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“Pathetic,” I murmured, wiping my hand off with a damp cloth after dipping it into the bucket of clean water Gotham replenished during his visits.
I didn’t allow myself to dwell too long in self-pity. After all, I had to flee, heat or no heat, or risk losing the last chance at freedom I’d ever have. I’d been imprisoned in that wicked wizard’s impenetrable tower, deep inside the wilderness, for far too long. I doubted I could survive another night.
My hope dimmed with each rise and fall of the moon and sun over my tiny slice of Atheria. Escape, it seemed, was impossible since every attempt had been thwarted and severely punished before.
I was powerless against Gotham’s evil magic, forced to weave for the madman day and night, using my enchanted hair to enrich his coffers. Even the pile I just cut was a backup plan if my escape plans failed, for he had trained me well to always deliver.
A shiver raced through me as I watched the candle wax meltdown, wiping away the remnants of my orgasm. Midnight was fast upon me now, and every night at midnight, that devil came to collect my harvest, climbing my hair. If I refused to deliver, the results were dire.
There was no more time to waste. I refused to endure another beating by Gotham’s shriveled hands. I got to work haphazardly hacking off more of my hair to form a ladder. It would take me a few hours to cut it down enough to dye, and I would use the rest to escape the tower.
Reaching under my pillowcase, I pulled out an embroidered white pouch with golden stars sewn into the fabric. I clutched the bag to my chest, summoning strength from Lulana and Solara’s blessed twin lights to escape. Then, I removed my magic scissors and held them up until a shaft of moonlight hit them.
They appeared rusted and blunted until I sang a familiar tune. My scissors were suddenly sharper than a sword, glittering brighter than starlight, renewed with the aid of the spell.
“Goddesses hear my prayer, weave the stars, and spin the moon, guide the sun to enchant and conjurer, crowned in glory, reverent and true, bestow upon my blade magic beyond mere mortal measure, a vibrant harmonious hue,” I said, the words of the spell so familiar they barely registered in my mind as magical.
Unlike the ones Gotham gifted me I used for his harvest, these scissors were special. Every trimmed strand of hair strengthened the root instead of cutting off the magic flowing from my scalp, distorting the harmony in my blood, the source.
It meant I could preserve my power a little longer on the run rather than give it all away to Gotham before I vanished into thin air. By preserving the harmonious flow of magic in my blood, I wouldn’t need to replenish it for a while with Gotham’s disgusting potions that substituted for my food.
Satisfied I’d finalized the ritual, I lifted a section of my hair with another manic grin and squeezed the handle. I sighed as a huge chunk fell to the ground, only to gasp when I heard a most dreadful sound.
“Reimund!”
My heart nearly stopped, and I thought I was hearing a phantom. There were still a few hours left before midnight, and Gotham had been early to the harvest fewer times than I could count on one hand in over one hundred years.
But there was no mistaking that sound, my name on that villain’s lips loud and clear.
Damn it! I cried out silently, my heart thudding so hard I feared it would leap out of my chest.
“Reimund!”
Damn him! I thought, knowing the voice demanding my attention belonged to that wicked old man, though it sounded deeper and more rugged than I remembered.
“Let down your hair so I may climb thy rainbow stairs!”
Gritting my teeth, I knew the moment had passed. I had dilly-dallied, fretting frantically for far too long, it seemed. I was destined to be trapped another night with him.
Maybe he sensed my rebellion in the air and returned to the tower early. Either way, there would be no escaping his clutches tonight.
Stashing my treasures away, lest I endure a beating on top of my nightly humiliation, I prepared my hair, slinging the long braid down the window. It was a practiced, ritualistic movement, and I didn’t even look back as Gotham tugged twice at the end before I felt the familiar pull of a heavy body using my hair as a rope.
When I was young, I would scream and cry from the pain of it all. Even though my hair was supernaturally long and strong, it didn’t change the fact that it hurt. But that wicked bastard had beaten it into me that this was part of my duty, or else I would die by his hands. So even then, sniffling softly, I held my tears at bay.
I didn’t bother to look down. I hated looking at Gotham’s gnarled features for long. Gotham would come and go, but next time…
Next time, I won’t let my opportunity slip away. First, I must escape this mental prison to free myself from my physical one. Soon. Very soon.
I tried to give myself a little pep talk as booted footsteps thudded on the stone just below my window. Gotham had almost made it up, but he was quiet, which was strange. And, unlike the wizard’s decrepit smell, an odd, rich, earthy scent flowed into my room, cool and majestic, like lunar tears in full bloom.
Turning slowly, my annoyance melted into a horrified expression as I came face to face with reality.
Why is a strange man climbing inside my bedroom and not the evil wizard who locked me away?
I gasped as a gloved hand landed on the windowsill. Then, out of nowhere, a stranger seemed to materialize rather than leap inside my bedroom, a fine black mist fanning out from his feet.
Stumbling backward, my bare back hit a bookshelf, and heavy tomes fell from the shelves onto the ground, barely missing my head. I lifted my shaky hand, my bewitched scissors acting as an improvised weapon for my protection.
