Page 8 of Mud

“And that’s supposed to make me feel bad?” I wondered.

Bluefire magic turned up on the tip of his wand. The other guards raised theirs again as well. Every inmate behind me held their breath.

“Are you going to make up your mind now? Should I go, or should I continue this conversation with you, friends? It’s late and I’m tired. What will it be?”

My voice was easy as a feather.

The guards wanted to murder me on the spot.

“Get to your fucking cell,” the first one finally spit, his wide blue eyes eerie under the light of his wand.

I bowed deeply. “Goodnight, friends,” I told them, and I turned around to go to the stairway and the third floor where my cell was. The other inmates made way for me to pass as the guards cursed under their breaths and shouted for everyone to clear the halls and get to bed.

As I climbed the stairs, I looked back to see two of them by the cell of the boy still, looking, never daring to go in. Maybe they really did feel bad for him, those guards.

Didn’t matter, though. Nothing was going to help little Ginger now.

“You’re fucking sick,” said Garret from his cell when I passed him by, a big grin on his face that mirrored mine.

I said nothing, but for a moment there, I imagined howI would take the life out of him in perfect detail. I imagined the tools I’d use, the screams he’d scream, the blood he’d bleed. I imagined it all and I almost felt better when I reached my cell.

Before going in, I put my hands on the cold, dirty metal of the railing, same as always, and looked out at the lounge area and the five floors full of cells built all around it. Not all were used—the Tomb had the capacity to house five hundred of the worst criminals out there. They’d made an attempt to separate us as well as they could, but it didn’t really make a difference. We could all see each other. We couldn’t get out there, but we could do plenty in here. That was the nature of the Tomb—who cared if we killed each other while we waited for death? So long as we didn’t disrupt their precious peace out there, we were fine.

That was all going to change for me tonight, though. I looked up at the fourth floor, at the cells across from mine up there, at the two men holding the railing just like I was doing, looking at me.

They nodded.

I nodded, too.

Then I walked into my cell and closed the door a minute before the magical and electronic locks fell into place at the same time.

Those locks weren’t going to hold me here any longer.Nothingwould.

It seemed the Devil had finally found a way to get me out of here for the price that I promised to pay him. I’d been waiting for this night for over three months since I was able to get close enough to him to send word.

And he actually answered.

Our cells were small, six feet wide, including the bed, with nothing more in it but a toilet shell, a sink, and abroken mirror I used for shaving. I threw my black inmate shirt on the bed—mine was an actual mattress with clean sheets that I’d stolen from others—then grabbed the metal box I hid underneath the wooden frame. It was a very big box for what it held inside, but it was the only one I’d found. I unlocked it with a little key I kept in my boot, and I pulled the rusty lid open to find three raven feathers in there—one big, the hairs black and shiny and thick, the other three barely the size of my index finger.

My anchors, charged and ready for use.

We mages have a fifth element that runs in our blood—what we callmagic.That same element is everywhere in nature, too. But to use it without something to guide it, keep it compressed and aimed, to simply let it out of ourselves without forethought is dangerous, deadly. Our physical bodies can almost never handle it, and it would open us up to all kinds of magical energies that exist in nature—and other mages.

In most cases it either killed you on the spot or it messed you up for good. That’s why every Iridian, regardless of what coven they belonged to, had what we calledanchors—magical objects prepared through simple rituals to draw magic in them, magic that would guide and keep ours compressed and controlled when we used it. Spells were necessary, too—to shape the magic and give it intent. Without spells you had no clue what the magic could do to the world outside or to your own body.

Redfires used gold and precious gems, most as rings; Bluefires used wands; Greenfires used staffs made of spelled wood; and Whitefires used the bones of their deceased.

We Blackfires used the feathers of dead and reincarnated ravens as our anchors, as those hold our magic themost and the longest. Blackfire magiceatsthrough our anchors, like Green and Blue, whereas White and Red can hold onto one anchor for all their lives if they so choose.

We weren’t really allowed to use magic or have anchors in the Tomb, but rules were made to be broken, weren’t they? The feathers in this box were the last ones that my visitor had snuck in that time he came. They’d lasted me the exactly right amount of time, too.

I took one of the smaller feathers first and activated it with three words—spells were usually short for obvious reasons—and I put it in my pocket. I was going to need it if I was to use magic undetected inside the Tomb before I made my escape.

Then I took the bigger feather, one so glossy it looked dipped in oil, with iridescent greens and blues and purples—such pretty colors. I activated it and put it over my pillow, ready for use, just like the Devil asked.

Putting the box away, I then turned and sat in the middle of my bed. With my hands on my knees, I looked at the opposite wall, at the lines I’d engraved with a feather that first night I came here. I sucked at drawing, but I liked to think I’d gotten a few lines of that face right, as well as a few curves of that silky, wavy, golden white hair, the ends of which touched her lower back.

And what I’d lacked in drawing skills, I made up for with my imagination.

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