Chapter 1

ANITA

Chains clank as I shift impatiently in the MDC detainment cell, the weight of the manacles heavy on my wrists. My skin chafes from the biting cold metal, and I try to ease the pressure off the irritated area. Unfortunately, no matter what I do, nothing alleviates the magical suppressant built into the cuffs.

The room in the Magical Detention Center is blindingly white—white floors, white walls, white ceiling—so much white that staring at it too long is guaranteed to drive a person batty. The metal bench beneath my ass leeches the last bit of warmth from me, and I shift on the unforgiving surface, trying—and failing—to get comfortable.

I slump against the wall and wonder how everything went so horribly wrong.

It was supposed to be a simple job.

Just drop off a package.

As a bike messenger, I make hundreds of deliveries a week. There was nothing different about today that would have indicated my life was about to go to shit.

I'm just lucky that way.

Minutes after I delivered the package, the building exploded, nearly taking me with it. The blast tossed me a good ten feet, my leather jacket the only thing keeping my skin on my body as I skidded and tumbled across the pavement. I finger the ragged tears in my jeans where the sidewalk ate away the material, wincing when I see shredded skin that makes my knee resemble raw meat.

Is that white speck bone?

I probe the injury carefully, then grimace when a tiny pebble clinks to the ground.

Huh, go figure.

Not bone then.

Every time I move, fresh scabs crack open and blood trickles down my legs. Stale air stings the injuries, which only irritates me more. Although I demanded medical attention, my pleas were met with silence.

Since the MID, the Magical Investigations Division, detained me, they must suspect I was somehow involved.

That doesn't bode well for me.

Very few people detained by the MID are ever seen again.

Which means I'm screwed.

I call on my magic once again, and my veins thrum with heat less than a minute later. The cuffs warm, then start glowing red. Just when I think the metal will stretch and break, the spell on the cuffs flicker to life. My magic sputters, then the metal cools and the temperature turns so bitingly cold that it seeps into the marrow of my bones, and it feels like something vital has been snuffed out.

I gingerly probe my body for any sign of my magic, but the flames that are an intrinsic part of me are nothing more than cinders and ash. I grit my teeth to keep my growl of frustration from escaping.

I don't like being vulnerable.

Not one to give up easily, I call on my flames again, but I don't allow the heat its freedom. It continues to build under my skin, growing to a slow simmer. If anyone tries to take me out, I'm going to take them with me.

Another three hours pass before anyone checks on me. There is a perfunctory knock on the door before it opens. A man in a fancy suit steps into the room, and I lazily look over from where I'm lying on the bench after a much needed nap. Magic practically crackles under his skin, and I can't help the way my lips curl in disgust.

A quick scan shows he's barely a level five magic user, the show of power nothing more than an intimidation factor…or maybe he's trying to look stronger than he really is. Reading people is a skill I learned at a young age, and it's kept me alive and gotten me out of a lot of scrapes along the way.

Most mages cap out at level six, and only a very few gifted people manage to reach level seven. Since my family has been bred for power, we usually hover between levels seven and eight.

Usually.

Once every few generations, there is a dud like me.

They had me tested when my powers first emerged, and I barely registered.

From that point forward, I became persona non grata, basically thrown to the wolves.

It's been both the best and worst thing that could have ever happened to me.

For most people, their magic emerges when they hit puberty, and whatever magic they get is all the magic they will have for the rest of their life.

Or that's what they want you to believe.

My magic has been growing over the years, forging me into something else. I do my best to keep my progress to myself, but I slipped up today.

I survived a blast that should have turned me into a bloody mist.

Other supernatural creatures have assholes scattered amongst them, but mages are the worst. They think they are better than everyone else. The condescending jerkwads look down on other species, like they alone descended from the gods.

No one is good enough for them.

I'm proof of that—I've had firsthand experience, living my whole life in their shadow.

Everyone in my family takes snobbery to a whole new level. They are arrogant, egotistical megalomaniacs…and those are the positive traits.

