Page 8 of Wrongfully Magicked
It’s awe-inspiring destruction.
Part of the table is embedded in the wall. I say part, because the rest of the table is nothing more than melted sludge streaked down the wall to puddle on the floor. There are little chunks of metal from the chains everywhere, looking like some type of IED went off. They’re thrown with such force that they would have gone straight through a body. In other spots, bits of metal are so deeply rooted in the walls that it looks like they melted the stone.
The three-foot deep slab of concrete under our feet is fucking cracked.
I marvel at such devastation.
If I hadn’t seen the video myself, I wouldn’t have believed someone so fragile and small could cause such mayhem, and my thoughts turn grim.
“MID is not going to let her go after they see what she can do.” Darby comes to the same conclusion as me, his expression troubled. “They are either going to force her to become an agent, or they will make sure she never leaves alive.”
It’s not the first time they’ve done something similar. That’s how each of us became agents. We were arrested on sometrumped-up charges—or not so trumped-up, depending on the man—then given the choice of joining or going to prison.
Since no one leaves the prison except in a body bag, it’s not much of a choice.
Not that being an agent is much better.
We’re given the shit jobs no one wants. They seem to be collecting monsters, the bigger the better, and testing what we can do. After we serve out our sentence as an agent, we’re free to leave.
So far, no one has survived long enough to enjoy their retirement.
I suspect that’s by design.
After a few years, people like us seem to just disappear.
Not fucking suspicious at all.
“This isn’t a life for someone as soft as her.” I rub the back of my neck, my shadows skimming over my body in agitation. “She won’t last a week.”
“I’ve already deleted the video, but even I’m not good enough to make the physical evidence disappear.” Darby’s eyes are a little wide as he surveys the destruction. “As much as I want to help the girl, are you sure it’s wise? I’m not certain even Soren can survive if she loses her temper.”
I cast a look over the room again, then shake my head. “She could have killed Scotts, but she allowed him to walk out alive. I don’t think it was an accident. Look at the damage. For it to miss him…it’s a one in a million chance.”
I walk out the door, eager to get back to the girl. I frown when I don’t find Scotts in the hallway. That little pecker is going to cause us trouble. I can feel it in my bones. No doubt the coward immediately ran to complain to his supervisors.
My hands clench, and I wish I could wrap them around the little weasel’s throat.
“Find out what you can about the girl.” I take the stairs two at a time, not trusting the pull I feel toward her. “If we’re going to stick our necks out for her, then I want to know if she’s worth it.”
Because if she’s not, and this is some sort of trap, then I’ll kill her myself.
Darby looks troubled by my order, but he doesn’t protest. It’s my responsibility to look out for the guys. If she’s a threat, then it’s my duty to do whatever is necessary to keep them safe.
Even if killing her will destroy the last bit of goodness in my soul and accomplish what MID could never achieve with all their torture.
CHAPTER THREE
ANITA
I’m not dead.
That’s my first thought when I wake up. The second is wishing that I was when the aches and pains in my body make themselves known. I groan, then freak the fuck out when I feel something touch my arm.
With a yelp, I jerk wide fucking awake and start swinging, even before my eyes open. Just as my fist connects, my gaze locks on the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my life.
The man grunts when my fist lands, but my blow doesn’t even rock his head to the side.
“Ouch,” I mutter, glaring at the big dude as I cradle my abused hand to my chest. “Are you made out of rock or something?”
