Page 130 of Fractured Fates
Rhi
Settling Pip in his bed,I pace with caution towards the disfigured limb. Pip squeals and ducks his head beneath his blanket. I consider doing the same. But I need to know who did this and maybe there’s a way I can find out.
I step closer, approaching the thing with caution and trying not to vomit. I hold my hand out, hovering it above the trotter and closing my eyes. My mind sits empty and I reach for a memory, a clue with my magic.
It had been easy, almost instantaneous, with those objects in Stone’s classroom. The magical fingerprints had appeared in my head without me even trying.
But this time there is nothing.
Perhaps it’s because the magic used this time wasn’t powerful enough to leave a trace.
My eyes open.
Or perhaps it’s because I’m not touching the object.
I gulp.
I don’t want to touch it.
I really, really don’t want to touch it.
I’ve handled dead animals before. Rats in traps. Chickens after the chop. This is different. My belly churns with nausea.
But I want to know who’s toying with me so I swallow and, before I can chicken out, reach out and touch the limb.
It’s cold and both stiff and squidgy. I force myself not to think of that and instead reach for any fingerprints.
Yet again my mind is blank and I huff with irritation, straining with my magic to find something, anything. Slowly, an image appears in front of my eyes. But unlike before, it’s not clear, it’s not vivid. It’s blurry, hazy, barely visible.
I press harder, trying to force the picture into focus. It doesn’t work. The picture simply splinters, falling away, and I curse.
It was a hand. A man’s I think. Although I couldn’t be sure. Heavy rings on every finger. Inks across the skin.
Not a hand I recognize. Not one I know at all.
* * *
By the timeWinnie returns from decoration making, I’ve removed the pig’s trotter from the bed and disposed of it in the outside trash cans. But I’m still scrubbing the worn carpet.
Winnie comes bouncing into the room and stops dead when she finds me on my knees, Pip shuffling nervously around me.
“What’s going on?” she asks as Pip squeaks at her.
I fall back on my haunches, dropping the soiled rag I’m holding to the floor and running my wrist around my damp brow.
“Removing a blood stain.”
Winnie drops to the nearest chair. “Wh-wh-what? Blood? Are you okay? Is Pip okay?”
I swivel around to peer at my friend. “We’re both fine. But some sick bastard pinned a bloody pig’s trotter to my bed.”
Winnie loses all color in her face and blinks at me rapidly.
“I’m guessing it was some kind of prank.” I start scrubbing again.
“Or … or a threat,” Winnie offers in a wobbly voice.
“A threat?” I say with a scoff. “There wasn’t a message, Winnie. No words painted over the wall in blood.”