When I showed no talent other than elemental, they basically disowned me. I became their whipping boy—girl? I mentally shrug. Mages are like the offspring of monsters in ancient lore who kill and devour their young, and I lived every day of my childhood in fear.

Until I turned sixteen.

I managed to escape the horror show of my past, disappeared off the face of the earth, and lived on my own ever since.

I never once regretted my decisions.

Even now, sitting in the MDC cell, I have no intention of calling my family for assistance.

I would rather rot in prison.

I'd be safer.

"Ms. Carver." A moue of distaste curls his lips, as if he couldn't contain his disgust. He yanks impatiently on the sleeves of his jacket, anything to avoid direct eye contact, clearly not deeming me worth his time. "Follow me."

I ignore the sneer in his voice, used to mages with egos bigger than their common sense. Sure, the douche canoe might have some power, but that doesn't make him the top of the food chain.

I've learned a lot of neat little tricks while living on the streets, namely hiding from power hungry hunters who would steal magic from people's very souls, slipping past MID officers looking for unauthorized magic users, and dodging street gangs wanting me to join their own brand of crazy.

I sigh then slowly push myself upright, my muscles protesting the movement, my body stiff from the blast. I gather the two-foot chains then stagger to my feet, biting back a groan. Thankfully, most of the bleeding seems to have stopped. I ignore where my blood smears stain the pristine room, suspecting that it's not the first time the room has seen blood.

Without a word, the man spins on his heel and marches down the hall, not waiting for me. The creep even moves like he has a stick shoved up his ass, and I crack a smile, hoping it fucking hurts when he ultimately falls on it.

People like him never make it to the top, no matter how hard they try. While he might be hungry enough for power, others will claw and stomp on his mangled corpse on their way to bigger and better things.

It's something that my family taught me at an early age.

As the mage leads me deeper into the building, the temperature drops. The only reason I notice is because of the little wisps of steam curling up off my clothes. Being a fire elemental, I rarely register the cold, but the steaming is new, even for me.

Then again, I've never kept my magic close to my skin for so long either. My hairline is sticky with sweat—another new thing—but I refuse to release my hold on the flames.

Maybe I'm getting close to burnout.

I've never tested my limits.

When we enter an elevator, the douchebag is so confident the chains have me contained that he gives me his back and punches in a code, then he presses his thumb against the scanner. Part of me wants to wrap my chains around his neck, and I barely resist the urge, pouting that I have to be a good girl.

A ring of bruises around his neck would suit him.

As the tiny metal box drops, so does my stomach.

Something isn't right.

The number indicator counts down as we descend, and my gut pitches when we go a level below the basement. It wouldn't surprise me if the MDC has a torture chamber, but I'm not exactly a hardened criminal.

When the elevator dings and the doors open, I'm greeted by cement floors and cinder block walls. The metallic-scented air has an ominous feel to it, and I swear I can almost taste blood on the tip of my tongue.

Two guards wearing all black stand at attention on either side of the doors. Though they each wear military issued guns across their torsos, the weapons are an afterthought. Spells and curses practically radiate from them. I have no doubt that even their bullets are spelled to take down any type of prey they might hunt.

"Where are we going?" I reluctantly follow the man. The only thing keeping me going is the fact that I'd rather walk than be dragged or spelled. I shiver at the thought of losing control over my limbs, becoming nothing more than a passenger in my own body.

A fucking zombie to do their bidding.

I'd rather be dead.

My magic sparks and crackles under my skin. When the cuffs clamp down in warning, I blow out a shaky breath and pull it back.

Not yet.

I have to wait for the perfect opportunity.

"Interrogation." His brusque tone holds a malicious glee.

It doesn't surprise me that the preppy boy gets off on hurting others. It's what mages do. They are trained from birth, the poison suckled right from their mother's tit. His hair is trimmed short and styled, his clothes are the best quality, not daring to even wrinkle, and his shoes are shiny and click with every step he takes.

There is nothing distinguishable about him from others of his kind.

No individuality.

No soul.

