Page 8 of Awakened Ash and Alchemy

No hysteria. Or madness.

Yet.

“She’s shaken up, bruised, but intact. As a human.” A human with one green eye and one blue.

“Did you wipe her memory?” Martar asked again.

Zarek said nothing.

Martar’s mouth thinned. “Zarek?”

Helviti. “I tried.” Zarek turned away, staring down the corridor from what was supposed to be the end of a normal patrol. But there was nothing normal about it. “I don’t know if my magick worked on her.”

Normally mortals didn’t see them; yet she had said his name and thanked him.

“That’s a breach of the Accords,” Martar said quietly. “Were you cloaked?”

“Always. And I didn’t make myself visible to her. Technically, no Accords were broken.” But how did she see him and the Black Cloaks when they’d been cloaked?

“And you?”

“I maintained control.” He had to. Zarek didn’t dare let his power out of its cage. He pushed through the door. “We’ll increase patrols in that area. But having three Black Cloaks in the mortal realm raises questions.”

“I’m on it.” Martar nodded as he began to turn, only he paused. “And her?”

Zarek didn’t answer immediately.

He couldn’t. Not when the memory of how she had looked at him with so many questions. And the way she had thanked him. No one ever did that.

“She is not to be approached. I will monitor her from a distance to re-apply the magick if need be.”

Martar shook his head. “We know that’s dangerous. You could—”

“Turn her brain to mush.” He knew the consequences of his powers that was a constant struggle for control. “But the Accords will demand it be done.” It was part of the job. And it was his duty to see to it personally because the woman needed to forget, lest she be plagued by the impossible.

THREE

Angela didn’t remember the journey from the city. Or how she got to her street with her hands locked in a white-knuckle grip around the steering wheel, desperately trying to control her erratic breathing pattern. At one point it got so bad that she had to pull over to the side of the road in fear of passing out.

By the time she reached her house, she was shaking so hard the keys rattled as she struggled to unlock the front door.

Inside, she slammed the door shut and threw every deadbolt and safety chain, until everything clicked into place.

Only then did she stop to lean back against the door and drag in a breath so deep it hurt.

Yet, somehow, that putrid, rotting sweetness that made her stomach roll with nausea had followed her inside.

Angela staggered toward the kitchen. The refrigerator light flared too brightly as she reached for the vodka. With hands that still struggled to obey, she twisted the cap and took four hard gulps straight from the bottle. The liquor burned its way down her raw throat, but barely felt it in her chest.

“What did I see?” she whispered to her cozy little kitchen, where Aunt Claudine’s plants came to die. It did nothing to stop the images flashing behind closed eyelids: the Black Cloaks, pale hands, red eyes, bodies turning to stone and then ash. And that stench that threaded its way deep into her memory, while coating her skin like grease.

She tenderly touched her throat, swallowing slowly to get an idea of the damage.

For a second she could feel that icy grip, the pressure, and the terror of knowing that if help hadn’t arrived, she would have died in that alley.

“Shower.” She needed to wash off the terror creeping under her skin like beads of ice being dragged along by an army of ants.

Angela took one more mouthful of vodka and left the bottle on the counter. She moved through the house, flipping on the lights to get rid of any shadows, until she reached the bathroom. There, the tiles gleamed too white and bright.