The Last Harmon [Complete]

Chapter 4

Unfortunately, the only way to get close to Amara is to get arrested. Unlike my cousin Victoria, who has direct access, I am the outcast Harmon. I haven't seen or spoken to Amara since the night she killed my mother. She always sends someone to communicate with me when needed, or to pass on demands, but she has never had the guts to face me herself.

My choice of crime has to be horrendous enough to give me an audience with her. And I couldn't think of anything more horrendous--and that would piss her off enough--than blowing up her fifty-foot egotistical statue. The statue of her rests in the centre of Renaissance Square and mortals are encouraged to take pictures of it and even stare at it when passing.

I wait until the area is clear of mortals and I stand several feet back before unearthing my first vial. I kiss it for luck and then I throw it through the air, aiming it at the base of the statue. Within a second, it explodes. The blast is unpreparable and it sends me flying backwards. My ears are ringing, my arms are bleeding and my head is spinning, but I keep smiling. Not because the potion works, but because I know it will really piss her off.

All around me, mortals are gathering, clapping and cheering. For the first time in five years, someone has taken a stand and protested, and for that they are both baffled and overjoyed.

"Someone has to do something!" I shout as Wiccans haul me from the ground. "Wiccans are against her too! Remember that!"

As they lead me away, I take one last look at the scorched earth where the statue once stood. It is now just a pile of fallen stone, reduced to nothing. Hopefully the real thing is just as simple to defeat.

The Wiccans push me into a black, window-tainted car. Two warlocks sit beside me while a female drives, one of them inspects my wrist.

"She has a dot," he says.

"Really?" the woman mutters, eyeing me in the mirror. "She's a Harmon, cuff her."

The warlock places shackles around my wrists, locking them tightly. "These shackles will suppress your magic for as long as you wear them. You will not be able to perform spells or use any other method of power. You are under arrest. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I say.

"If you're a Harmon, you must be smart," the woman says. "Why would you do something so stupid?"

"You work for Amara; you tell me first."

The woman scoffs. "Working for her is smart. She is our Elder, our leader, our Queen. To defy her is to defy us all. She has released us from centuries of suppression and embarrassment. Made us believe that we are worth something and we are significant. We owe her everything."

"I'm sorry, I didn't understand a word you just said," I say, glancing to the window. "I must have a head injury."

"We'll check on that upon arrival," she mutters.

The remainder of the journey is in silence. Which I like. It gives me time to think, to properly think about what I'm doing. Technically, it is treason, and if I survive there's a big chance I will be executed anyway. But then, as one of the last twelve remaining Harmons, can it be enough? A coven will need to step up, to appoint a leader, and the Harmons have always been respected among the Wiccans. I don't recall Amara ever having a child, and so the Elder bloodline will end with her.

No more manifestation power. No more corruption. I am happy to die for that, if that is my fate.

The car pulls up outside the gates of Amara's palace. She lives in a three-story mansion surrounded by protective charms, armed guards—as she takes no chances with her home—and even has guard dogs.