Their parents crush any rebellion from an early age, molding the future generations into their image.

The perfect pawns to control.

Puppets to the slaughter, if you ask me.

I study the walls as we pass. If I squint hard enough, I can see layers upon layers of spells woven over the bricks from years and years of different mages sinking their magic into the building. Some hover over the walls, waiting for the unwary to trigger them, while others weave in and out of the blocks. Hundreds upon hundreds of spells flash and glow as I watch, almost like they sense me and are showing off.

Or maybe I'm delusional, and it's just a warning not to fucking touch.

That sounds more like it, but I find myself a little disappointed with the truth.

Like many things, reality is often disappointing.

When we get to the room at the end of the hall, we pause and wait for him to press his thumb against the scanner again. The door clicks open, and I'm assaulted by the tang of antiseptic that does nothing to cover the stale stench of old blood. I balk at entering, taking a step backward just as a shot of magic hits me square in the back.

I'm thrust into the room, barely catching myself in time to prevent me from landing in a heap on the floor. The only thing that saves me is conditioning. My parents and cousins—especially the eldest, the dickhead Stuart—did the same to me whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Stuart thought he should take over as the head of the household and trained his whole life for the job. When I was born, he had been infuriated to learn he'd be forced to share the title with me. Ever since, he has made it his life's mission to make sure I didn't reach my majority and inherit anything from the family.

It would ruin all his plans for the family's future if he had to share the wealth.

Huh, wouldn't my family be proud that I actually did learn something from them after all?

"Why don't you have a seat, Ms. Carver?" It wasn't a suggestion. When I don't immediately obey, I take pleasure in the scowl that darkens his face. The guy obviously has a hard-on for forcing people to worship at his feet, and I nearly snort at the thought.

How pathetically predictable.

Instead of complying, I lean against the cinder block wall and cross my arms, only fumbling a little when the chains clank. "I'm good."

His mouth tightens, his eyes narrow, and I swear steam rises from his ears. I bite back a smirk as he stalks forward, but he doesn't take his own seat, unwilling to lose his position of power. Instead, he plants his hands on the metal table—which kind of looks like a slab from an autopsy room—then leans toward me and gives me a nasty smile.

"Maybe you're under the wrong impression. I wasn't asking." Magic swirls around his hands and skates up his arms. The energy is an angry red, like something he might have caught from a hooker or something.

Gross.

I shiver at the thought of it touching me, and he smirks like he honestly thinks I'm afraid.

It's kind of pathetic really.

"Listen, you got the wrong girl." I shrug and finger the hole in my leather jacket, frowning when the tip of my finger goes right through it. It was my favorite jacket, and now it's ruined because someone fucked up. "I didn't blow up that building."

"You were at the scene," he states like that's all the evidence he needs. For him, it probably is. Why put in any effort and look for the real bombers when they could just blame me?

"I'm not that inept," I snap back, my annoyance with the whole situation getting the best of me. For mages, there is no presumed innocence until proven guilty. I guess I should count myself lucky they arrested me instead of executing me on the spot. "I wouldn't have done something so idiotic as to blow myself up, much less get caught."

"I'm sure you didn't intend for it to happen." A condescending smirk twists his mouth. "Mistakes happen. Sit and tell me who you were targeting, and maybe they'll spare you the death sentence."

That's when I realize nothing I say will change his mind.

To him, I'm guilty.

He's not even going to try to find the people responsible, and I can't stop my scowl.

People died in that blast.

They deserve justice.

I'm not going to let this little twatwaffle take justice from them.

I push away from the wall, but instead of taking a seat, I lean forward and mimic his movements until he's forced to tilt back or breathe the same tainted air as me. I give him a nasty smile, and my eyes go dead as I stare at him.

"Awe, aren't you adorable? A little gutter rat kid trying to intimidate the grown-ups." A dark chuckle escapes me, the cuffs going cold around my wrists as the flames become agitated. "But why don't we get the simple facts straight first, hmm? While people on the streets might know me as Anita Carver, I was born with the name Kerrington."

