Page 16 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

“What things, Ms. Blackwicket?” The low rumble of his voice had an unsettling effect on me.

I’d never been this close to Inspector Harrow before.

Our previous interactions always involved a barrier, an interrogation table, or the bars of a public cell.

The nearest he’d ever come was leaning over the table to look me in the eye when he’d been given orders to release me.

You’re free to go, Ms. Knoles, but not in innocence. You and I both know you killed Brock Mofton. There’s no hiding from that, and there’s no hiding from me.

The Drudge I’d attempted to summon moments earlier lie low, creating space for my power to ascend, extending instinctively.

I sensed no intrusion, no probing hand, just the eager surge of magic ready to share itself.

The Inspector must have been up to something, searching in a manner I’d never encountered, employing a trick to entice me into a false sense of security, as the Brom woman attempted in the streets of Devin.

“Stop it,” I said, much softer than intended.

“I saw you in town today,” he replied, and the feeling abated. At the very least, I’d made it clear I was aware of myself enough to sense when I was being toyed with .

“I went to see Fiona’s body. I didn’t realize I was under house arrest.”

I was anxious to be as far from him as possible.

“What did you do with the Drudge from Galtons?”

The question was abrupt. He was trying to knock me off balance and was doing a decent job. I hadn’t bothered to plan a lie about this, and I hesitated.

“Don’t forget, Ms. Blackwicket, I witnessed what happened.” He didn’t need to remind me, but he probably enjoyed doing it. “Are you harboring it?”

Capable of giving infuriating answers to infuriating questions, I replied, “You’d know if I was.”

“Did you sell it?”.

“Of course not!”

“So where is it?”

I had no choice but to weave truth through the tale I was going to spin; otherwise, I was at risk of giving myself away. As my father had pointed out, the number of curses in my bag downstairs was a felony. But there was more than that here. Far more.

“It’s gone, Inspector.” The lie tasted like blood.

A soft scoff. “Gone where?”

“Back to where it came from.”

This had been our song and dance the first time we’d met. Pointed questions, half answers, appeals to ignorance.

“Dark Hall?” he asked, leaning in a bare fraction as though his next question were intimate. “Can you access Dark Hall, Ms. Blackwicket?”

Damn it. I tried to pivot, to focus on the contempt I harbored for this man.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? You want me to tell you I regularly steal curses and smuggle them to Dark Hall, confess that I and other Curse Eaters feed the Fiend with stolen magic, bending it to our will.”

I resisted the urge to cackle theatrically to emphasize the absurdity, but restrained myself, my dignity unable to take the blow. Panic was already making me lose my senses, but he was silent, patient. Waiting for the real answer.

“The Authority wants us to be leaders of the Brom, not victims of them,” I continued, more subdued, abandoning sarcasm for dangerous honesty. “Because it would make their job of brutalizing us all the easier.”

I met his eyes.

“But you’ve never had any qualms with doing that, have you, Inspector?”

“You should be able to recognize nasty rumors when you hear them.”

He was playing the same game I was, and he was better at it.

“You’re wrong about everything,” I said, weary.

“Surely not everything,” he countered, affecting a wounded tone as he produced two gold cufflinks from thin air.

They glinted in the silvery winter light as he moved them through his fingers with smooth, practiced ease.

These were the cufflinks I’d given to Brock when he’d started offering me inappropriate interest, tucked in a box with a yellow satin ribbon, toxic with curses I’d placed there myself.

They’d been empty when the Authority found him, face down in his own vomit, surrounded by bottles of whiskey.

But there’d been the telltale sinking of his skin, and the inquest was alive, searching for the person responsible for driving this man, who’d never once indulged in liquor, to drink himself to death.

I watched them move across Inspector Harrow’s knuckles.

“Do you have any idea what Curse Eaters are meant to do with curses, Inspector? ”

He raised a brow, eyes glowing a peculiar shade, like cognac amber, his curiosity ignited.

“I’ve been told a few different stories, but why don’t you tell me yours?”

“Set them free.”

It was the most basic explanation of our core function, the directive that drove my family and others for hundreds of years, perhaps since time immemorial, when man and magic first touched and a spark ignited.

“That’s what you’re meant to do, is it?” He stopped spinning the cufflinks and leaned in so close I could smell the magic on his skin, reminiscent of frost before snow.

“Then why do you keep them in this house?” he murmured.

Though it brought my face closer to his, I lifted my chin in defiance, proof he couldn’t intimidate me. He was twice my size, but I’d grown up with monsters at my bedside.

“Ask them yourself.”

He smiled, slow and languid, inviting an inexplicable panic that gave me the courage to push past his bulk. Shoving him aside with my shoulder, I began a swift departure.

“Sleep tight, Ms. Blackwicket,” Inspector Harrow called with mock tenderness. “Don’t let the curses bite.”