Page 60 of Wicked Chains
The mark on my arm throbs, and I scratch at it, wondering if I could cut it out of my skin. Probably not. It would just reappear somewhere else, or kill me in the process. Either way, not a good outcome.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, willing the tears to stay put. I'm tired of being a pawn. Tired of being passed from one coven to another like property.
"Hank," I whisper, focusing on the connection to my familiar. "I need you, buddy."
That familiar green glow appears on my dresser, turning quickly into Hank's small shape. He blinks his bulging eyes at me, then hops down to the floor, making his way over with purposeful little jumps.
"Hey there."
Hank climbs onto my knee, settling himself comfortably.
"Ribbit," Hank replies.
“You’re the only one who is always here for me, Hank.”
He croaks.
"I know," I say, as if I understood him perfectly. "Drake's different. He comes back. Usually." I sigh, rubbing my forehead. "But I can't keep waiting for him to show up and save me, can I? And I can't keep pretending that Soren or Lucien can protect me either. Not from Ash. Not from the contract. Fucking Abigail. She sure screwed things up for me."
I let the anger build, stoking it like a fire. Anger is better than fear or despair. Anger can be useful.
"I've spent all this time reacting," I tell Hank. "Running from one crisis to the next, letting them control the board. That ends today." I lift Hank carefully and set him on the dresser before standing up. "I can't beat Ash in a direct confrontation. He made that painfully clear. So I need to be smarter. I need information."
Pacing the small room, I try to think. Who might know something useful? Who might have overheard something important? There are other people here, people who move through the academy unnoticed. People who might hear things they're not supposed to hear.
People like Ollie.
"What do you think, Hank? Worth a shot, right?"
Hank blinks at me.
"Alright then." I scoop Hank up and place him in my hoodie pocket. "Let's go find Ollie."
I open my door carefully, peering out to check if the coast is clear. The last thing I need is to run into Thorne or Harry or, God forbid, Ash himself. The hallway is empty, most students still outside taking selfies in the snow.
I slip out and make my way through the dormitory building, keeping my head down. I'm not sure where Ollie would be at this time of day, but I figure my best bet is to check the main building where most of the classrooms are located.
As I cross the quad, I can't help scanning for Ash, for Lucien, for anyone who might have witnessed my humiliation. But the snow falls steadily, covering the spot where I knelt. Nature, at least, is kind enough to erase the physical evidence, even if the memory remains burned into my brain.
The main building is quiet since it’s the weekend. I wander the halls, checking classrooms and storage closets, listening for the sound of cleaning. Finally, I spot him at the end of a corridor, mopping the floor with careful, methodical strokes.
"Ollie," I call softly, not wanting to startle him.
He jumps anyway, nearly dropping the mop. His eyes dart around nervously before settling on me. "Miss Smith," he whispers, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting someone to appear and scold him for talking to me. "You shouldn't be here."
"I'm not going to get you in trouble," I promise, approaching slowly. "I just want to talk."
Ollie fidgets with the mop handle. "I'm working," he says, though there's no real conviction in it. "If they see me not working..."
"Five minutes," I plead. "Please, Ollie. I need help, and I don't know who else to ask."
His shoulders slump slightly. "Five minutes," he agrees reluctantly. "But not here. Too many eyes."
He leads me to a supply closet off the main hallway, checking to make sure no one sees us enter. The space is cramped but clean, shelves lined with cleaning products and stacks of paper towels.
"What is it?" Ollie asks. "Is it about what happened outside? With Mr. Ash?"
"You saw that?"
