Chapter Ten

Trapped again.

Anjeline really needed to stop making a habit out of this. An orb of light in the madame’s palm cast an eerie glow over her face. A stooping crow of a witch. This Madame Gramone seemed made of fowl beneath her dress of black silk. The light escaped through her long-nailed fingers as she’d dragged Anjeline and Rebel into the basement. Their legs were now rooted to the floor, immobilized from the spell cast upon them, but Anjeline’s insides smoked in rising dismay at the turn of events.

A witch running an Institute.

She noticed the faint residue of magic shimmering off objects like waves of steam. Stuffed owls and bats hung from the ceiling. Black opal stones glimmered where eyes no longer existed. Spheres lined countless shelves, along with a medieval flail and dozens of skulls, most looking human in anatomy, though some had pointed ears. The darker the magic the thicker the residue, which explained the magic she’d sensed before.

It had come from the witch.

“Not so clever now, are you?” Gramone crooned, hunched over a stove pot. The severed animal parts inside bubbled and hissed in no need of heat.

“What human and demon birthed you?” Anjeline spat. Her essence pushed against the spell on them with no use. She hissed as her bonds tightened, suppressing her from shifting into a roc bird and plucking out the woman’s eyes. Trapped by a witch. Madrath would laugh. The lowest of magic-kind.

“One doesn’t have the luxury of choosing where you come from.” The witch smirked and glanced at Rebel. “Do they, dear?”

Rebel tried moving a hand to her belt, surely for her knife. “Knew you were part devil,” she said. “Explains why you’ve been wrecking my life.” The pieces of the puzzle had fused together for her, all the youths that must have reaped punishment at the crow’s hands. The many spells the witch concocted from using what the conservatory supplied, enchanting items for the Black Market.

“People aren’t against you, dear. They’re for themselves. Even you, little Fingersmith.” Madame Gramone waved her fingers in the air as though she were performing a trick, unleashing a puff of smoke from the stove.

The gesture reminded Anjeline of her capture. “May the Creator curse you, witch.”

When Gramone spoke again, her voice filled with a grin. “That posh magician came sniffing around for you, accusing me of pilfering a golden vase from her loft. Luckily, I hit her with a confusion spell before she did me. She’ll be disoriented for days. But you could imagine my surprise when I learned a jinni was lurking under my roof.”

Anjeline stiffened and felt Rebel’s pulse skip a beat. The magician woman. Her possessor before. It was almost impossible for a locator spell to be used on the vessel due to the binding marks, yet somehow, the magician had been powerful enough to get beyond them, which meant she had to be familiar with Nero’s markings. Familiar with Nero.

The witch inclined her head toward Rebel. “Looks like you won’t be able to wish yourself a better organ after all.”

Her words caused a sudden despair to bleed over Rebel’s features.

Anjeline had no time to discern its meaning when, with surprising agility, Rebel lunged with her switchblade—to shatter the spell restraining them—but her lower limbs wouldn’t dislodge. Like a rubber band, Rebel’s torso snapped back, sending her blade and her satchel skidding across the floor.

A high-pitched giggle came from Madame Gramone, followed by a command. A crow swooped down off the shelves, grabbed the bag, and hooked it high atop a clasp on the ceiling. Satchel and vase, unable to be reached unless one had stretched legs.

With a pang of unease, Anjeline knew they were captive. Which couldn’t lead to anything good. Escaping thoughts faded in favor of the dread bleeding into her spirit, but not all of it hers. She felt fingers curl around her hand. Rebel’s fingers. It had been ages since she’d been touched by another, felt another’s heartbeat. She sensed Rebel’s pulse titter in pain, either from rising panic or the temperature, so cold her limbs must have been unhappy.

“We’re…trapped.” Rebel tried moving her feet.

“Obviously.” Anjeline nodded.

“No. We’re trapped.”

