Page 40 of Blackwicket
I did the bribing, he’d said.
I snorted with all the derisive loathing I could muster. “Past time he was in the ground. Grigori was a devil and a madman.”
“He enjoyed a decorated military history, worked closely with the Authority to weed out Brom factions in several cities, Devin included, and was a much-lauded Principe, even after surviving such tragedy,” Inspector Harrow remarked, as though he were reading a eulogy.
My heart kicked behind my ribs.
Thomas. Thomas. Thomas.
“It didn’t make him good.”
“From what I know, he kept your family out of trouble and legally employed for many years.”
I rotated in my seat, the energy of my rage renewed.
“He blackmailed my mother!”
Harrow held my gaze.
“Is that why she murdered his son?”
Overcome by a jolt of fury, I aimed a slap at Inspector Harrow’s face, but he captured my wrist, my fingers mere inches from the scar on his cheek.
“Thomas Nightglass’s death was a terrible accident.” The words were jagged and bitter, filling the car with my grief. A vibrant current of energy coursed between us. In my turmoil, I’d dropped my guard, giving the Inspector access, and magic moved toward him as naturally as a brook flowing downstream. The sensation lacked the greasy violations of Coppe’s magic and the sterile precision of William’s, but still sent a shiver down my spine. I tried to heave free, but Inspector Harrow’s grip was a vice.
“Tell me what happened,” the Inspector coaxed, low. “All I have are the rumors. A young boy makes friends with a Blackwicket girl, ends up filled to the throat with curses. Grigori takes him to your house, where people supposedly go to be healed, and the boy comes out dead.”
“Thomas was dead before he came through that door,” I whispered. “No child could survive curses like that.”
His fingers tightened.
“You’re lying to me again.”
“I’m only returning the favor,” I snarled, struggling like a trapped animal, “My mother never killed anyone!”
“How did she die, Eleanora?” He asked, calm as the eye of a storm even as he pulled me violently forward. I slid across the seat toward him. “Where is her body? It’s not in the cemetery, the coroner confessed the casket was empty.”
I was vaguely aware he was provoking me, pushing my boundaries, hoping I would reveal my power, but the panic was too overwhelming for me to resist.
“Let me go.” I intended it as a command, but emerged as a plea.
Gaze set on the tear streaks making tracks to my chin, the Inspector murmured, “I’m going to peel back every rotting, soft layer of your life, Miss Blackwicket, and I’ll uncover the truth.”
In response, I finally did what he’d been goading me to do, releasing my magic as if pulling the trigger on a pistol. The bolt of it should have ricocheted through him, singeing his senses. This type of magic didn’t kill but could be agonizing in large, unexpected doses. Yet instead of causing harm, it struck as if hitting warm tar. In reaction, his own power began to envelop mine, consuming my energy as effortlessly as a ravenous sea swallows a stone. His eyelids drooped, a deep rumble escaping him, reverberating through the charged air of the cab, and his grip slackened. I threw myself against the door, clambering to open it and escape. He didn’t attempt to stop me.
“If you’re so interested in the truth,” I grated, standing in the driveway, chest heaving, cheeks hot as coals. “Find out what happened to my sister.”
I turned my back on the Inspector’s callousness, and the unwanted, terrible ache in me, branching from the place where our magic crossed, where his touch still stung my skin.
Chapter Sixteen
The house hummed as I entered, responding enthusiastically to the caustic energy I was emitting. The sound mingled with the shifting gravel as the Inspector drove away from the house. I didn’t need to run, but still vaulted every step, my magic, long suppressed, pulsing freely along with my heartbeat, entwining with adrenaline and fury.
As I arrived at the third floor, my vision rocked in and out of focus. I was too full of negative emotions, fueled by the maddening indifference of a man whose sole aim was to dig deep into the soft viscera of my past, extracting whatever he needed to justify his contempt for me, my sister, and all others like us who were struggling to survive in a world that used us as tools or as alters for blame.
Instead of seeking refuge in the bedroom of my childhood, I turned to the one my mother kept, which I assumed Fiona occupied in years past. I was desperate to be close to the memories of the women who’d loved me, two people who’d been intrinsically part of the only joy I’d ever felt in my life.
As I pushed the door open, Williams’ words slithered through my burning thoughts—menacing yet provocative.
