deep now and I couldn’t let that happen. I wanted answers – hell, Ideservedanswers.
I draped Hightower’s arm around my neck and gripped his waist while his head lolled on my shoulders. ‘How can you be so drunk so early in the day?’ I scolded loudly when two women passed on the opposite side of the street. They nudged each other and giggled but didn’t comment. I knew that ploy wouldn’t hold up to close scrutiny, though; I had to find somewhere to hide Hightower and get him help as quickly as possible.
The first clinic we came to was a tiny place on a corner. It wasn’t an establishment I’d used before – I’d never even heard of it. The Caring Touch Institution wasn’t a moniker that filled me with confidence; it sounded incredibly dodgy and it certainly wasn’t aninstitution. It was about the size of an old newsagents’ shop, with a shabby door covered in peeling yellow paint and a tatty notice stuck in the window proclaiming medical services on the cheap.
