Chapter 34

Tristan

I creep through the forest,the trees becoming denser and denser the deeper I walk until I'm squeezing between tree trunks, leafless branches scraping at my shoulders and my face. It's eerily quiet. Perhaps it's because the birds have flown south and the other animals are hidden away hibernating. Or maybe it's the oppressive nature of the forest.

There are rumors among the students that the forest is haunted, haunted by ancient spirits that feed on the souls of trespassers. That's the reason the forest is impassible. That's the reason no one comes in or out.

That also sounds like bullshit to me. There are no such things as spirits.

Then again, there were meant to be no such things as dragons. And that turned out to be bullshit too.

The temperature this far into the forest is several degrees cooler than it was out on the campus and my breath hangs like a ghost of its own in front of my face, the cold wind like icy fingers stroking at my skin.

Yeah, okay, it's creepy.

I try not to think about it, plowing onwards. I've turned off my phone – I don't want to be tracked – which means I've had to resort to old-fashioned methods of navigation. I hold a compass I stole from Johnson's classroom up to my face. By my reckoning, if I keep heading northeast, I should reach the other side of the forest. Then I'll have to circle back around the base of the hill, hoping no security forces are patrolling there, and head out into the lanes. There's an old motorbike out in one of the fields – one Spencer crashed on a night of craziness a year ago. We never bothered to try and fix it or to drag it back to campus. I'm hoping I'll be able to revive it back to life.

That's my plan, anyway. I admit it's not the best. I could find myself lost in this forest. I could find myself caught. The motorbike may no longer be there after all this time. Or perhaps I won't be able to make it start. It's the best I have for now, though, so I'm sticking with it, even as the wind wails through the branches overhead and has me reconsidering my life choices.

I try to ignore it and the sinister sensation that there's someone out here in the forest with me, my skin creeping. This is how it must have felt for Piglet that time I followed her into the forest. Only that time there had been someone there with her. Me.

This time I'm imagining it. Imagining the sound of whispered voices and the brush of fingertips against my skin, of my mom's voice in my ear.

"Tristan."

I spin around. The trees are so close now, so crowded, so clustered together and drawing closer and closer until they're pressing against me, entrapping me in their branches, circling me in a prison.

I crash my magic hard against the trunks as they squeeze tighter and tighter, trapping me, crushing me. The wood splinters, two of the trees sway and topple to the ground and then I sprint through the gap, hoping I'm running the fucking right way.

Those voices grow louder, taunting, calling my name. I swear I see a ghostly face peering at me from behind a tree as I race as fast as I can, the trees seeming to chase me, scratching at me, reaching for me.

I stumble once and a limb wraps around my ankle, dragging me to the ground as laughter cackles through the cold air.

I slice my magic through it and then I'm running again, swerving the trees that attempt to block me, resisting my mother's plea to stay, stay with her, stay with her, stay with her.

I cover my ears with my hands. Another face and another. I fire my magic at them. But they're like air. Barely rippling as my magic passes straight through them.

I keep running, sweat pouring down my face and into my eyes, my clothes damp.

Is this how it ends? Like this? Lost among the trees, invisible so no one will even find my body.

Will she feel it? Will she know that I'm gone? Will it hurt her?

I don't want to hurt her anymore. I'm not going to. I fire my magic out in front of me, scorching the trees and running through the flames. They burn at my face but I don't stop, I keep pushing and pushing and pushing until finally, finally, I break free of the trees, and collapse down onto my knees, panting, my chest heaving. I can still hear those voices taunting me, but they're behind me now, locked in the forest.

I stumble to my feet, refusing to look back and continue on my way.

The prison is locatedin an old fortress in the middle of marshland to the east of the capital. There's one paved road that stretches across the swamp, but as I don't want to be spotted, I'm forced to abandon the motorbike and make my way cross-country on foot.

My feet plunge into the soggy land, and soon my boots, my socks, and my feet are soaked through. Twice I nearly lose a boot altogether, the mud sucking hungrily at my feet, and once I sink all the way down to my thighs and am forced to use my magic to pull myself out. But finally, I see the shadow of the fortress looming in front of me. It's ringed by the old moat that's guarded it for centuries, the ancient drawbridge still the only way to cross, and sentries posted along the battlements.

I peer down into the moat, debating whether I'm going to have to swim across. Even in the darkness, I can see the water is a putrid green color and things I don't want to examine too closely are floating on its surface. Yeah, I won't be swimming in that. Which leaves the drawbridge.

