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A frown etched his forehead as he glanced to the place Mera had been standing. “Where is the woman? I might yet have need of her.”
“She’s gone, Master Vindrake.”
“She can’t have gone far. Find her and bring her back to me.”
“Yes, Master Vindrake.” The two scampered off.
As Alora slumped onto her side on the uneven ground, she prayed Mera would somehow evade the guards. Meanwhile, she tried to tamp down a rising panic. Though she knew better, she’d been hoping beyond hope that Vindrake would somehow relent and keep his promise to release her in exchange for the scroll. Now, with the scroll in his possession again, he had no reason not to torture and kill her.
A few feet away, her father sat down on the large rock and unrolled the scroll with laborious care, squinting at the parchment in the moonlight. He set Uncle Charles’ bag beside his foot along with Markaeus’ empty pack. With one hand spreading the scroll open on his knees, he lifted the other hand, and a light appeared, shining from his palm like a hidden flashlight. His lips moved as his fingers traced from side to side across the parchment.
But his glowing hand, raised in the air, sent a series of remembered images through her mind... of a glowing hot iron lowering to her skin. Her heart raced, and her throat constricted. Her painful emotions bubbled, bulging against her hold.
Stay calm. Stay calm.
She fought the panic, picturing Uncle Charles’ face. She thought how Aunt Lena used to tuck her in bed and say prayers with her, up until her aunt’s cancer treatments made her too weak. She recalled riding on the school bus with Beth, who was always talking her into attending some dreaded social event. She thought of Kaevin and the first time he’d kissed her... and the last time he’d done it, which really would be the last.
Vindrake’s image wobbled as tears filled her eyes. She dared not suppress her emotions, knowing how weak she’d already become. It would take so little to push her over the edge.
Something moved in the edge of her watery vision. Straining, she stared into the shadows beside Vindrake’s throne of rock. It was a person—a small person, dressed in a dark hoodie—hiding in the shadow of the stone, creeping closer and closer to her father.
The prowler’s hand reached out around the corner and fingers closed on the strap of Uncle Charles’ brown bag. The hand tugged, and the bag moved—maybe half an inch. Slowly, slowly, ever-so-slowly, the bag slid along the front of the stone. The scraping sound of the pack sliding against the rock sounded like a roaring lion in Alora’s mind. But her father, intent on the scroll, didn’t seem to notice.
The pack was almost to the corner when the flap caught on a sharp protrusion of the rock. The hand tugged, but the pack wouldn’t budge. Again, it tugged. Again. But the bag was stuck tight. With a hard jerk, the bag broke free, as the sharp zip of ripping Velcro rang through the air.
Vindrake moved so fast, it was a blur. With a cry of rage, he grasped the thief’s arm and jerked him into the air. His hood fell back, revealing short blond hair.
Markaeus!
Vindrake twisted the boy to the ground, grappling for the brown backpack with one hand, while holding his precious scroll with the other. Markaeus escaped, rolling to the side, but Vindrake had the bag. Tucking the scroll away, he groped inside the pack.
But before his hand could emerge with the gun, an arrow flew from the shadows, striking his chest. He stumbled back, but didn’t fall.
Thud. Another arrow struck, bouncing to the ground.
A knife flew, striking his chest with the same result.
Vindrake remained on his feet, apparently without injury. “Ha! You cannot hurt me, for my skin cannot be pierced by metal. But you’ll pay for your insolence.”
The gun was in his hand, aiming toward the shifting shadows at the edge of the clearing.
The bushes crackled and shook, and Alora imagined her friends diving for cover. She hoped they at least knew what the gun was and how dangerous it could be.
The gun fired three times—deafening.
Alora heard a voice cry out from the darkness and then the sound of someone falling. Vindrake raised his other hand, shining his magick light into the shadows.
She gasped.
There, on the ground, lay Jireo.
Alora felt a yank behind her, and her arms were no longer bound. A second later, her feet were also free.
“Come on,” Markaeus urged from behind her in a quiet whisper, pulling on her arm.
“Ohhh!” The cry escaped her lips before she could swallow it, so intense was the pain as Markaeus moved the shoulder that had been wrenched behind her for more than a day.
Vindrake reacted lightning-fast. He grabbed her arm, twisting hard and lifting her to her feet. She screamed in agony, holding onto her empathy by a tiny thread. The hot barrel of a gun pressed against her neck, but she was more afraid of what would come if she lost control. Months of horrific pain stored up from her severe burns and the excruciating treatments that followed, all pouring out at once. It would feel like being burned at the stake.
