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“Very good. I’m an only child, and my mother died when I was fourteen. Since then, we’d been a little family unit. Two men together against the world.”
I should probably ask a follow-up question, but my brain won’t cooperate. It’s time to bring out the big guns.
You were the only eyewitness to the actual murder. I put it to you that you’re lying about who committed it, and you’ve paid or threatened the other witnesses to support your story.
At least, that’s what I try to say. I open my mouth, I think the words, but no sounds come out.
I’ve seen people have silencing spells put on them, but it’s hard for one practitioner to enact a spell on another at the best of times, and I’m strong. I’m also supposed to be resistant to any of Gabriel’s mesmerism, though come to think of it, I only have his word for that.
He can do spells without any outward signs of strain, but he really doesn’t look as though he’s doing magic right now. He might be able to keep his hands still and maintain a neutral expression, but I’d still see the change in his aura, and feel the pressure in the air. Besides, his frown suggests he’s as surprised as me. A glance around the room gives no sign of anyone else attempting to bewitch me.
I shake my head. I’m not under a spell, I’m just nervous and triggered as hell. My chest’s tight and my stomach’s loose.
I squash down the internalised anger my mind tries to throw at me. This isn’t my fault. Gabriel basically made me sell my soul to him. He’s haunted my dreams for years and my reality for the last few weeks. I’d quite reasonably be trembling if I merely had to hold a casual conversation with him. It’s no wonder my body won’t cooperate when I’m supposed to be interrogating him in such a formal and high-stakes situation.
Then I catch Bren’s eye. He’s slumping down in the dock, his confident veneer cracking with every second I stay silent. This isn’t about me. This court case isn’t some extended therapy session. I promised I’d get my brother acquitted, and trauma or no trauma, I’m going to do it. I give Bren my most reassuring smile, then let it turn into something more akin to a smirk as my gaze shifts back to Gabriel.
“I put it to you…”
This time, it’s not just that my mouth won’t cooperate, I can barely remember what I wanted to say.
As I struggle to get the words out and maintain my composure, a burning sensation strikes my finger. It’s as if my ring had been heated in a fire, but it’s not actually coming from the metal, but from the mark underneath. As I grimace, a similar expression passes over Gabriel’s face. Not only is he seemingly not doing this to me, it appears to be hitting him, too.
Stopping my cross-examination would be a betrayal of my family, a dereliction of my professional duty, and completely contrary to my core value of never backing down. But I can’t do this. I just can’t.
If it were merely the pain in my finger, then however excruciating, I’d try to push through. But I can’t speak. I can’t think. My throat’s constricting, my head’s spinning, and I’ve no idea what’s physical, what’s mental, and what’s magical. I need to sit down. I need to shut up. I need to get away.
“No further questions, Your Honour.” The words are barely audible, but I get them out.
I glance at Gabriel one more time before he leaves the witness stand and I collapse into my chair. I expect him to be smirking and triumphant, but he’s still frowning. He almost looks concerned.
* * *
“What the hell was that?” Dad snaps the words at me in the lobby.
I can’t remember the last time he shouted at me. Even as a child, I was both well-behaved and adored. But now, I’m putting darling Brendan at risk with my weakness.
“That was exactly what I said would happen if you forced me into this,” I shout back.
“The whole point was that he can’t mesmerise you,” Mum says.
“It wasn’t him doing it. Not directly, anyway. It’s some side effect of the lien.”
I push past Liam and Chrissie, throw myself into the family car my new driver was using, and get the hell out of there. In the last three days, I’ve had an emotional break-up, a physical breakdown, and a professional meltdown, and they all have the same cause. It’s time to do something about it.
THIRTEEN
I drive the family car straight to The Windmill, exercise furiously, shower—no time for a bath tonight—then perch at my dressing table. I stare into the mirror, think about all the times I’ve fought the almost overwhelming urge to prettify myself with magic, and let the resistance fall away.
I don’t even have to make a conscious effort. One moment, my face is scrubbed clear and my hair is limp and damp. The next, I look like I’m ready for a photoshoot. Probably one themed around angelic shepherdesses frolicking in some bucolic Victorian landscape.
If I’d been attempting to drive the magic by force, I’d probably have gone for something sleeker and sultrier. But my subconscious seems to have decided that tiny curls and subtle pastel pinks is the order of the day. It’s a long way from my default look, but there’s no doubt it works.
I’ve tried to keep my magic at bay. But when the person I’ve been hiding from knows who I am and understands the extent of my powers, what’s the point in trying to do things by hand? Unlike in the casino, where I’d cast a huge spell and felt hideously drained, this small-scale, voluntary blast of power leaves me invigorated and psyched for what I’m about to do.
Once I’m ready, I jump back into the “borrowed” Porsche. I drive on autopilot, with the gas pedal slammed down, the convertible roof open, and my mind elsewhere. It’s fifty-fifty whether I’m taking a brave step to secure my freedom or walking into a trap of my own making.
The built-up part of Mannith is hardly on a par with central London, but it’s still good to get out of town on such a hot evening. I could have traversed, since I’ve entirely abandoned my magic ban for the evening, but speeding along with the wind in my hair and music blasting helps to clear my mind. The vaguely village feel quickly becomes very rural indeed, and I relish driving through a tunnel of overhanging trees. Once the woods recede, a centuries-old stone bridge leads into the little hamlet of Brinkerton. Typing its name into my satnav had yielded no results—a magic block or just too rural to register?—but a bit of water-scrying had burned a mental map into my brain. I could have done with Chrissie’s help for that part, but I hadn’t dared even to hint at my plans.
