Page 1 of Wrongfully Magicked
CHAPTER ONE
ANITA
Chains clank as I shift impatiently in the MDC detainment cell, the weight of the manacles heavy on my wrists. My skin chafes from the biting cold metal, and I try to ease the pressure off the irritated area. Unfortunately, no matter what I do, nothing alleviates the magical suppressant built into the cuffs.
The room in the Magical Detention Center is blindingly white—white floors, white walls, white ceiling—so much white that staring at it too long is guaranteed to drive a person batty. The metal bench beneath my ass leeches the last bit of warmth from me, and I shift on the unforgiving surface, trying—and failing—to get comfortable.
I slump against the wall and wonder how everything went so horribly wrong.
It was supposed to be a simple job.
Just drop off a package.
As a bike messenger, I make hundreds of deliveries a week. There was nothing different about today that would have indicated my life was about to go to shit.
I’m just lucky that way.
Minutes after I delivered the package, the building exploded, nearly taking me with it. The blast tossed me a good ten feet, my leather jacket the only thing keeping my skin on my body as I skidded and tumbled across the pavement. I finger the ragged tears in my jeans where the sidewalk ate away the material, wincing when I see shredded skin that makes my knee resemble raw meat.
Is that white speck bone?
I probe the injury carefully, then grimace when a tiny pebble clinks to the ground.
Huh, go figure.
Not bone then.
Every time I move, fresh scabs crack open and blood trickles down my legs. Stale air stings the injuries, which only irritates me more. Although I demanded medical attention, my pleas were met with silence.
Since the MID, the Magical Investigations Division, detained me, they must suspect I was somehow involved.
That doesn’t bode well for me.
Very few people detained by the MID are ever seen again.
Which means I’m screwed.
I call on my magic once again, and my veins thrum with heat less than a minute later. The cuffs warm, then start glowing red. Just when I think the metal will stretch and break, the spell on the cuffs flicker to life. My magic sputters, then the metal cools and the temperature turns so bitingly cold that it seeps into the marrow of my bones, and it feels like something vital has been snuffed out.
I gingerly probe my body for any sign of my magic, but the flames that are an intrinsic part of me are nothing more than cinders and ash. I grit my teeth to keep my growl of frustration from escaping.
I don’t like being vulnerable.
Not one to give up easily, I call on my flames again, but I don’t allow the heat its freedom. It continues to build under my skin, growing to a slow simmer. If anyone tries to take me out, I’m going to take them with me.
Another three hours pass before anyone checks on me. There is a perfunctory knock on the door before it opens. A man in a fancy suit steps into the room, and I lazily look over from where I’m lying on the bench after a much needed nap. Magic practically crackles under his skin, and I can’t help the way my lips curl in disgust.
A quick scan shows he’s barely a level five magic user, the show of power nothing more than an intimidation factor…or maybe he’s trying to look stronger than he really is. Reading people is a skill I learned at a young age, and it’s kept me alive and gotten me out of a lot of scrapes along the way.
Most mages cap out at level six, and only a very few gifted people manage to reach level seven. Since my family has been bred for power, we usually hover between levels seven and eight.
Usually.
Once every few generations, there is a dud like me.
They had me tested when my powers first emerged, and I barely registered.
From that point forward, I became persona non grata, basically thrown to the wolves.
