Bereft: Foretold

32 | A Charming Outlaw

The sounds of Aurelius' outrage faded with distance. 

We ran toward the east, where the horizon's crest was glowing molten with the dawn, and soon the huntress fell into stride with us, bringing the stench of gunpowder and her haggard breathing. All the while, Aurelius drifted farther and farther into the west and I caught myself thanking the King Below for that—until I spat a curse instead. I would not thank him.

My footsteps were the quietest among the three of us. Connie was weighed down by her shotgun and fatigue, her tired gait bringing her through unnecessary brush and obstacles, and though the black mage was steadier on his feet, his coat hissed across the long grass. I moved with the experience of a man who was used to running for miles through rough terrain, and though it'd been many years since I'd been forced to utilize this particular skill set, I slid easily into the routine.

I forgot that I was mortal, that I was injured and exhausted, that I held a dying human child in my arms and could hear her breath fading to nothing. I just ran.

The mage muttered under his breath, his hands moving as he blindly sketched a construct on his chest and worked to keep pace. I snarled when a shroud of translucent magic fell upon us and the taste of arcane energy filled my mouth. 

"Spells will draw him nearer!" 

"It's a dampening field—it has the opposite effect. It will hide my signature from his attention."

I had no choice but to trust the man's word. We leapt over two fences during our trek, and finally came out onto a packed gravel road, another house coming into view with the sun rising behind it. It was another farmhouse, but it was larger than the one Aurelius had destroyed, its facade reflecting better upkeep and more contemporary touches. The eaves were painted blue and strung with bushels of dried herbs. Smoke from the brick chimney smudged the golden horizon, and a rail-thin woman waited on the covered porch, watching us come nearer. 

By chance, I glimpsed the name on the mailbox as I charged by it. M. Harris. 

It seemed I had found Lucian Harris and his wife, or—technically—he had found me. 

Coming up the stairs, my shoes snagged the lip of the highest step and I caught myself on the door's frame, the girl sagging in the grip of my single arm. I was heavy, laden with the need to rest and to sink to my knees, eyes gritty and limbs shaking. Get a hold of yourself!

Without preamble, the black mage scooped the girl up and said, "Marian, I need your help," to the woman hovering in the background. She passed through the huntress and me with a quick apology, and both disappeared inside, leaving the painted door wide. Glancing at Connie, we took this as an invitation to come in.

The mage and his wife walked swiftly through the foyer to the adjoining dining room. The solid table was hemmed with heavy chairs, and the pendant light above it was comprised of bleached antler bones strung with baby's breath and strands of ivy. Every wall of the house I'd seen held a bookcase of some kind, and the tomes littered the floor and furniture like the bricks of a well-spoken empire. Spying the shelves in the dining room filled with pots, vials, and potted greens, I realized the woman was a witch. 

Lucian lay the girl on the table, her skin a dismal shade of gray that nearly matched the color of the man's duffle coat. My eye was again drawn to his attire and the black lining as I sank into one of the chairs set against the far wall. Each of the syndicates had its own distinguishing color, and that color was sewn into the lining of their standard issued coats. Black, for obvious reasons, was taboo among their kind, thus I was surprised to see it, and was also surprised by the new quality of the fabric, given that black mages weren't allowed in syndicates and thus didn't receive new coats.