Page 5 of Fractured Fates
That’s all that matters.
2
The man in black
I stand there watchingher go like a damned fool.A damned fool!
The blood in my veins thrums and my magic pulsates in my fingers and I let her go.
I never let them go. Ever. I’m the man in black. They never escape my clutches. And I had her, had my hands on her thighs. I could easily have flipped us over, crushed her with my weight. I could have frozen her with my powers. I could send a bolt after her now.
I didn’t.
I don’t.
She’s a scrawny thing with a mane of thick, dark hair and eyes the color of rich maple syrup. At first glance, she appeared younger than she was. Up close, I realized she was older. 19, 20, I guess. How the fuck did she get to 20 and not be registered?
It’s near impossible for newborn magicals to slip under the radar. Yet she’s been under the radar for two decades.
I shake my head as the forest swallows her up and all I can hear is the dying roar of the bike. A bike that was clearly older than her and about to fall apart.
How has she been surviving out here? The back-ass end of nowhere. Living on the outskirts of a town of normals. How has she gone so long without being caught? How was she never reported?
When I received the call four days ago that there was talk on the underground networks of a young unregistered girl living out here, I thought my job collecting her would involve snatching her from some low-life criminals. Maybe even one of the notorious gangs themselves if they’d heard the news too and gotten here first. I didn’t expect her to be on the loose.
I didn’t expect to find her at her own goddamn house.
I definitely didn’t intend to let her slip through my fingers.
No, that’s a lie. I intended it all right. I could have her unconscious and in my arms right now.
The idea has my blood thrumming again and I kick at the earth. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I pull my hood back over the crown of my head and scratch my nails through the stubble on my chin.
What am I going to do next?
I can’t leave her out here for the fucking Wolves of Night or the Princes of Death to find. She thinks the authorities’ punishment for going unregistered would be severe? She has no fucking idea what those monsters would do.
Anyway, the authorities will probably go easy on her. Probably. She’s young. Living the way she has, outcast from her people, probably wasn’t her choice or her idea. She’s not like some of the stubborn old hillbillies I pick up, the ones who never came forward to be registered decades ago, determined to break the rules and dodge their responsibilities. They’re always sent to the labor camps in the North.
What will they choose to do with her? A magical her age should be training at Arrow Hart Academy.
I spit onto the long grass and turn back to the house. There’s a tiny pig in there going half-crazy with hunger and a flock of smart-assed chickens that could do with feeding too.
I duck through the doorway, and the pig comes scurrying towards me, snuffling away at my boots. He looks more well fed than the girl, which has anger flaring in my gut. My gut that twisted in fucking somersaults as soon as I stepped into this place. It smells like her, her and at least half a dozen other scents. Obviously, I’m not the first one who’s been here hunting for her. The place has been turned upside down, papers, photos, and clothing scattered everywhere.
I reach down and scoop up a shirt lying across the rough floorboards. A thin, cotton thing that’s been repaired innumerable times. I bring it up to my nose and inhale. Her scent hits my nostrils and slides down my throat, warming my belly. She smells like fucking sunshine. It has my blood buzzing again.
Buzzing even harder when I remember the feel of her supple thighs beneath my fingers. Remember the swirling color of her eyes. Remember the weight of her perching on my lap.
Shit.
I stomp through to the kitchen, finding a tin of something I tip into a bowl for the pig and some stale bread I crush in my fist and toss outside for the chickens.
Then I slump down at the table and drum my fingers on the surface. Herbs hang, drying, from the ceiling and bottles with contents of all colors line the shelves. It’s so fucking obvious magicals live here, it’s almost laughable. Sure, it’s crude and pretty basic, and the wastelands out here aren’t inhabited by magicals, but how did no one spot them? Because there were two. I’ve already poured over the photos I’ve found trashed about the house. The girl and an older woman. An older woman who’s passed on – the death certificate still lying on the center of this table. I twist it towards me.
Mabel Blackwaters.
