Page 42 of Hunted

“It’s no use!” I yelled, “It’s going to get in here, and when it does, it’s going to destroy you to get to me.”

“Child, please, listen to me—”

“—no, grandmother… I can’t put you in further danger because of me. You know that the only way out of this is to let me go.”

Even though the world beyond the Magic Shop’s windows was already dark, and night had fallen, it felt to me like they were darkening further still. A kind of ominous pressure fell around my ears, threatening to burst my eardrums before it squashed my head like a grape.

“Amara…” my grandmother said, sparkling tears falling down the side of her face. “I would be failing you if I let you go.”

“How could you say that?”

“I let your mother go, I wasn’t here when they… when they took her, and I… I’ll never forgive myself if… if I let it happen again…”

Thunder rumbled outside. This time, the sound was so loud, it made the very Magic Box tremble. Fingers of dust fell from the ceiling, illuminating as they touched the glow emanating from my grandmother’s fingertips.

“My mother?” I didn’t understand at first, but it was only a moment before it clicked. My mother had told me the story of how she came to be in Arcadia many times. How it had been my father, the then Prince of Windhelm, who came here, to this very place, and stole her from her own home. He hadn’t known who she was, only that it was his task to bring her to the palace so she could be enrolled in the Royal Selection.

My mother and her best friend, Gullie, had tried to fight the Fae off, but they had won in the end, and they took her with them. My grandmothers weren’t here that day. They hadn’t been able to protect her, to help her, to stop the Fae from taking her away.

Even though things worked out for my mother, and for me, she still blamed herself; the injury that day had caused her was still there.

“You haven’t failed me,” I said. “You took me in, you showed me warmth, and care. You have done so much for me already. All I’m asking is for you to let me do something for you, now. I don’t want to see the only family I have left get hurt.”

Helen shut her eyes tightly, glistening, glowing tears forming along her eyelids. “Go,” she said, “Into the workroom.”

“Grandmother—” I said, about to protest, but she cut me off and continued.

“—on the desk where your mother used to work, there is a piece of paper with a series of symbols drawn into it. Touch it, call on your magic, and it will take you away.”

“Take me away?” I asked. “To where?”

“Somewhere safe, away from here.”

“Will you come with me?”

“Not yet. We will hold the creature off for as long as we can. I want to try to capture it, or bind it somehow.”

“Is that safe?”

The entire house rumbled again, and this time, six sigils burned themselves out, each in quick succession like a cascade.

“There’s no time for this!” she said. “If you want to leave, leave now.”

I wanted to reach out to her, to touch her arm, to make her feel… better about all this. But she was right, there wasn’t time. All around us, protective sigils were burning themselves out. I could feel the creature’s presence drawing nearer, getting closer, getting stronger. I had just been given a way out.

It was time to take it.

“Please,” I said, backing up again. “Please be careful.”

“I’m not letting Arcadia win this time,” she said, and the conviction in her voice gave me the chills.

I grabbed Valerian’s hand, picked Tallin up, and raced away from the Magic Box’s front room, went through the beaded curtain, and spilled into the workshop. Here, there were stacks of beautiful, unused fabric, desks covered in all manner of instruments—from phials and cauldrons for potions, to scissors and measuring tapes for dresses.

In the corner of the room was the smallest desk. On it was an old-fashioned spindle, a set of pencils and erasers, a small, plush frog into which many pins had been stuck. This was my mother’s old desk. From this desk, she would make magic dresses for the witches of Earth, all those many, many years ago.

I touched the desk, gently, letting my fingers glide over this piece of history I never thought I would get to touch. The spindle was cold, the desk itself worn with use. There were scratch marks in it, little hearts, little snowflakes… a picture of a howling wolf.

Did she know?