But when I close my eyes and try to focus on the voice to work out who it belonged to, I can’t quite grasp the memory.
“I can’t remember who said it,” I tell Finch. “Everything’s too muddled.”
It doesn’t sound good, though.
It sounds a lot like Finch is right. And that one of my mates is to blame for the king’s men coming for our sanctuary.
But which one?
Chapter 27
Kit
‘What did you do?’
My eyes flutter open, my head pounding as unconsciousness recedes. Wherever I am, it’s cold and there’s light blaring in from somewhere. Pushing myself up, I scuttle backward until I hit a wall, taking in the sight of an entirely unfamiliar room.
Cold stone at my back and under my bare legs has me fighting a shiver. The room is large with a high ceiling, it’s stark and gaudy all at once with marble covering every floor and wall. A huge window sits just in front and to the right of where I’m slumped against the wall, trying to fight the roiling nausea and dizziness. Daylight is pouring through, making my eyes smart, and I’m aware I must have lost some more hours somewhere. The last time I was aware of anything, it was the middle of the night and I was being blinded by that curse-damned light.
And then I blinked and found myself here, inside a room that seems too bright to be a crypt, but too empty and cold to be anything else. I can’t see a stick of furniture, yet the room’s scented with the almost overwhelming scent of incense, so strong my eyes are watering.
Or maybe I’m crying.
‘What did you do?’
Those damn words are going around and round my head and I can’t make them stop.
Shifting my sitting position from arse cheek to cheek, I then slump back. Somehow I’ve lost a bunch of time and wound up somewhere entirely unfamiliar, with no clue of how I got here.
This must be what it feels like to lose your mind.
I can hear faint voices coming from upstairs, and there’s one in particular that has me up on my haunches. Tugging on my shirt, I attempt to cover my arse. Since I didn’t exactly have time to grab the rest of my clothes, I’m in a shirt and underwear and a pair of shoes.
It’s frigid in here, so much so that my balls have set up camp inside my body and I keep crossing and uncrossing my legs, feeling oddly vulnerable.
... or maybe there’s no ‘oddly’ about it. I’m sitting somewhere entirely unfamiliar, miles from home with my balls practically hanging out.
The voices grow closer, and I crane to listen. Unable to make out a single word that’s being said, my gut twists and I step closer to the large wooden door that’s at the furthest wall away from me. I might not be able to hear exactly what they’re saying, but I do recognise at least one of the voices, and it turns my blood to ice.
I need to get out of here. Now.
I couldn’t forget that high-pitched tone even if I tried. It belongs to the sorceress: Araminta Stone. The same woman who abducted me and dragged her around with her for weeks. The woman who messed with my brain and left me feeling like I can no longer trust my own mind.
And Araminta Stone is not the kind of person I want to come across when I’m feeling vulnerable.
I make my way unsteadily across the cavernous room as quickly as I can without my legs collapsing under me. The dooris ajar, and I swiftly push it open, stepping through into a stone antechamber with another massive wooden door that I’m praying leads out onto the street. There’s another open door leading to a stone staircase that’s set into the floor, and the voices are carrying from somewhere below me. There’s also a line of cloaks hanging from one wall, and I don’t think as I grab one and slip it on, making a dash for the door and yanking on the handle.
It’s unlocked, giving way easily and letting more daylight stream in. Squinting against the assault, I hurry out onto a quiet residential street lined with trees that fragrance the air with a sickly sweet sap. The world spins around me, and I clutch onto a wrought iron railing that’s acting as a bannister to a flight of steep, marble steps. Before I can think better of it, I grab onto the front door handle again and mutter a quick curse for whoever comes after.
I hope all their life’s regrets pile on top of them until they can’t bear to sit with themselves.
What I don’t anticipate is the strength of the power that rolls out of me. It doesn’t just touch the door handle, but spreads right down the door and onto the stone steps below me.
I hop off the step to avoid accidentally cursing myself. Then, without looking back, I head down the wide grey pavement, taking in the gargantuan houses on both sides of the street. Their windows gleam in the sunlight, like beady black eyes keeping watch over me, and I pull up the borrowed hood to cover my face and head.
Not really paying too much attention to where I’m going, I’m too focused on ignoring the stabbing pain in my head and the growing nausea threatening the integrity of my stomach contents. My legs both feel like I’ve fallen asleep on them and I’m practically dragging myself along, trying to put some distance between myself and the crypt house.
I’m almost at the end of the street, where it intersects with a busier road that I’m hoping will tell me where I am, when I spot two figures crossing the road.
