Page 7 of Blackwicket
“Eleanora.”A man’s voice.
I whipped around, abandoning my shoe, hands raised to grab hold, mouth open to release the vile toxin onto its next victim. Transferring the curse so aggressively would wreck me, but I would be free of it. I would get away, and my pursuer would likely die of shock.
But he’d predicted this. Catching both of my wrists, he drove his knee into the soft hollow beneath my ribs, hard enough to knock the air from me. I buckled, but my attacker held tight to my arms, preventing me from toppling over. The jolt of the impact discouraged the curse from advancing, and it made a morose retreat.
“Whoa there, Cricket. Got you a little too hard. Up you get.”
I coughed, looking into the face of the man I’d failed to murder.
“Darren?” I choked out, disbelieving.
“Still calling me by my given name, huh? Okay.”
I certainly wasn’t going to call himDad.
He stabilized me, drawing my arm over his shoulder, “Damn, that’s a lousy one you’ve got there. Even I can feel it. I don’t know what the hell you were thinking, but we’ll talk about that later. You’ve got to transfer it, or the rot will get you.”
On any given day, feelings for my father tipped precariously toward detestation, but relief wounded my will to hate him, leaving space for the child I’d been the last time we’d seen each other.
“Maybe it should finally,” I replied. The sentiment was honest, but sounded petulant. I was sixteen again, equally afraid and full of pride.
“Don’t pout,” he said, nudging me forward. “And move your feet. Your exit wasn’t stealthy. The Authority will be looking for you.”
The Authority and something more sinister. I recalled the woman in the street, her detached interest and powerful magic.
“The Brom know I’m here,” I managed as we took our first step.
Darren halted. I couldn’t meet his eye.
“Well…” he said after a beat, starting us off again, bearing most of my weight. “If this is your way of ‘escaping your tainted family legacy,’ I hope you’re open to some critiques.”
Chapter Three
The journey through the alleys leading to my tenement was excruciating, Darren recommending we take every wrong turn in case the woman or her cohorts were tracking us. I had less time than ever to assemble my belongings and get gone, but when we emerged from the labyrinthine backstreets, we were in a part of Devin I didn’t frequent. Oldtown. This district was downtrodden, known for its seedy bars, cheap motels, and easy access to carnal entertainments you wouldn’t find on the Galton side of the city. People here wouldn’t blink an eye at a battered woman being half dragged down the street.
“This isn’t right,” I said.
I feared we’d taken a wrong turn. At this rate, I’d never make it back to my apartment to retrieve the items that wouldn’t help my case once the Authority had them in custody.
“We can’t go back to your place, Cricket,” Darren said. “The Authority know where you live.”
“There are things I can’t leave,” I protested as he continued to guide my steps.
“We’ll talk after you feel better.”
He helped me navigate across the street, steam rising from the sidewalk vents like fog. We arrived at a four-story motel, squatting between two taller buildings, whose windows were long boarded. A balding man in a suit jacket several sizes toosmall sat at the front desk, absorbed in yesterday’s newspaper. My father waved a set of keys, but the clerk didn’t even raise his eyes.
Following two grueling flights of stairs, Darren unlocked a pinewood door and led me inside. I shrugged him off the moment we crossed the threshold, stumbling to the dingy yellow bathroom to vomit into the sink. At least now my mouth tasted of acrid bile instead of Drudge. A consumed curse often granted its new host a surge of magical ability, a temporary rush of psychic strength, along with a nagging sensation of a toothache in your chest. Drudge didn’t function this way. They didn’t trickle poison, but spread like blood in water.
“Do you still have the vessel?” Darren asked from the other room as I finished gagging and rinsed my mouth with tepid water, feeling little better than dead.
I retrieved the bracelet from my skirt pocket, raising it wordlessly over my head as I wiped my face on a stained towel.
“Right. Do you need me to…uh.” My father fumbled his words, doing everything in his power to avoid offering his help.
“Don’t bother, Darren,” I grumbled, still queasy. I’d done this so many times without him.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
