I think his accent is Cockney? Is that still a thing?
The man tilts his head, a stray lock of matted hair falling over his face as he takes up his song again.
“We’ll catch a fox and put him in a box, a-hunting we will go.”
He follows this up with an elaborate wink. “Wouldn’t be very gentlemanly to let you walk into the belly of the beast without a chaperone, now would it?” he continues. “Terribly rude. And the Quo monsters have such poor manners. My nan would be appalled—give me a right smack, she would.” He waggles a cuffed wrist. “Let me introduce myself, the name is London, love. Like the city—a little hectic, ridiculously expensive…and,” he gives me a smirk. “Usually leaves the ladies a little bit damp, if you know what I mean.”
It’s so extraordinarily out of place, so fundamentally absurd, that for a beat I actually forget my wrists are bleeding into carbon steel. I forget I’m about to enter a cage.
Is…is he hitting on me?
But the dazed moment snaps when a guard nods to the driver, and the transport begins to crawl forward.
We lurch over a speed bump and then, suddenly, the air shifts.
The oxygen is stolen from my lungs as a low hum begins to vibrate in my very marrow. I’m semi-aware of the others gasping and groaning around me; even the driver swerves, clawing at his throat as the atmosphere thickens.
But then a summer sun ignites inside the van. A blinding flash of lilac and gold washes over my skin and sinks into my pores, tasting of honey and flames.
London yells, and I turn to see his green irises disappear behind blown-wide pupils. “Fucking spectacular,” he breathes. “What a rush. Is this what being witchy is like? Get in, mate! It’s blinding!”
What the fuck is happening?
My spark—a cold, dead stump for the last eight hours—roars back to life. But it’sdifferent. For millennia, witches have only had the ability to cast Arcane spells—structured, external, and intellectual. But this? This feels like every cell in my body hasbeen rewritten. I’m not casting magic anymore; Iamthe magic. I’m innately charged—a billion tiny stars erupting inside me.
Andinside the men in the van. In this moment, we aren’t prisoners and guards—we are filled to the brim with something perfect.
For one heartbeat, every soul on Earth must have felt that…surge. That rightness.
At the same time, three distinct tugs jerk in my chest, like fishhooks made of starlight catching in the soft tissue of my heart. Before I can gasp, three golden threads, thin as spider-silk, rush out into the cramped space. They twist and turn, pulling on my sternum in a frenzy.
I’m the center of a golden web I don’t understand. It’s terrifying. It’s intoxicating.
It’s a surge of absolute rightness that makes the rest of the world fall away.
Then the van passes through the Quo Reformare gates and the wards clamp down. The universe snaps shut.
These shields don’t just dampen the power; they reach into my chest and rip the delicate lilac sparkles from my bones, the golden threads evaporate to dust.
It’s almost as though my soul cracks, leaving a cold, lonely ache. My spark retreats so deep I don’t know if I’ll ever find it again.
“Aw, fucking bollocks,” London sighs, his voice sounding sad and hollow. “Did you taste that, kitten? Did the vibrations sing to you?”
I don’t answer. I’m mourning something I don’t even have a name for yet.
Up front, the radio crackles.“Emergency, emergency. We have unrestrained magic all around the perimeter…”
The guard turns it down, his face pale as we roll to a stop beside an ugly concrete monolith of a building surrounded by spotlights. The guard with the glasses slides the van door open.He looks ashen—shaken by whatever just happened—but he recovers with a sneer. “Welcome to hell, bitch. Let’s see how high and mighty you are after being passed around the block.”
I channel every ounce of Drakeward ice I have left. “The help always get uppity when they hold the keys.”
“Burn,” London giggles behind me.
“I’m not moving until my lawyer arrives,” Julian groans, clinging to a status that died the moment we crossed the line.
A siren begins to wail. “Ooh, sounds like a riot’s starting. I always love a good riot,” London exclaims.
Out of the two of them, I’d definitely take the lunatic. A batshit-ally is better than none at all.
