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Mariana turned from me, clearly expecting her orders to be obeyed, and addressed Delilah. “Relax. I slipped a runestone onto that insufferably handsome Constable’s back. Whenever they find him, it’s going to take a good while to get it out.”
Delilah’s shoulders relaxed a fraction and she looked at me, her eyes hard; “Why aren’t you moving yet?”
Recoiling from her tone, I stared at the scalpel and vials. Each vial had a small notch indicating the ounce marks and my stomach turned. A quarter ounce of skin, two fingernails, and two inches of hair.
How long had it taken Cade to get the runestone out of me?
Would he have the strength to get another out of Derrick so soon?
Swallowing hard, I knelt. Somehow, I imagined my knees were not going to hold me for long. The cuffs made angling the blade difficult, but I held the end of my braid and set the scalpel to my hair. Tugging and sawing with uncooperative fingers, I felt the first strands of hair loosen. Fear lodged in my throat, in my gut, and I bit my lip to suppress a sob.
This part didn’t hurt. Of course it didn’t. But it was only delaying pain and my skin prickled. And there was something else too, something primally wrong about it all.
This can’t be happening.
My hair came free, a palm-sized chunk of silky brown in my hand.
Maker help me, this is really happening.
I managed to get the hair into the vial and capped it, setting the hateful thing aside. Beside me, Janice made a soft sound. When I looked up, Janice was watching me with a quizzical expression. For a moment I thought she was coherent, that she knew where we were and might be able to help, but in the next instant she murmured; “Derrick?”
Her gaze slid away from me, and I exhaled.
Good. Let her stay asleep. Don’t let her see what’s coming for her.
Maybe it would be a mercy not to know.
“I said not a peep over there,” Mariana said.
I glanced at the little cluster of people before the fire. Montgomery had moved off from his book and, with a great, gnarled staff, was drawing something in the dirt. Brock remained unconscious on the ground, Delilah standing vigil beside him with Mariana leaning against the younger woman.
No sympathy there.
A bleakness opened in me. It came from somewhere deep, someplace I hadn’t known existed inside me, and I knew that I was alone in every way that mattered.
And I was going to die that way.
“I don’t see a lot of movement over there,” Mariana said. “Tick-tock, little idiot.”
Eyes burning, I focused on the scalpel again.
Where to cut?
If I cut my thigh and went too deep, then I might not be able to run when the Constables arrived. And I prayed and prayed that the Constables would arrive soon.
The stomach was too tender, I couldn’t imagine cutting there.
Oh, Maker. Was I really having to debate this?
I glanced around the forest, listening hard for any signs of movement, still clinging to the hope that Derrick would be there.
All that greeted me were shadows and trees.
I set the scalpel to my arm.
Above the wrist.
The forearm.
