Page 5 of House of Marionne

A tear steals its way down her cheek. She wipes it away so fast I almost miss it.

“Those Draguns you saw . . .”

“Draguns?”

“Assassins for the Order. They’re in charge of executing anyone with toushana.” Her nails dig into my arm. “If anyone finds out your secret, they will kill you, Quell!”

Her words knock the wind out of me. I try to steady myself on a wall as the world sways.

Someone would kill me for a magic I don’t even want or use.

“What if someone saw you at that Market?” She shakes her head. “We can’t take that chance. One more time, Quell, please?” She curls her hand in mine as if holding on to it keeps her world in orbit. I know what I have to do, but that doesn’t make it easy. If she’s right, if this is the one time this so-called Order actually has found us, I have no choice. I empty the beach fund jar onto the bed and whatever pieces of me are left crumble.

“Okay,” I breathe, taking on the yoke of her sorrow and blinking away my own. One more time. “I’ll go to the convenience store and grab the necessities. Give me five minutes.”

“That’s my girl. And—” She lifts her skirt. Strapped to her thigh is a gold-handled dagger, covered in scrollwork and flecked with gems. She shoves it in my hand. “Just in case.”

I blink in disbelief. The metal of the blade is twice the length of the handle, but somehow as light as air in my hand. Its ornate handle gleams gold and sparkles with jewels. I had no idea Mom even carried a weapon, let alone something so . . . exquisite.

“If I’m right and one Dragun has found us, there could be more.”

I glare at the weapon in my hand. It’s cold, like her words. Easily the most beautiful and dangerous thing I’ve ever seen. I meet Mom’s eyes and finally, to some degree, understand the weight that hangs there.

“Five minutes,” she says again. “No more.”

I tuck the dagger away and hurry out the door.

TWO

Outside the sky is dim but clear. Thunder or something made to sound like thunder rolls in the distance, and I hug myself tighter as I hurry next door to Stop ’N’ Save.

“You’re okay,” I mutter. My fingers feel for the dagger tucked in my waistband. Just in case. I skirt bikes laid out in front of the store on my way in. Inside, the shop owner is behind a newspaper. He looks up and disappears back behind it.

There’s no way to know how long it’ll take Mom to find a new place. I grab the entire row of tuna cans, a loaf of bread, two tubs of peanut butter, canned beans, a bag of Skittles, and six bags of sour cream and onion chips, which Mom would tell me is a waste.

“Doesn’t stick to you,” she’d say.

But greasy chips make me happy. And with everything going on, I deserve some happy.

The bell attached to the door dings as more people enter, and I check my watch. I loop a roll of duct tape on my wrist and grab a tiny bottle of rubbing alcohol and one of vinegar. A line has formed at the register. The clock on the wall ticks and I feel it in my chest. I need to get out of here. Fast. I spot a familiar head of moussed blond hair, summer-tanned skin, and bright eyes in line behind me. A kid from the school where I’ve spent the second half of senior year. He catches me staring and waves. I groan.

“Hey, Quell, isn’t it? It’s me, Nigel, Nigel Hammond, from English Lit class.” The Nigel who tries to bum all my answers because he’s never done any of the reading. He’s so close I can smell his brand-name cologne. “You need a hand?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?” He grabs the bread, which I’m balancing perfectly fine on top of the stacks of canned fish.

“Really.” I step away from him, and the line moves forward, thank goodness.

“Suit yourself.” He hops into the back of the line even though his hands are empty. Maybe he wants something from behind the counter. I move forward a few spots before glancing in the mirror irked by the distinct feeling that someone’s staring. But when I look up, Nigel is flipping a coin and cursing under his breath.

The line moves forward and finally I’m at the register. My foot taps. It’s been seven minutes. This is taking too long. The cashier swipes everything and piles it into bags.

“Thank you.” I reach for my money and my elbow bumps Nigel’s chest.

“Really, let me help.” He grabs one of my bags.

I pull it back. “No, really.”