Page 53 of Blackwicket
A heavy silence fell between us. This night had been far worse than I expected, and there was nothing to show for it but a deeper loathing for the Nightglass family and a fresh curse to replace what I’d just gotten rid of.
“I’m going home,” I said, before regretting the word I’d used. Too late to take it back, it hung in the air, heavy with unintended meaning.
“Wait, Eleanora,” Thea stopped me with a graze of her fingers on my arm. “It isn’t safe for you to walk. I’ll get my driver to take you home.”
“No, thank you. I don’t know where I’d end up,” I replied bitterly.
“I swear to you we’ll take you to Blackwicket House. All the way to the front door.” Her earnestness, which she realized wasn’t worth much given the situation, was punctuated by a small grin that transformed her face, which became something beyond beautiful—the face of a woman who was only that and nothing more.
“Honestly, I’ve never been that close. I’m a little curious.”
“I’m sure,” I replied, not bending to the friendly smile.
“Or you can be a stubborn mule and walk yourself, alone.” She leaned against the door frame, a hand on her hip, confident that she was making a good argument. “In the snow, with a whole crowd of magic-intoxicated lunatics who are going to be looking for any way to keep the high going after being cut off earlier than expected.”
My laugh was a short expulsion of breath. Somehow she’d made this absurd reality sound like a joke. My magic was still active, jittering around the curse I’d taken from Cora, and with the battle of the cold facing me, I might not be able to keep the barriers up to protect me from detection.
“I’ll accept the ride,” I said, “But Thea, I’m not opening the house. I’m not going to help William keep doing this.”
She regarded me as though she were tracing all the lines and features where my sister and I collided.
“Eleanora, honey,” she replied, “I’m not sure William’s going to give you a choice.”
Chapter Twenty-One
We made a hasty exit through the Theater, the cloud of magic dissipating, low conversations rising above the music being diligently played by the Button Men on stage, who were starting to droop in their chairs. She left me at the alley door.
“Stay here, I’ll get Ramsey to pull the car around. Don’t talk to anyone.” She demanded, her stony exterior repositioned, the friendliness dissipated. As she hurried away, I realized I’d forgotten my coat, but a mission to retrieve it would be ludicrous.
From outside, I heard a scuffling, muffled moans, voices cut off in protest, then the sound of a heavy weight hitting the ground. These weren’t the salacious noises of attendees to High Tide. I wanted to mind my own business, let Nightglass handle itself, but the recollection of my earlier run-in with some of the overeager staff compelled me to intervene.
Despite being inappropriately dressed for the weather, I jerked the door open, prepared to do whatever I had to, and found two men crumpled on the alley floor—one unmoving, the other struggling to roll onto his shoulder, finding it impossible. This man’s face was a pulp of swelling, a river of blood pouring from his nose and the cut above his right eye. Two of his fingers were broken, resting crooked at their joint. The snow-dusted stone was dappled with vivid red.
But there was still activity, out of view in the stretch that lead to the lot where Thea’s driver would be waiting. Less concerned about the fight since it was among Brom rabble, I nearly stepped inside. However, the crack of knuckles against bone, coupled with a chillingly familiar low laughter, urged me to lean forward and glance around the corner.
Inspector Harrow had a third Brom by his throat, pinned to the ground, delivering ceaseless blows, as the weak hands of his victim raised uselessly to fend off the onslaught. From my vantage point, the Inspector’s profile was fully visible, hard and expressionless as he grabbed the pitiful creature by his shirt and pull him to his feet.
It was Patrick, the man who’d ventured to spill my entrails on the street outside the train station. If he were here, it seemed he worked for William after all, and was paying for it.
Inspector Harrow’s bulk was significant compared to the Brom, and although Patrick had wanted to stab me to death, the clear imbalance sat wrong in my stomach. The Inspector was the obvious winner of this fight. There was nothing more to do unless death was the purpose.
Why shouldn’t it be?
This nasty thought sat with me for longer than it should, but Inspector Harrow didn’t raise his fist, didn’t draw his gun. He muttered something indecipherable, and the Brom made a noise, a gurgling as he tried to push the Inspector away with the strength of a lamb.
The bowing of Inspector Harrow’s head came with a pang in my chest, a lurching as magic rolled from Patrick’s bruised throat, emerging as a cloud of crimson steam. Inspector Harrow inhaled it, deep and complete, like anyone who’d been curse eating for a lifetime, but even as the dark smog of the polluted enchantment faded, the confiscation wasn’t complete.
The wretched undertaking grew grotesque as Brom’s bodybegan to collapse in on itself, the muscles in the Inspectors neck straining as his head tilted back, jaw opening wider than should be possible without tearing his skin. Yet he remained whole, flesh and bone contorting to accommodate the monstrous feeding, as a wisp of pure magic, bright and white as a falling star, trailed the dark tendrils of the curse. It was the threads of the Brom’s soul being pulled free.
Annulment.
I should have let him drain the man dry, kept my mouth shut and slunk into the lounge. Ran home. Prayed Harrow never knew I was there. But this atrocity was more than even I could stand.
“Inspector!” I cried, voice hoarse from horror, stumbling forward a step.
The consequence of my intervention was immediate. The Inspector’s bearing transitioned, the withdrawal of magic tapering as his muscles relaxed, his face rearranging to its natural state. He released his grip on the Brom, not in startled guilt, but in the deliberate act of discarding something no longer useful.
The man slid down the brick, his legs failing to hold him. When he landed, he toppled into a small bank of snow swept to the wall by the gusts of wind blowing through the alleyway.
