23. Nora

23

NORA

M y frustrated growl rips through the air when the fae slumps over in his chair, dead. It's been days of this bullshit, and I have the bodies to prove it. Seven, in fact, sit as sunken statues in front of me, still chained to their chairs.

Wrath's lackeys take them away every night, replacing them with fresh faces each morning. They've all blurred together—the men and women, the clawlike nails and bared teeth, the curses spat onto my skin as I grip their pulses and squeeze.

My fingers press divots into my own cheeks, circling the hinge-point of my jaw. It does little to stave the ache radiating there or the one in my chest.

My magic is writhing and impatient, turned bitter by our asynchrony. It doesn't know how to do what I ask of it, nor do I know how to guide it.

"I don't expect you to get it on the first try." Silas shrugs.

"It's well past the first try," I snap.

Five days of me trying—and failing —and Silas has sat in the same chair the entire time, watching all my mistakes. He's so nonchalant, straddling the backwards chair and leaning his chin on his crossed forearms.

"Try the last one, and then we'll take a break," he says, unfazed by my frustration.

"Fine," I say, voice rough as gravel.

I plant my hands on my hips and close my eyes.

Taking in a deep breath, I coax my magic to the surface. It's a snake coiled tight in my gut, refusing my summons.

Please .

It's been a one-sided battle with myself.

I take another breath. In through the nose, hold for a count of four, then out through the mouth.

If I focus hard enough, dig out the root of the issue, then I can unearth the solution. Tackle it the same as any other problem in my life.

I can fix this.

I can fix this.

Why isn't it working?

I work backwards; the facts track across my mind in little lines of text, running across the splotchy darkness behind my closed eyes.

My touch kills.

When I touch them, my magic seeps into them and then it deals damage, and they die.

My touch is the vessel of magic between us. It allows my magic to enter them ? —

My eyes flick open.

That's it.

Every time I've used my magic, I think of it as an extension of my touch. When I break that physical connection, the magic breaks too, and since my intention is to kill, every test subject before me has died.

But maybe, if I think of my magic as an extension of my soul and try to leave a piece of that in them… it could work.

Plant the seed of death so that it blooms without your presence.

"I'm going to try something different this time," I say.

The prisoner shifts in his bindings as I approach. Ignoring his struggle, I place my hand on his. My touch is featherlight over his fist as I coax my magic to my fingertips. But instead of it sweeping through his body like a storm, I encourage my magic to mark him. I ask my magic to leave a piece of itself in him, a tattoo on his soul.

I pull my hand back and nothing happens.

But I can feel it thrumming inside him. And yet, he doesn't die. It wraps around his heart, tucking itself between the veins and arteries. Seconds pass and my excitement builds. The tension grows inside me, a taught wire of magic stretching between me and the prisoner before me.

It's strange, to be connected like this to another person.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…

Hold fast. Not yet.

The wire snaps, the connection between me and the prisoner breaking, and with it, my magic flows back into me. The fae sputters, heart seizing as my magic wreaks havoc in its departure.

He slumps in his chains.

Letting my frustration get the best of me, I kick the chair holding the dead fae in front of me. The chair tips over, toppling the body onto the ground with a dull thump . An irritated growl tears from my throat.

I couldn't even make it to thirty seconds.

Half success may be just as bad, if not worse, than complete failure.

Maybe I need to think of it as an infusion, rather than a mark, like how my mo ? —

"I don't know why you're kicking the man when he's already down," Silas chirps from behind me. He snaps his silver pocket watch closed, the metallic click piercing the air. "Twenty seconds. That's excellent."

I pin him with a glare.

"It's really not," I say.

His lips twitch with bewilderment as he takes in my tense shoulders and clenched jaw. And then he laughs. Laughs .

"You are truly something else," he says. He twists in his chair, stretching. His back cracks with the action.

"Don't be facetious."

With a sigh, Silas levels with me. "Look, I get it."

"Do you?"

"You can't fail."

I scoff, pacing towards the door.

I need a smoke.

"Don't scoff at the truth," he calls. "You know that if you fail, then you may bring war on your house, your friends, and your lover . If you fail, you put everything you've ever worked for at risk. But worst of all, what good are you ?"

I freeze, gooseflesh spreading over my forearms.

"What good are you if you're not constantly performing well? Being the best? Succeeding ?" He hisses the word like it burns his tongue. "What value do you have then?"

A beat passes where my feet are frozen to the floor; my heart is a frantic beat in my chest as his words hit their mark. I turn my head, Silas's white hair a spec in my periphery.

"I'm done for the day," I say, and though it comes out in more of a whisper, my words echo between us. "Meet me in the library tomorrow morning. I have an idea, but I need more information."

My neck prickles as I leave, and as I close the door behind me, I peek over my shoulder, finding Silas staring thoughtfully in my direction. Recognition swirls in his black irises.

Does he think he's found a kindred spirit?

If so, he's mistaken.

It's then that I decide I don't like the feeling of his eyes on me.