“This is going to hurt.”
That’s when the pain barrels through me, and in the distance I hear someone scream.
It takes me a moment to realize the strangled noise is coming from my own lips.
CHAPTER 2
NOX
The revenant inside me relishes the taste of the girl’s screams. Her agony is a siren song, a lullaby that will gift me the first restful night I’ve had in weeks.
I could hate myself for it, for the way the girl’s sobs send a pleasant tingle through my twitching ears and down my spine.
But I’d rather just hate the queen.
Gunter seems to think she’s a more productive object of my contempt, anyway.
I sweep another line of wraithseeker underneath the left side of the girl’s jaw, and this time she writhes. The restraints on her wrists and ankles are too tight to allow for much movement, but her back arches all the same. Her brown eyes roll back in her head.
Days spent trapped in the queen’s dungeon have already painted grime against the girl’s white cheeks. I think she might be freckled, but the tiny brown dots speckling her nose have already paled from lack of exposure to the sun. Her black hair is matted, sticking to her forehead as if she’s been sweating out a fever.
Her lips are chapped.
We should have given her water before we started.
I can’t tell if she’s a pretty girl or if I’m so starved of female company, I simply have nothing to compare her to.
Either way, I try not to focus on it. It’s bad enough that I’m inhaling her pain like it’s fine wine. No need to add creepiness to my list of sins.
“What did she do?” I ask the queen.
The queen has this annoying tendency of believing she’s a moral person. It’s like there’s a code of ethics locked away in that slimy brain of hers. For years, I found it impossible to predict what she would consider righteous or evil, but I’ve started to recognize there are a few underlying rules.
Rule number one: criminals forfeit all rights.
I suppose that’s why Abra doesn’t lose sleep over torturing them in the name of advancing magic. “She committed treason against the Prince of Dwellen,” the queen says, apparently deeming my question worthy of a response. “She knowingly harbored a magical parasite that dwells inside her body and refused to come forward when that same parasite attempted to assassinate the prince’s betrothed.”
I quirk a brow. Okay, so that does seem moderately treasonous. Still, the girl is young. Probably not yet into her third decade.
Prison is one thing.
What we do here?
What I do here?
It’s just difficult to imagine this girl racking up enough crimes to warrant torture, that’s all.
It’s not that I care. I’ve been experimenting on prisoners for years now. I’m used to their screams. Like them, even. Though that part’s not really up to me.
It’s just that the girl is snarky and bold. She reminds me of—
“Well?”
I don’t bother to fight the temptation to roll my eyes at the impatience in the queen’s tone.
“I work best in the quiet, you know,” I say.
“You work best in the manner that is beneficial to your queen, Farin.”
I tense at the name—the name that is not mine but the queen insists on calling me regardless—which is a mistake because even the slight reaction tells Abra she’s won, that she’s gotten to me.
“You haven’t exactly been generous with the information regarding what dwells inside the girl’s body. It’s going to slow me down if I don’t know what I’m looking for.” Usually if there are traces of magic hiding out inside a body, wraithseeker at least allows me to pinpoint the magic, to feel its presence.
But the wraithseeker doesn’t simply pick up on magic. It allows me to taste the auras that swarm within a person or object. If I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for; it’s like trying to identify a specific spice within a meal, except it’s one you’ve never tasted, and the chef used a dozen other spices to mask its flavor.
And this girl?
Her auras are going to be a mess to sort through.
It’s almost overwhelming just touching her.
But again, that could just be my lack of socialization shining through.
“You’re looking for magic. The girl is human, meaning non-magical. It shouldn’t be that difficult,” the queen says, an ever-present bite to her tone.
I open my mouth to argue, but clamp it shut soon enough. It’s not worth wasting breath over. I could probably count the bricks in this castle before I could count how many times I’ve tried to explain to the queen that magic isn’t nearly as elementary as she makes it out to be.
There’s not simply one type of magic. There are many sources, most of which remain untapped if Gunter’s theories hold any credence and if he’s as much of a genius as I think he is.
