The Hour of the Crow

Chapter 33: Until Our Last Breath

So many people had seen Inna and him at the market the other day. Any one of them could have betrayed them.

"Come, quickly," Merriam whispered as she shoved her arms under his to help him up. Her wheezing gasps reminded him of a mouse caught in a hawk's hungry beak.

Clenching his teeth, Arran willed his legs to move and trusted his mother to carry the weight he could not. Gravity rushed in in an attempt to drag him back down, but he resisted with all his might until the world stopped reeling. Together, he and Merriam shuffled toward the storeroom, where the tunnels would grant them refuge. Zazi slithered after them, tracking his stumbling steps.

Zohra cast a desperate glance their way. Hurry up, she mouthed.

Arran's chest rose and fell with quickened breaths, frustrated at their slow progress. Behind their backs, he heard Zohra tell the guards that they were mistaken, that they should leave. It was bad for business to have the city watch pounding on your door.

A bang resonated throughout the house as the guard put his boot against the door. Zohra stumbled backward, clutching her cane like a weapon in her hands. Every squeak of the hinges injected adrenaline into Arran's feet to push them forward. He leaned his back against the wall for support, careful not to bump his head against one of the racks, while Merriam grunted and puffed to lift the stone slab that formed the entrance to the tunnels. It rose a few inches, but slipped out of her clammy fingers with a muffled thump. She cursed under her breath.

The wooden front door cracked and caved. Zohra shouted some indignant threats to sue the guard for destroying private property, yet her protests soon died down. Furniture scraped across the ground as heavy footfalls paced around the living room, followed by a lighter swooshing that stirred up frightening memories in Arran's mind.

The Cult.

Merriam's body went rigid, her eyes too large and round in her sunken face. A strangled noise escaped her lips. Drawing strength out of his growing panic, he rushed to her and cupped her face in his hands.

"Maia? Maia, can you hear me?"

The beads in the curtain rattled. A tall man dressed in the uniform of a city guard stepped through the doorway. As soon as he laid eyes on him, Arran knew this man was no actual guard, though. His rough brown skin had been hardened by a life in the desert and a scar ran along the left side of his face, cutting through his pale gray eye. His grin was hardly more than a baring of yellow teeth.

"There you are," the man said, his eyes gleaming in triumph. His smirk didn't falter as he turned toward Merriam. She quivered like a leaf beneath his gaze, caught in the mind warpers' grip. "But you are not the princess. Ah well."

Arran called for his magic. It spluttered, rendered useless by the curse. Each time he tried to reach it, needles stabbed his brain. He scrambled away, but the guard caught hold of the collar of Arran's shirt and yanked him closer to snatch the monkey talisman off his neck. The man's fingers steered clear of the Amulet, though, careful not to provoke the magic within.

The moment the talisman's chain snapped, cold, hostile magic anchored itself into Arran's brain. Fear ricocheted through his lifeless puppet's limbs and tortured his frenzied, helpless mind. With his eyes, he tried to communicate to his mother that everything would be all right, yet the lie tasted sour on his speechless tongue.

He wished Inna were here. He was glad that she wasn't.

Three cloaked figures greeted them in eerie silence when they emerged back into the living room. Zohra knelt between them, her posture defeated but her eyes bright with fury. Her cane lay several feet away, broken in two. Arran held her unflinching gaze even as the guard forced both him and Merriam down on their knees as well.