Page 39 of Wrongfully Magicked
Not giving him time to react, I step around them and head down the hallway with my head held high. The walls I use tokeep people at a distance feel fragile, and I hate that they found a chink in my armor then wedged themselves inside.
I pause at the top of the steps, then turn and look at Cassius over my shoulder. “And just so you know, while you might think it’s your eyes or touch that forces you to keep your distance from others, it’s really your prickly Chupacabra personality that keeps people away.”
I head down the stairs and dismiss him from my life.
The men argue in harsh whispers, their heated voices rising, but I ignore them as I walk down the steps. A breeze snakes around my legs, reminding me once again of my nakedness. Since fire is my main ability, I’m used to finding myself naked at the most inopportune times.
Thankfully, I have mad skills at improvising.
I stop at the second floor, discreetly checking each door. I avoid the ones that indicate someone might be home. The third door I try is the charm. I send a tiny spark of heat into the locking mechanism. Thankfully, it’s not electrical, but an old-school metal keyhole. It takes a concentrated effort to allow the metal to melt away, but not burn hot enough to incinerate the door.
I learned that lesson the hard way.
Using the spark more like a welding torch, I hold my finger at the keyhole and wait. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for the metal to heat, then melt. I twist the knob, the now fragile lock crunching before it clatters to the floor, and I use my hip to pop the door open.
The interior of the room is dark, and I raise my hand, allowing a tiny flame to spark to life. I turn and look around the room. The small space is a disaster. The bed is broken, the mattress on the floor while the shattered frame leans against the wall like a drunken sailor. The covers are a tangled mess thattrails across the bed to the floor. Worn and dirty clothes are scattered across every surface.
A tiny dresser stands against the wall with a dozen or so worn, almost empty makeup containers lined up along the top—the brushes and cases are the only thing in the room handled with any care. If the clothes scattered everywhere are any indication, the room is shared by a couple. The dresser drawers are open haphazardly, two worn shirts spilling out.
Everything is so messy that it looks like the room has been ransacked, which works in my favor.
They won’t know that I borrowed a pair of pants until I’m long gone.
I pick up the closest pair of jeans, then grimace when I find they are so dirty that they retain their shape and practically stand up on their own. I nudge the clothes on the floor with the tip of my toe, shifting garments until I find something that might fit.
To my disappointment, the girl has more curves than a circle, making me look like a child dressing up in her mom’s clothes.
Pass.
In this part of town, the last thing you want to do is look vulnerable.
I don’t even bother looking for underwear. Fuck if I want to even see the state of their underthings, much less stoop to wearing someone else’s panties.
I can’t stop my shudder of revulsion and quickly get on with my search.
The sooner I can leave this den of cooties, the better. When I accidentally brush against something that hisses at me before it dashes off into the darkness, I’m barely able to keep my flames from engulfing the room. The need to torch everything before I catch something nasty is pure instinct.
When I find a relatively clean pair of pants—meaning they are not infested with bugs—I snatch them up with a triumphant grin. They are long, but I easily fix that by rolling up the hem five times until they finally fit.
They are a little loose in the waist, but tight enough in the thighs and ass that they stay up unassisted. A win. I grab the hem of Soren’s shirt, twist it, then tie the bottom edges together. It’s still loose enough to keep my shape covered from prying eyes, but not enough that people could grab it and use it against me.
No matter how hard I look, I’m still left without shoes.
Not wanting to linger and push my luck, I quickly head out the door. I search for a window or an alternate exit, but I’m not that lucky. In this part of town, a window is just asking for someone to break in and rob you.
I head back downstairs, my steps almost soundless as I descend, hoping that I’ll be able to slip past the guys without them noticing. I don’t linger at the bottom of the staircase. Instead, I dart to the side and take in the room with a quick, practiced glance.
Being a member of my backstabbing family works in my favor for once.
They unintendedly taught me how to be silent and avoid detection.
I’ve had a lifetime of practice.
Soren is easy to spot. He stands in the middle of the room, his massive arms crossed over his chest and a fierce scowl on his face as he ignores everyone around him to search for me. I duck away so as not to draw his attention, my eyes automatically sliding toward the door and escape, but I’m not foolish enough to make a break for it.
With a quick glance around the room, I easily spot Cassius. Despite lingering in the shadows, his skin is so pale, he standsout like a beacon. He leans against the far end of the bar, closest to the door. Though it looks like his face is buried in his beer, I don’t make the mistake that he’s not paying attention.
No doubt he’s aware of every single person in the room.
