Cold Burn of Magic
Page 78

And still, I was waiting for my transference Talent to kick in, for the pain to melt into something else, something that I could use to break free of the bonds that held me tight. But all I felt was that faint chill and not the one, big, sweeping, cold surge of power I desperately needed in order to have a fighting chance. No, there was just wave after wave of pain, pulsing through my body.
“Okay,” Grant said. “I think that’s enough blood. Don’t you guys?”
The men shrugged. They weren’t getting my Talent so they didn’t care.
“Yeah,” Grant said, answering his own question. “I think one more cut will do to finish her off. Grab her arms again.”
This was my last chance.
So I sucked down a breath, and I bucked and heaved and thrashed like I never had before, forcing the men to use more and more of their strength to hold me still. I even snapped out with my teeth, trying to bite them, even though there was no way I could do that, given the awkward position I was in. But one of the men slammed his fist into my face, momentarily stunning me.
“What am I paying you idiots for? Hold her still!” Grant snapped.
The men finally wrenched me back into place. Grant raised the dagger high into the air, ready to drive it into my heart and deliver the final, fatal wound that would let him rip my magic out of me before I died.
And I realized that the red-hot pain of my injuries had faded away, and that all I could feel was that cold burn of magic roaring through my veins, stronger now than ever before.
Grant raised the dagger even higher, then brought it down, the weapon whistling like a scythe of death through the air—
I snapped my wrists apart, breaking the heavy ropes that held them together like they were no thicker than strings of thread. I ducked, and Grant missed me, the dagger slicing into the shoulder of one of the guards instead. The man howled with pain and staggered away, blood spraying out in an arc from his deep wound.
Grant whirled around to face me. I shoved the ropes off my hands and got ready.
“How did you do that?” he hissed.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I mocked him.
He let out an angry roar and charged at me.
I stepped up to meet him, sliding past his defenses and the weapon whistling toward my head. Instead, I drove my fist into Grant’s face and took hold of the dagger at the same time. Even though the edge sliced open my palm, I yanked it out of his grasp. In one smooth motion, I flipped the dagger up into the air, grabbed the hilt, and stabbed him in the shoulder.
Grant screamed, but I paid little attention. I was too busy pulling the dagger out of his shoulder and ramming my fist into his face again. He dropped to the ground. I would have finished him off then, but the second guard charged me, his hands arcing out into claws, as if he wanted to rip me limb from limb.
I lashed out with the dagger again. The guy might be strong, but he wasn’t very quick, and I opened up a wound all the way across his stomach, making him fall to his knees. Not deep enough to kill him, but enough to put him out of the fight for the time being. The other man was still staggering around and clutching at his shoulder.
“Mm! Mm-mmm!” Devon tried to shout through the tape again.
I didn’t think I had enough magic left to finish off the men. Besides, saving Devon was my priority, so I hurried over to him.
“Hold your arms out behind you, your hands as far apart as you can get them.”
He did as I asked, and I went to work, slicing through the ropes with the dagger. I helped Devon shove off the heavy ropes, ripped the tape off his mouth, and pulled him up onto his feet.
And just like that, the last of the magic burned out of my system, and I was my regular self again. I took a step forward, my injured left leg almost buckling beneath me.
“Run,” I told Devon. “Get out of here while you still can.”
He shook his head. “No,” he rasped. “Not without you.”
Despite my protests, Devon put his arm around my waist and took most of my weight. Together, we hurried away from the injured Grant and the two guards as fast as we could.
Devon helped me over to the door at the far end of the slaughterhouse. He tried the knob.
“Locked,” he rasped again. “It’s locked!”
“Let me go.”
He did as I asked, and I passed him the dagger. He watched our backs while I reached up. The two chopstick lock picks I had put into my hair earlier were still there, so I plucked them out of my ponytail. I shoved the loose strands of hair out of my eyes and went to work on the door, sliding the picks inside and searching for the tumblers.
“Come on, baby,” I cooed at the lock. “You know you want to open for me.”
Behind me, low moans sounded, but I shut the noises out of my mind and concentrated on the lock, the feel of the picks in my hand, and the way the slender bits of metal needed to slide.
“Hurry, Lila,” Devon croaked. “They’re getting back on their feet.”
I shot him a quick glance. “Can you use your magic on them? Your compulsion?”
He shook his head and arched his neck to one side. Ugly purple bruises ringed his throat. “They took turns . . . strangling me. I can try . . .”
But he didn’t think it would work. Not given how low and raspy his voice was. He was barely more than whispering as it was, and I had to strain to hear him.
“Don’t worry. We’ll find another way.”
I redoubled my efforts on the lock, ignoring the sweat and blood on my hands and the faint tremors in my fingers. And finally—finally—the tumblers slid into place.