Kirin rises from his chair, but a second cop approaches the table, holding up his left hand in warning, as if that’s more convincing than the gun in his right.
“Sir, I’m going to need you to remain seated,” he says.
“What’s this about?” Kirin asks, still on his feet. He takes a step in front of me, as if to protect me.
“You live at 129 Pinon Canyon Lane?” the first cop asks me, ignoring Kirin.
Petrified, I can only nod, stiff and dumb, heart about to explode.
“Sir, I asked you to sit down,” cop two says.
By now, Jessa’s heard the ruckus, and she emerges from the kitchen with a plate of those cinnamon buns. When she sees the cops, she drops it, the plate shattering. Cop three turns a weapon on her.
“Yes, it’s me!” I shout, desperate to keep them focused on me and not my innocent friends.
“Starla Milan.” Cop number one holsters his weapon, the other two keeping theirs raised. He removes the cuffs from his belt and slaps them over my wrists, cold and bruising. “You’re under arrest for public witchcraft and the murder of Lucas Hernandez.”
Seven
STEVIE
Never before has the dawn been so cruel.
I crack open my eyes, squinting against the too-bright light slanting across my face. Everything aches, inside and out, and my first deep breath of the day unleashes a searing pain in my chest. My head is locked in a vice grip of pain.
For the first fifteen seconds of consciousness, I’m pretty sure I’m halfway to Death’s door.
Then it all comes back.
The guards. The beatings. The fact that my body isn’t healing as fast as usual—probably related to the meal plan; I’ve eaten nothing but cold broth, a few past-due vegetables, and dirty water since I’ve been here.
Don’t even get me started on the caffeine withdrawal.
Welcome to hell, day three. Or maybe four? Beneath my 24/7 headache, time is starting to blur.
I try to sit up, but my arms and legs are shackled to the bed.
One of the guards must’ve drawn the short straw last night, and crept in here while I was asleep to lock me in place. They don’t like dealing with me one-on-one. Always afraid I’m going to fry them with my non-existent magick.
But in a group, armed with batons and tasers? Then it’s party time, boys and girls, and I’m the piñata.
Could be worse. The fact that they believe witches are damaged goods is probably the only thing keeping me from getting much worse than a beating.
Nutless cowards. Once I figure out how to channel my magick again, I’m going to kill them first.
I tug my arms, but it’s useless. The worst part? The restraints aren’t even necessary—just an extra special little touch to remind me who’s in charge here.
I’m in a special cell reserved for witches and mages, with fancy “bars” made of some kind of deadly electricity—a complicated spell undoubtedly created by a crooked witch or mage on the payroll. Upon arrival, I was given a demonstration of what would happen to me if I attempted to cross the glowing bars.
The poor mouse was vaporized on contact.
In addition to the bars, the cell itself sits inside a secure room that can only be opened via a fingerprint scanner from the outside. The outer wall is made of a strange magickal glass, concentrating the sunlight in on me until I feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.
It’s impossible to break.
I blink the daylight from my eyes, trying to swallow the dryness from my throat. Outside, all I see is scrub brush and cacti for miles—a deadly, beautiful barrier that may as well be an ocean full of sharks, for all the ability any prisoner would have to cross it—witch and human alike.
I don’t even know what town we’re in. Whether we’re still in Arizona or even the states. Tres Búhos may as well be on Mars for how far away from my life I feel.
