Page 2 of Fractured Fates
“Hide with me,” I beg. I’ve seen what happens in my dream, and hot tears burn in my eyes as I cling desperately to her arm.
“It’s going to be okay,” she tells me, guiding me in between the cans and the boxes. “Dreams are just dreams. They mean nothing,” she adds, knowing the fears in my heart.
I know she’s lying. And I don’t want to let her go, but soon she’s peeling my hands from her arms and pushing me further into the cupboard.
“I love you, my darling. Stay quiet.” She kisses me one last time, pressing the dagger into my palms. “Just in case.”
Then she piles the boxes back in front of me and closes the larder door. The lock clicks. I hug my knees in the darkness, the knife sliding to the cold floor. The space smells of dried herbs, the homely aroma tickling my nose. Beyond is the stench of gasoline and rancid smoke.
Those engines roar louder. I hear the men shouting, leering.
I cover my ears with my hands and bury my face in my knees.
1
Rhi
The present day
I retrace my steps,my knife in hand as I creep through the trees back to the place where I hid my bike.
I buried it under broken branches and dead leaves four days ago and it takes me ten minutes scrabbling around in the undergrowth to find the machine and dig it out. Then I brush it down and wheel it to the ancient track that weaves through the forest.
The track is barely used anymore, and brambles and bushes are threatening to reclaim it as part of the forest. But it’s so old it’s not marked on any map, and I think it’s safe to use. Downside of this whole plan: my bike is noisy.
Gripping the handles, I close my eyes and scan the immediate area. I can’t sense any magicals nearby. It’s been four days. Maybe they’ve already given up looking for me out here in the forest and left.
I don’t think they can sense me like I can sense them. If they could, I’d already be caught. My aunt said a tracking gift like mine was rare. One that could keep me safe. I hope she’s right, because returning home like this is a big risk.
I take a deep inhale.
Am I doing the right thing?
Deep down, I know this is foolish. I’m a young, unregistered magical. Anyone who handed me in would receive a generous reward from the authorities.
But my heart pangs when I think of my pig, back home alone and probably starving. The chickens are freaking hardcore. The last fox that crept into their pen lost an eye. They’ll be fine.
Pip, on the other hand, he was the runt of the litter, never growing to his full size, and always one sandwich short of a picnic. I can picture him sitting patiently by the backdoor of the house, waiting for me to return. It probably won’t even occur to him to eat the stupid vegetables growing in the yard.
It’s a risk, but I’ll creep home for just a moment. Just to grab some food, change my clothes and pick up my pig. Maybe even attempt a new bandage on the wound on my arm.
The magicals looking for me must have found my home by now. They must have ransacked it for clues. Surely they’ve concluded I’m long gone. Any sensible person would have fled. That would have been the logical thing to do.
I take a steadying breath in and kick down on the bike’s start. The engine roars to life.
I hold my breath.
Nothing.
I let out a long sigh of relief and wind slowly through the forest, unable to go fast because of all the potholes and debris on the track. By the time I spy the clearing where our house lies, my brow is damp with concentration and my eyes sore from squinting in the dark. I sigh in relief though to see the place still standing, plus I can hear the chickens clucking. I’d half expected to find a flock of chicken carcasses scattered across the clearing and a burned-out shell of a house.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
I swing my leg off the bike and kick down the stand.
I can’t sense any magicals nearby. I’m good to go.
I’m halfway across the clearing when it occurs to me that the chickens clucking is not a good sign. It’s the middle of the night. They should be tucked up inside the hutch, sleeping.
