Page 26 of Blackwicket
“I can’t help you. You need Fiona, and she’s gone.”
The pounding came faster, overwhelming me. I covered my ears, opened my mouth to scream, but there was no need. Silence fell.
Tired of being bullied, I turned to beat a hasty retreat, only to collide with a solid figure. My shriek was stifled by a large palm pressed to my mouth, an arm encircling my waist, preventing me from falling as I struggled to break loose. I urged the curse within me to rise, but it was too weak to hurt anyone but me. With no other choice, I raised my hands to claw at the eyes of my attacker, only to recognize the moonlit face of Inspector Harrow.
He was disheveled, clothes rumbled, hair unkempt. I might have assumed it due to being abruptly awoken, except that his right cheek bore a fresh cut at the pinnacle of bone, skin mottled with fresh bruising.
“Don’t wake the dead, Ms. Blackwicket,” he intoned, voice silky in the dark.
I slapped his hand away.
“Lunatic!” My voice rang in the hush. “What are you doing wandering around in the middle of the night?”
“Heard something interesting,” he replied.
He hadn’t yet released his grip on my waist, and I pushed him back. Harrow retreated the barest of steps, but I remained cornered. There wasn’t nearly enough space to slip by without bodily shoving past, and I was reluctant to make contact again.
“You told me this place was empty,” he said. “But I doubted a single Curse Eater could make all that racket by herself, so I had a look around.”
It’s true he appeared to have dressed hastily, his trousers beltless, ever-present revolver in a shoulder holster he’d shrugged on over a white cotton undershirt.
I eyed the weapon with no modest amount of disdain.
“The things in these walls aren’t afraid of your gun, Inspector.”
It was a weak attempt at frightening him, but the narrowing of his eyes and the slight tilt of his head revealed it did the opposite.
“What things, Ms. Blackwicket?” The low rumble of his voice had an unsettling effect on me. I’d never been this close to Inspector Harrow before. Our previous interactions always involved a barrier, an interrogation table, or the bars of a public cell. The nearest he’d ever come was leaning over the table to look me in the eye when he’d been given orders to release me.
You’re free to go, Ms. Knoles, but not in innocence. You and I both know you killed Brock Mofton. There’s no hiding from that, and there’s no hiding from me.
The Drudge I’d attempted to summon moments earlier lie low, creating space for my power to ascend, extending instinctively. I sensed no intrusion, no probing hand, just the eager surge of magic ready to share itself. The Inspector must have been up to something, searching in a manner I’d never encountered, employing a trick to entice me into a false sense of security, as the Brom woman attempted in the streets of Devin.
“Stop it,” I said, much softer than intended.
“I saw you in town today,” he replied, and the feeling abated. At the very least, I’d made it clear I was aware of myself enough to sense when I was being toyed with.
“I went to see Fiona’s body. I didn’t realize I was under house arrest.”
I was anxious to be as far from him as possible.
“What did you do with the Drudge from Galtons?”
The question was abrupt. He was trying to knock me off balance and was doing a decent job. I hadn’t bothered to plan a lie about this, and I hesitated.
“Don’t forget, Ms. Blackwicket, I witnessed what happened.” He didn’t need to remind me, but he probably enjoyed doing it. “Are you harboring it?”
Capable of giving infuriating answers to infuriating questions, I replied, “You’d know if I was.”
“Did you sell it?”.
“Of course not!”
“So where is it?”
I had no choice but to weave truth through the tale I was going to spin; otherwise, I was at risk of giving myself away. As my father had pointed out, the number of curses in my bag downstairs was a felony. But there was more than that here. Far more.
“It’s gone, Inspector.” The lie tasted like blood.
