Page 2 of Wrongfully Magicked
It’s been both the best and worst thing that could have ever happened to me.
For most people, their magic emerges when they hit puberty, and whatever magic they get is all the magic they will have for the rest of their life.
Or that’s what they want you to believe.
My magic has been growing over the years, forging me into something else. I do my best to keep my progress to myself, but I slipped up today.
I survived a blast that should have turned me into a bloody mist.
Other supernatural creatures have assholes scattered amongst them, but mages are the worst. They think they are better than everyone else. The condescending jerkwads look down on other species, like they alone descended from the gods.
No one is good enough for them.
I’m proof of that—I’ve had firsthand experience, living my whole life in their shadow.
Everyone in my family takes snobbery to a whole new level. They are arrogant, egotistical megalomaniacs…and those are the positive traits.
When I showed no talent other than elemental, they basically disowned me. I became their whipping boy—girl? I mentally shrug. Mages are like the offspring of monsters in ancient lore who kill and devour their young, and I lived every day of my childhood in fear.
Until I turned sixteen.
I managed to escape the horror show of my past, disappeared off the face of the earth, and lived on my own ever since.
I never once regretted my decisions.
Even now, sitting in the MDC cell, I have no intention of calling my family for assistance.
I would rather rot in prison.
I’d be safer.
“Ms. Carver.” A moue of distaste curls his lips, as if he couldn’t contain his disgust. He yanks impatiently on the sleeves of his jacket, anything to avoid direct eye contact, clearly not deeming me worth his time. “Follow me.”
I ignore the sneer in his voice, used to mages with egos bigger than their common sense. Sure, the douche canoe might have some power, but that doesn’t make him the top of the food chain.
I’ve learned a lot of neat little tricks while living on the streets, namely hiding from power hungry hunters who would steal magic from people’s very souls, slipping past MID officers looking for unauthorized magic users, and dodging street gangs wanting me to join their own brand of crazy.
I sigh then slowly push myself upright, my muscles protesting the movement, my body stiff from the blast. I gather the two-foot chains then stagger to my feet, biting back a groan. Thankfully, most of the bleeding seems to have stopped. I ignore where my blood smears stain the pristine room, suspecting that it’s not the first time the room has seen blood.
Without a word, the man spins on his heel and marches down the hall, not waiting for me. The creep even moves like he has a stick shoved up his ass, and I crack a smile, hoping it fucking hurts when he ultimately falls on it.
People like him never make it to the top, no matter how hard they try. While he might be hungry enough for power, others will claw and stomp on his mangled corpse on their way to bigger and better things.
It’s something that my family taught me at an early age.
As the mage leads me deeper into the building, the temperature drops. The only reason I notice is because of the little wisps of steam curling up off my clothes. Being a fire elemental, I rarely register the cold, but the steaming is new, even for me.
Then again, I’ve never kept my magic close to my skin for so long either. My hairline is sticky with sweat—another new thing—but I refuse to release my hold on the flames.
Maybe I’m getting close to burnout.
I’ve never tested my limits.
When we enter an elevator, the douchebag is so confident the chains have me contained that he gives me his back and punches in a code, then he presses his thumb against the scanner. Part of me wants to wrap my chains around his neck, and I barely resist the urge, pouting that I have to be a good girl.
A ring of bruises around his neck would suit him.
As the tiny metal box drops, so does my stomach.
