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“It’s a very expensive clock. Handmade.”
“I imagine it would have hurt a great deal.”
“Probably not as much as you deserve,” I said, earning myself a soft chuckle of response. I squared my shoulders, holding onto the sound of his humor and praying it would be enough to get me through the next moments. “Now stop looking at me like that and open the door.”
It was Derrick’s turn to hesitate. “You’re certain? We can head back if you want.”
“No, we can’t.” I turned to him, holding his gaze and praying for a strength I’d never mustered before in my life. “Your mother doesn’t deserve whatever they have planned for her. No warlock does. We’re going to catch them today. And we’re going to stop them.”
Something flickered in his expression: admiration, regret, fear, probably all three. Then he shook his head and spun the wheel, the muscles in his forearm tensing as heavy gears shifted. With a resounding clank that rattled through my gut, the door unlocked and swung open.
Inside was bright, not dark. Sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling, illuminating every corner, and my stomach pitched. This was not the customary space of a factory, that much was clear. It had been retrofitted for another, more grisly purpose, its sleek, gleaming copper walls and floor almost pristine in their ability to reflect the light. There were only two exceptions to this; one corner housing a stained wooden table with straps in distinct locations that made my skin begin to crawl, and its accompanying wall where a floor to ceiling poster displayed a guided anatomy of the typical warlock.
I’d seen one of these before, at the butcher’s market, explaining which was sirloin and which was chuck.
I stared at the poster, too startled to move.
There were lines and handwritten notes scribbled in the margins, and I knew exactly what they would say before I read them, and yet, I read them anyway.
Liver – For the extension of life or basic healing tonics.
Fingers – particularly the index and middle – excellent for enhancing glamor magic.
Hair – binding reagent.
Skin – for clarity in the aether.
Clenching my fists out of defense, I recoiled and fought to breathe. Turning away from the horrible poster, I let my attention fix on the stained table. Something niggled at my empathy, insistent that I open to it, that I listen. It was not unlike the items in Uncle Martin’s shop, mundane on the outside and yet, hiding within was the echo of a soul that had loved it, that missed it. Or, as in this case, the echo was of trauma: fear and agony and despair.
I felt them all pressing in, demanding I let down what guards I had on my own soul and identify with them, but I hesitated. If I let them in, they could swallow me whole. I could lose myself there.
It’s all right, Nora.
Mother’s voice, not Derrick, and I shied further from the task. I hadn’t let her haunt me in a decade, forcing her voice and her memory into a little box that I buried somewhere deep. It wasn’t fair of me, I knew that, but she was everything helpless and terrified within me, and I was not ready to face her. I wasn’t certain I ever would be.
And yet, I volunteered to do this.
It had been my choice to dredge up this memory, to suggest tracking Janice the same way. Maker help me, the staircase was vivid in my mind, its concrete walls leading down, the cool of the basement brushing my skin. The scent of a sickroom wafting up to meet me.
“It’s all right, Nora.”
This time it was Derrick. His hand was on the small of my back, bringing me to the present once more. I shuddered and swallowed and coached myself into breathing.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said.
“Yes, I do.”
With a deep breath, I let down my guards and concentrated on the table. Emotions swarmed out of the hard, wooden surface. There were no voices and yet I could sense individuals through the whirl of terror. Hopelessness washed through me, the ache of knowing death had come stripped fear to its bones, leaving something else behind, something far more tragic: regret. Futures that would never be, family that would miss them, yearning for that one last embrace from a mother or a father or a brother.
I made a sound, something like a gasp and a whimper that was folded into the room. Derrick said my name, a question in his voice, but I couldn’t turn back yet. I couldn’t shut them out.
Janice.
I focused on the name, pictured her face in my memory.
Janice.
Opening my eyes to the aether, I sought any sign of her, any residual trace of the woman she was. If she had been here recently, the imprint of her soul would have been visible. If she had been tortured on this table, her fear would be swimming with the rest, but try as I might, I could not sense her.