She thought she’d missed something but then remembered Rebel’s words: …never been caught. It was her motto. Rebel’s nose scrunched up, concealing fear with fury, and stray hairs fell across her eyes as she tried moving again. If it weren’t for their predicament, Anjeline might have smiled at her determination. But Rebel had never been manipulated by magic. Trapped in a vase. Like a lion crammed into a birdcage. Anjeline knew the feeling well. The ghostly hand of being controlled, forced to commit acts against your will.

She had served the greatest magician who ever lived, built the grandest temples, aided him in the power of the birds and beasts, and now she couldn’t even fight off a spell. Undoing enchantments exceeded what her bindings would allow. Solomon, my stifled magic is as feeble as the human beside me. Though, together they just might be able to escape.

“What is it you want, witch?” Anjeline risked a guess. “A wish?”

Gramone snickered. “I’m a sorceress, not a fool. Many have breathed one last breath because of you, Wishmaker.” She seemed to see right through Anjeline’s manipulation. “I’ve no desire to have a wish eat me alive like your trustful Solomon.”

Smoke roiled in Anjeline’s core. This witch had found her deepest wound and was poking at it. “And what’s a witch doing in this place? Besides feasting on the youth?”

“Me?” Gramone placed her hand to her chest in mock innocence. “Believe me, if I could have I would have.” Her lip curled, and she gestured about her. “For far too long, I’ve been cursed here, to care for those wretched little cast-offs. The Sun Court is vengeful with the truce laws. It wasn’t even a big deal—brewing a potion from the flesh of one feyrie’s pinions—and I serve a life of this.”

Rebel’s pupils dilated in horror. “You…skinned a feyrie?”

Heat sizzled within Anjeline. “It’s forbidden.”

Paying no heed, Gramone pointed a bone dagger at Rebel. “Perhaps, but now the Prince of the underneath will be pleased enough to break my curse because of you.”

Rebel’s head jerked back. “What do you mean?”

“For leading me to the temptress behind you, of course.” The witch gestured a sharp fingernail at Anjeline. “The Prince has every devil hunting you down, dearie. The first one to capture the Wishmaker for him will gain an impossible fortune. You’re going to be a prize.”

Anjeline tensed and, judging by the slight tilt of her head, she knew the witch had noticed. As her rage faded, her spirits withered with it, and panic filled its place. Her fist tightened around Rebel’s jacket sleeve, as though the mere connection could assuage the idea of him controlling her, slightly less awful than if it were Nero.

“Not on my life,” Rebel said and inched her body in front of Anjeline’s as much as she could, using it like a shield, becoming a solid barrier between the witch and her. A wild light had entered Rebel’s eyes, her aura so strong it echoed through Anjeline. No human had ever protected her before. Not like this. Not even you, Solomon.

“What life?” Gramone grinned but it never reached her eyes. “Lost things like you have no future. You dabble with works of magic you can’t begin to understand.”

“We can’t all get by on evil like you,” Rebel bit back.

In a blur, the witch was in front of Rebel, seizing her chin and lifting the dagger to her neck. But Gramone hissed back, as if the knife cut herself instead. Anjeline had seen this type of curse before. The witch had been jinxed with a retaliation spell. If she physically harmed a soul in this place, she would be hurt, as well.

“You’re nothing but a guttersnipe!” she snarled. “A lost girl! It’s all you’ll ever be!”

The spell over them had broken, allowing movement. But Rebel swallowed and the blade moved against the soft skin of her throat. It might have been the expression on her face or the way the fire in her eyes dimmed, unmindfully assuming defeat that the witch had instilled with manipulation, but Anjeline felt her essence blister within. Fevered and effervescent.

“Leave her!” Anjeline’s magic birthed in white-hot threads up her arms.

“Pshaw.” Gramone twirled the blade away. “Under those bonds, your magic is caged—unless for a wish.”

“Caged or not, you will reap it.” In a swirl of smoke, Anjeline shifted into the one thing her bindings would allow, an Abyssinian cat. She sprang up to Rebel’s shoulder and swiped her claws at the witch’s face, snagging flesh.

