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I laugh again, and even I can hear the bitterness in the way the choking sound bursts from me.
How do I tell her the truth? If I tell her the truth, I’ll admit it out loud. My family doesn't care about me. They do not care about me, or my existence.
They’ll probably be relieved if she kills me. Because they won’t have to pretend to care about me in public.
One more burden gone.
Her eyes widen as she looks at me. She clearly heard the change in my voice.
“I’m afraid you won’t get very far with that. Maybe if you hadn’t kidnapped me, I could have given you some of my own money. But my family won’t pay dalar for me. They won’t care enough to spend any money on me.”
Her eyes narrow again, and it’s clear she doesn’t believe me.
I sigh heavily. I am not sure what to say to convince her.
“Listen, they really don’t care about me. I’m only the spare to the heir. If you want money, then I’m afraid to say that you kidnapped the wrong brother.”
She takes a step away from me at those words, and I wince with pain as the knife scrapes against my skin.
“Your brother is dead,” she says simply. I don’t know what emotion is crossing her face.
Maybe shock? Anger?
She must think that I am making a joke. Or stalling to save my life.
The truth of it is, I don’t have any reason to lie. Maybe this is a good thing – there is not much life to save.
I try to smile at her, but I am pretty sure that it is more of a grimace.
“Whatever research you’ve done is very wrong. Ocuri’s alive and well and probably terrorizing anyone who doesn’t agree with him. I saw him like three days ago. So I’m pretty sure he’s alive.”
I don’t think she wanted to hear that.
I realize this as she goes completely still. I think that she stops breathing, and I watch as her pupils become fixed.
I don’t think that this is a good situation to be in,I think to myself, and I struggle against the ties around my body.
She is really not paying attention to me because the ties loosen slightly instead of tightening around me.
I smell it then.
Magic.
I know, like I did before, that she does not have dark elf magic. Not magic like mine.
I see it then.
Purple tendrils of smoke that curl and twist away from her skin. She is standing completely still, and I am convinced that she is not conscious of the magic that is floating, peeling, off her.
The magic, whatever it is, starts to twist and spit around her.
It’s as if it’s angry,I think as I focus on it.
It twists and whirls and threads around her, faster and faster. The light in the loft goes out, and the magic blocks out the light of the moon.
She starts rising from the floor. As I look down at her hovering feet, I see that the floor itself is lifting.
The wooden floor.
