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I’m just drawing my body around when something spooks the horse.
The gelding has been a picture of docility until now. At his squeal, my head jerks around.
He rears, and a brief twinkle of light darts beneath his flailing forelegs. It could be a trick of the eye—or it could be a daimon making mischief, as they so enjoy doing.
I don’t have time to contemplate the possibilities, because as the horse’s hooves hit the ground, he springs forward, dragging the wagon.
My stomach lurches. In a second, I’ll be exposed.
An urge punches me from the inside out, as if an impatient hand has wrenched through me from gut to sternum. It thrusts toward the world outside, determined to fling forth the supernatural power coiled within my body and latch on to the fastest way to save my skin.
No!
I slam down on the impulse with all the self-control I’ve spent years honing and whip myself around. My back scrapes the hard-packed dirt with a pang of my scars, but I’m already heaving upward.
My fingers and the toes of my boots shoot up to snag on the nooks in the underside of the wagon. Every muscle strains as I cling to the shaky handholds I’ve caught. My right forefinger that’s cut off at the first knuckle wavers in the air. I’ve never missed that fraction of a digit more.
The wagon jolts with the gelding’s next yank. He’s hurtling forward with a frantic whinny, leaving the charms clattering on their shelves and the merchant cursing. Someone shouts advice from the crowd while a child bursts out laughing.
An ache spreads through my limbs with the effort to hold myself off the ground rushing by beneath me—and a sharper pain lances through my chest. I clamp my lips against a gasp of agony.
Gods, no, not again…
The pain ignores my silent plea. It sears between my ribs, up to my shoulders, and down to my pelvis, lashing this way and that like a bonfire in the wind.
Fuck, this is even worse than the last time.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the burn of unbidden tears and clutch at the wagon with every ounce of my will. If I can tolerate the agony for a few seconds… a few seconds more…
The magic I refused to use rails at my body, punishing me for my defiance. The wagon careens onward. One of my feet lips and bounces off the dirt with a fresh burst of pain through my heel. I fling it back upward—
And the wheels on either side of me grind to a halt.
The biting fire of my magic’s resentment gradually fade away while the merchant berates his gelding. The horse stomps his hooves before finally settling.
An ache lingers in my muscles, my fingers throbbing in their desperate hold. I count out several more thumps of my pulse and decide it’s safe to lower myself.
The conman’s voice sweetens as he offers apologies to the prospective customers who’ve followed him across the square and down the road. While he beckons the curious over again, I release a shaky breath and scan our surroundings for a viable escape route.
There: a narrow lane between two of the shabby wooden buildings. I roll out on the opposite side of the wagon and dart away before my luck runs out.
When you’ve been living on the city’s streets as long as I have, you can always find your way. The lane leads to an alley which ends at a rubbish heap which connects to another alley.
My heel twinges whenever I set the foot I banged down, but I manage to walk steadily and silently. The tight fabric of my hidden pockets squeezes my bounty close and keeps the coins from jingling.
The sooner I can unload my loot, the less chance someone who doesn’t deserve it will make a try for it.
It won’t go straight back into the hands of the people the conman duped today. I have a cycle of rounds throughout the fringes so that I’m distributing my spoils evenly. Everyone who needs it gets a share in the end.
I dodge a pool of piss at one corner and skirt a pile of poisoned rat corpses at another. A pungent stink seeps through the rest of the awful smells, welcoming me to my destination.
The neighborhood of Slaughterwell got its name from the slaughterhouses where the farmers bring their livestock, which stand just beyond the nearby city wall. Even at night, the reek never quite fades.
No one lives here unless they can’t find a way to live anywhere else.
The power inside me nibbles at the edges of my awareness with a cajoling tone that reminds me of the fraud merchant. If I let the magic out, it could wash away the stench. It could carry me straight to my destination without my taking another step.
That might be true, I retort.But what will you ruin in the meantime?
