Page 3 of Wrongfully Magicked
Something isn’t right.
The number indicator counts down as we descend, and my gut pitches when we go a level below the basement. It wouldn’t surprise me if the MDC has a torture chamber, but I’m not exactly a hardened criminal.
When the elevator dings and the doors open, I’m greeted by cement floors and cinder block walls. The metallic-scented air has an ominous feel to it, and I swear I can almost taste blood on the tip of my tongue.
Two guards wearing all black stand at attention on either side of the doors. Though they each wear military issued guns across their torsos, the weapons are an afterthought. Spells and curses practically radiate from them. I have no doubt that even their bullets are spelled to take down any type of prey they might hunt.
“Where are we going?” I reluctantly follow the man. The only thing keeping me going is the fact that I’d rather walk than be dragged or spelled. I shiver at the thought of losing control over my limbs, becoming nothing more than a passenger in my own body.
A fucking zombie to do their bidding.
I’d rather be dead.
My magic sparks and crackles under my skin. When the cuffs clamp down in warning, I blow out a shaky breath and pull it back.
Not yet.
I have to wait for the perfect opportunity.
“Interrogation.” His brusque tone holds a malicious glee.
It doesn’t surprise me that the preppy boy gets off on hurting others. It’s what mages do. They are trained from birth, the poison suckled right from their mother’s tit. His hair is trimmed short and styled, his clothes are the best quality, not daring to even wrinkle, and his shoes are shiny and click with every step he takes.
There is nothing distinguishable about him from others of his kind.
No individuality.
No soul.
Their parents crush any rebellion from an early age, molding the future generations into their image.
The perfect pawns to control.
Puppets to the slaughter, if you ask me.
I study the walls as we pass. If I squint hard enough, I can see layers upon layers of spells woven over the bricks from years and years of different mages sinking their magic into the building. Some hover over the walls, waiting for the unwary to trigger them, while others weave in and out of the blocks. Hundreds upon hundreds of spells flash and glow as I watch, almost like they sense me and are showing off.
Or maybe I’m delusional, and it’s just a warning not to fucking touch.
That sounds more like it, but I find myself a little disappointed with the truth.
Like many things, reality is often disappointing.
When we get to the room at the end of the hall, we pause and wait for him to press his thumb against the scanner again. The door clicks open, and I’m assaulted by the tang of antiseptic that does nothing to cover the stale stench of old blood. I balk at entering, taking a step backward just as a shot of magic hits me square in the back.
I’m thrust into the room, barely catching myself in time to prevent me from landing in a heap on the floor. The only thing that saves me is conditioning. My parents and cousins—especially the eldest, the dickhead Stuart—did the same to me whenever the opportunity presented itself.
Stuart thought he should take over as the head of the household and trained his whole life for the job. When I was born, he had been infuriated to learn he’d be forced to share the title with me. Ever since, he has made it his life’s mission to make sure I didn’t reach my majority and inherit anything from the family.
It would ruin all his plans for the family’s future if he had to share the wealth.
Huh, wouldn’t my family be proud that I actuallydidlearn something from them after all?
“Why don’t you have a seat, Ms. Carver?” It wasn’t a suggestion. When I don’t immediately obey, I take pleasure in the scowl that darkens his face. The guy obviously has a hard-on for forcing people to worship at his feet, and I nearly snort at the thought.
How pathetically predictable.
Instead of complying, I lean against the cinder block wall and cross my arms, only fumbling a little when the chains clank. “I’m good.”