Tonight, it's raised and securely fixed in place.

I consider waiting until it's lowered and sneaking my way inside unseen. But who knows when that will be. I could be left waiting for days and I don't have the patience or the inclination for that.

No, I decide to use my tried and most tested method for solving a problem. Throwing my fucking family name at it. Yeah, it's fucking arrogant. It's also damn effective.

As soon as I decide on that course of action, I regret not coming by road on the motorbike. I'm going to look mighty suspicious turning up alone outside the prison, my boots wet and my legs covered in marshy slime.

Then again, I'm the Lord Protector's son himself. I'm sure I can convince them to let me in. Of course, someone's bound to call it in, double check I'm meant to be here. But I plan to be long gone with my friend before my dad or his forces turn up to investigate what I'm up to.

I let myself reappear, using my magic to dry my boots and clean up my pants as best I can. Then I step out onto the road and call up at the guards on the battlements.

Immediately, their weapons are trained my way and a spotlight swings in my direction, blinding me in the process. I shade my eyes.

"State your identity and your intentions immediately or we'll be forced to take you out."

"Tristan Kennedy," I say in as arrogant and bored tone as I can manage. "Here under my father's orders to see the Moreau prisoner. Lower the bridge."

"In the middle of the night?" the guard says with incredulity.

"Don't keep me waiting," I snap.

The guard eyes me, then turns and whispers to his friend.

"How did you get here?" he says, still unconvinced. "We didn't see anyone approaching."

"I'm the Lord Protector's son. I have powers and abilities you couldn't even imagine. If I want to arrive unnoticed and unannounced, that is no fucking concern of yours. Now, do you want me to report your insolence to my father, or not?"

The guard peers at the other one nervously, then waves his hand and the bridge lowers slowly, groaning as it does. It takes far longer than I'd like, wasting precious minutes, and I've jumped up on the boards and am striding across before it's fully lowered.

A more senior-looking guard meets me at the entrance of the prison, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and introduces himself as the warden.

"We weren't told to expect you."

"And I suppose you're told of all my father's plans, are you?" I sneer.

"No, but–"

"Your guards have already wasted enough of my time. I've been sent on urgent business by my father and it's important I see the prisoner now." I look down my nose at the warden, imitating my dad's cold and merciless manner as best I can.

He peers back at me full of suspicion. He knows if he gets this wrong the punishment will be severe. I can almost see the little cogs turning in his head. In the end, he nods and beckons for me to follow him.

"All the mutts are being kept in the most secure part of the jail – in the dungeon cells."

"As they should be." My own mind starts whirring. This is going to make my job harder. More difficult to release Spencer, and longer for us to get out of here. "Have they been much trouble?"

"At first some were, but we learned pretty quickly that as long as we keep them in a constant state of pain, they will remain in their human states. The trick is to never let them heal." The man smiles sadistically. "They've made very effective punching bags for my guards."

I smile back, hoping I look just as sadistic and there isn't a hint of the true disgust I feel betrayed in my eyes.

"Maybe I'll have a go myself."

"Weren't you and Moreau friends? Dueling team buddies?" the man asks and maybe he isn't as dumb as he looks.

"I had no idea what he truly was."

He leads me into the heart of the fortress. It's the middle of the night and yet the prison is alive with noise – of men shouting, some screaming. Of fists thumping walls, of hands rattling bars. The warden seems unconcerned, barely seeming to register the unrest.

I follow him along a weaving and narrow corridor with low ceilings, several of the lights out, and I make a note of the way we come. At the end we reach a heavy door and the man waves his hand, reciting a complicated security spell. The door groans open and beyond them lies a stone staircase, spiraling down into the cold dungeon of the old fortress.

"Are the cells numbered?" I ask him. He nods. "And which one is Moreau in?"

"Number six." His old dueling team jersey. I have to suppress the desire to thump the man straight in his stupid grinning face.

"Thank you. That will be all."

"I can't let you see him alone," the man says.

"This is private business. I've been ordered to ensure no one else is in attendance when I speak with the …" I swallow, "mutt."

"It's dangerous."

I draw myself up to my full height. I'm taller than this man by several inches and bigger than him too. "Are you questioning my ability–"

"No, no, only advising–"

"I didn't ask for your advice," I say and then I'm descending the steps, ensuring the door slams behind me. It clicks locked, blocking out my escape and any light. I'm plunged into darkness, the temperature frigid.

I have that sense of foreboding again, like I did in the forest. Only this time it's much much worse.