Gramone lunged back and lifted a hand in a flourish.

A force hit Anjeline, knocking her away.

She shifted back to girl and spun as she fell, taking Rebel with her, sending them tumbling over containers and animal carcasses into the wall. Their limbs tangled together, pushing against one another. Too close. The scent of Rebel overwhelmed her, cinnamon from this morning’s food, salt from the winter wind, leather and blood. It made her dizzy. She pushed up and away, and with groans, they stumbled to their feet ready to run.

Not that it mattered. Escaping now looked wholly out of the question.

Gramone wiped blood from her now wounded cheek. “Let’s play a little game…” Her grin turned deadly, the crow moving in for the kill. “While the Prince’s Night Guard comes for the Wishmaker, why doesn’t the Rebel see how she fairs against my pets.” She dropped a small bone in the pot—a tail—and then let her blood trickle off her finger into the pot.

“By this blood,” she uttered, “I command you forth.”

The brew released a green mist, spilling out over the edge, creeping around their feet, seeping inside every wall crack and crevice. Sounds scuttled at their sides. Scratching rose from the shadows in the corners. Rebel stepped back, bumping into Anjeline, and stood in front of her as if she could stop the mist. Louder and louder the scraping grew. Until shapes came toward them on the ground. Tiny claws clicked, fleshy tails waved back and forth, followed by ink-drop eyes.

Rats.

A swarm of enchanted rats.

Though small, their rodent shadows loomed over them, and in seconds, they were surrounded. Anjeline blew a breath of heat. The rats inched back, but it wasn’t enough. Trembles rocked through her, though it hadn’t come from her aura. After all, nothing but magic could harm her essence. No ordinary weapons, not even rats could hurt her. But they could a human. In the gleam of the light, she watched Rebel’s eyes widen, her fingers grasping the pendant at her neck.

“My curse might prevent me gutting your innards, but my pets can. Casting people’s fortunes with your bones will bring a handsome fee from the Black Market,” Gramone said and turned to Anjeline. “Enjoy watching as they feast.” She laughed all the way up the stairs and with a twitch of fingers cast a spell on the door, locking them in.

A hand crept over Anjeline’s.

Rebel stared straight ahead, not daring to acknowledge what was about to happen, but her fingers squeezed Anjeline’s gently. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

What could Anjeline say? What could her restrained magic do without a wish? It hit her then. She couldn’t consider the option Madrath might have chosen: vanish inside the vessel and leave the human to perish. Why should she care what happened to her? But she tried to protect me. It was then she realized the witch hadn’t touched the vessel. Rebel might not have the vase in hand, but she was the last to physically handle it, leaving her imprint. And Anjeline hoped beyond hope her idea would work.

“Rebel, time to make a wish.”

“What? But you…”

“Make a wish, unless you want to be eaten.” Whatever consequence the wish would bring would be nothing compared to the nightmare about to take place.

As the rats came for her, ready to commit a mortal sin, Rebel cried out, “I wish for us to be safe!”

Time slowed to a halt.

The creatures’ movement paused in mid-step. Anjeline opened her palms and felt Rebel’s will of the wish seep through her skin, into her essence with the familiar pull. The strength of Rebel’s aura flowed in shining streams, so bright a pulse of fiery energy filled Anjeline’s chest, working up to her mouth.

This wish felt different.

Unlike the possessors of the vase before Rebel, the power of it opened Anjeline up to a certain freedom, for she was willingly releasing her force, instead of resisting. Rebel’s desire was like iron, her will like steel. Like a beacon for Anjeline to draw on. Becoming the threads which she began to spin her magic into being. Coiling ribbons of it twined around Rebel, her hair fluttered, and tiny beads of light danced off her lashes.

As the wish took shape in Anjeline’s core, an image flashed in her mind, one of safety, a place of green fashioned into reality. When she opened her mouth, freeing the ancient breath of the Jinn casting the wish, their surroundings bent away.

Within a blink, they were gone.