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Abra looks at me as if I were Amity’s age and had just asked to trek across Alondria with my friends.
“He already loves me,” she hisses. “All you’ll need to do is to make him remember.”
I huff, seeing how it is clearly my turn to talk to my conversational partner like the delusional fool she is. “That’s not how my Gift works.”
“Sure it does,” snaps Abra. “You enchanted all those poor children into trusting you, didn’t you?”
I fight the urge to tense. I’ve talked through this in my mind thousands of times. Marcus has talked me through this thousands of times.
I was as much Bronger’s victim as his instrument. I did the best I could to only take children from homes in which they were being willfully abused, and I worked hard to keep them from suffering as soldiers at Bronger’s hands.
Still. Her words sting.
Trafficker.
Kidnapper.
Child-stealer.
There aren’t any words left for her to use that I haven’t already used to berate myself.
I steel myself, refusing to allow Abra to get her claws into me.
This new development presents an opportunity, and I intend to take it.
“I’ll need to practice,” I say.
Abra’s laugh is derisive.
“Like I said, I’ve never done anything like this before. Unless you want your son to be practice, which is fine with me.”
Abra pauses, her white irises flickering with what I assume is worry. But she turns away quickly enough, dismissing me.
I use the opportunity to slip my wrists through the restraints.
And then I run.
The shadows are no help in hiding me from Abra as she and her guards chase me through the halls of the abandoned warehouse. I pound my weary feet against the creaky wooden floorboards, not even bothering to try to remain quiet.
They’re going to catch me anyway.
I just need them not to catch me yet.
That’s the thing about creepy abandoned warehouses: I happen to know a modest percentage of their operators. Meaning I know how they prefer to communicate their illegal dealings.
Several winding halls later, I find the office where the operator of this facility would have done business back when it was up and running. The door is locked, so I smash through the door’s window, gasping in pain as the shattered glass digs into my elbow.
Then I climb through.
The office itself is a mess. Clearly looters have already turned it over. Stupid looters, given they left the most valuable substance, the liquid moonlight, alone, but still.
It’s a good thing that what I need from this office isn’t valuable.
I scramble toward the desk, hearing the footsteps of Abra’s soldiers approaching in the hall.
Most of the desk drawers are locked, but the topmost one in the center isn’t. I yank it open and gasp with relief.
Inside is a quill, the feather of which is the color of blood.