He recoils and shoots upright so fast that I'm surprised he doesn't get whiplash, then he gets pissed for reacting to my words. He tugs on the bottom of his jacket as if trying to smooth his ruffled feathers. When he gets himself under control, he lets out a nasty laugh. "If you think trying to impersonate your betters is going to help you in any way, you sewer trash, then you're stupider than I thought."

That's when I lose it.

My last fuck is officially gone.

If this little fuckboy isn't going to listen, then I'll just have to get the attention of someone who will. My shitty parents might not have taught me much, but they did instill me with a fierce desire to live.

I release my hold on the pent-up magic that has been building over the last few hours. If I'm going to die, then I'm going to go out my way and take this fucktwat with me.

The magic hits the cuffs hard enough that my bones threaten to snap under the pressure, and a cutting cold slowly skates up my arms to my elbows. Ignoring the pain, I grit my teeth, refusing to release my hold on my magic. Vicious swearing echoes around the room, followed by the acrid scent of spells being cast then burned away.

Genuine fear crosses the corporate crony's face as he realizes his mistake, then he gives up trying to throw spells at me and runs for the door.

Not wanting to give up its prey so easily, the fire licks at my flesh almost adoringly. My hair swirls around me as the flames hungrily consume the air before they explode outward in a wall of fire. The metal table melts around the edges before it's thrown into the wall so hard that it sinks into the cinder blocks, then it wilts and drips down the stone, splattering liquid metal across the floor.

The MID agent releases a girlie scream.

Just as he opens the door, the blast reaches him, throwing him, the door, and bits of the wall a good twenty feet into the hallway. Rubble pelts the ground and walls like bullets, and satisfaction fills me when the agent screams again.

When he scrambles away on his hands and knees, I allow him to escape.

I'm not a murderer.

Though I'm sure I'll come to regret my decision, I refuse to kill someone with their back turned to me. Instead, I redirect my focus onto my cuffs. My chains warble as the magic in them struggles to contain me, creating tiny fissures along the edges of the cuffs. Then, the individual links heat to a glowing red, and drops of metallic sludge plops to the cement floor.

Metal sizzles against the cement before sinking into the floor. A shudder goes through my feet, then deep fractures arch and spider across the floor, cracking from the intense heat. With a good yank of my arms, the brittle chains shatter and fly across the room, peppering the walls and embedding themselves a good inch in the concrete.

The cuffs flicker under the strain of my magic, but they remain clamped around my wrists like a vise. As my fire wanes, pain shoots to my shoulders like every nerve ending in my body is being pinched.

Once it reaches my chest, it will infect my heart, killing me instantly.

The cuffs were designed to contain the threat no matter the cost.

I drop my magic, but the flames are reluctant to obey. They want to consume and destroy everything in their path until nothing and no one stands in their way. The muscles in my neck seize like a giant fucking charley horse, and pain streaks up my neck, wrapping around my skull.

When I whimper, my magic reluctantly gives up its quest and retreats. The punishment from the cuffs is slow to recede, and damn if my bones don't feel like they've been hollowed out with a piping brush of rusted steel. The cold slowly invades my soul. My heart rocks in my chest, as if struggling to remember its rhythm, and my breathing turns ragged as I battle to stay conscious.

The silence around me is absolute for a few seconds, then the world comes rushing back in a cacophony of noises. A siren sounds in the distance, and I release a defeated sigh before slowly dropping to my knees, repressing a wince when one of the cracks in the ground hits a nasty bruise on my leg.

But good news—the fire bath healed the majority of my scrapes.

From experience, I know most of them are now just bruises that look days old.

I lift my hands in the air, my shoulders protesting the strain, and grimace when the broken chains dangle down my arms.

MID is going to be so pissed.

That's my last thought as the two guards from the hall burst into the room with their guns and magic trained on me.

I give them my best snooty, prim and proper smile, trying not to breathe wrong and give them a reason to shoot me. "I would like to speak to your supervisor."