Page 21 of Magpie

“ Y ou did this to me?” I breathe, my hands trembling in my lap. Irina meets my eyes, just barely, nodding solemnly at me. The air between us is suddenly still, both of our auras tensed and ready for a fight.

“Please understand me, Maggie—”

“No, you do not get to call me Maggie,” I snarl, rounding on her and slapping a hand over my heart. “You stole her from me. You erased her from this world. She is dead because of you .” I glare at her, anger, hatred, and soul-ending anguish pouring off me in waves. She has the good sense to flinch.

I let out a disgruntled cry, scrubbing my hands over my eyes and spinning away from her to pace the store. A brief glance out the window tells me morning is still a long way off; I can’t afford to storm out of here. Not unless I want to give him another chance to come for me, to taunt me.

“Do you think you’re the only one he used?

” she hisses back at me, crossing her arms in defiance.

“I was with him for centuries , Maggie.” She stresses my name, making me glare at her as I continue to pace like a caged beast. “You have no idea the things he made me do for him. The way he made me his pet.”

“He made me kill for him, Irina,” I shout, coming to stand directly in front of her, resisting the urge to slap her.

Barely. Her hard exterior falters, and she closes her eyes, dropping her arms to her sides.

She cannot meet my gaze as I whisper, “He might have made you his pet, but he turned me into death. If you’re looking for sympathy from me, look elsewhere. ”

Letting out a ragged laugh, Irina opens her eyes and holds my gaze.

I let the full force of my darkness out at her, and she stands firm against it.

I want to hate her more for it, but I can’t help but feel a tiny bit of approval at her defiance.

Turning from me, she walks behind a counter, leaning down and pulling out a shimmering bottle and two glasses.

“I’m not exactly in the mood to drink potions from a witch,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her.

She pours herself a drink, tossing it back before gagging, a shiver running through her. “Tequila,” she says, pouring a second round, scooting one glass across the counter to me. “I am not defending my actions, nor am I asking for forgiveness. I do not deserve it from you.”

Silence stretches between us. Reluctantly, I walk forward and accept the drink, shooting the warm liquor back in one swallow. Slamming the cup back on the counter, I level a look at her. “Why didn’t you just kill him?” I ask.

She pours us another drink, looking down at the liquid swirling in her cup. “You may find it hard to believe, but he was good once.”

I scoff.

“I suppose a part of me wanted to believe that if I waited long enough, the boy I loved would come back to me. He may have become a monster, but to this day he owns every piece of my heart. I can run from him, but I could never kill him.”

“Then you’re no less to blame than he is,” I snap, grimacing at her shame-filled gaze. I shoot back the tequila, wishing the burn could melt the frigid cold encasing me.

“I never thought he would use you the way he did. You have to believe me in that,” Irina says, trying to placate me with her pleading eyes. “I thought simply having you would be enough.”

“Oh, bullshit,” I shout, her sorrow wasted on me. There isn’t an ounce of sympathy left in my body. Not for her. “You gave a murderer a weapon, and you’re trying to tell me you’re shocked that he used it?”

She opens her mouth to argue more, and for the life of me I cannot stomach another pleading word from her wobbling lips.

“Save it,” I say. “I’m not here to absolve you of your guilt. You’re right: you don’t deserve my forgiveness. It doesn’t make you any less guilty just because you fell in love with a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

She flinches at my words, but doesn’t argue. Instead, her eyes turn dark, the barest hint of anger tinging them. She reaches across the counter, gently placing her hand on top of mine.

“He may be a wolf, but can you really say you didn’t see behind the wool and decide to stay anyway? Tell me, Maggie, how long did it take before you willingly let go of your life? A few days? A week? Two at most? Yes, he’s a monster—and what does it say about you that you stayed ?”

I yank my hand back, aghast. The power churning in her big doe eyes reminds me so suddenly of Alister that I take a staggering step back.

Shaking my head in disgust, I turn and race toward the door.

I’m suffocating in her presence; in the way it reminds me so much of him. I can’t stand being here any longer.

“Where are you going?” she calls after me, the crackling light of her aura trying to eat away at my darkness.

“I’m taking my chance with the wolf,” I say, pulling the door open and walking into the night.

I’m halfway down the stairs when she calls, “Maggie, wait.”

I don’t know why I stop. Maybe there is some power in her voice that stills me. Or maybe it’s because, after all this time, I am still looking for a way out .

Letting out a ragged sigh, I dip my head, and then turn to look at Irina.

She’s illuminated in the glittering light of her store, the night seemingly unable to touch her.

Still, her wide eyes dart about, and I notice she hasn’t stepped a single toe over the line of salt in front of her door.

I also notice she’s holding a piece of paper in her trembling hands.

Taking slow, measured steps, I cross the distance between us and stop, fully wreathed in shadows on the porch. She is a shining star, and even that light cannot invade my darkness.

“Here,” she says, the barest tip of her fingers crossing the threshold of the salt barrier as she holds the crumpled paper toward me.

An offering or a curse, I’m not sure. But I reach forward and take the paper from her hand, and she quickly snatches her outstretched arm back inside the barrier of her home.

Glancing down at the paper, I see a hurriedly scribbled address, and a name: Ronan. “What’s this?” I ask, quirking a brow at her as I fold the paper and stuff it into my pocket.

“He’s someone who can help you. Someone who can give you what you actually need. Tell him the Bird of Fortune sent you to retrieve the final key.” She steps back into her store. “Goodbye, Magpie.”

She closes the door, sealing the peaceful glow of her aura behind those robin’s egg–blue walls. I stare at the door for a long time before I turn and walk into the night.

Smoke curls from the lit cigarette in my hand, the acrid scent mixing with the stale air of the dank bar.

After leaving Irina well and truly behind me, I found my resolve to walk the midnight streets alone waning, rushing into the first open place I stumbled by.

Luckily, my darkness and rage fit right in at this dingy establishment.

The bartender didn’t give me so much as a second glance, pouring me a drink and letting me buy his pack of cigarettes off him without a word.

My hands are shaking as I hold the cigarette to my lips, taking a deep inhale.

I’ve got my journal open in front of me.

Originally, I had just intended to shove the bit of paper Irina gave me into the envelope in the back.

But then I saw his beautiful, sloping handwriting, and I wasn’t able to resist. I never let myself look at these pages; never allow myself a moment to relive the memories of my time with Sean.

Did you know you make the sweetest noise when you sleep? You sound every bit like a mewling kitten.

I scowl as I read the description of me.

Don’t give me that look. Yes, I know you’re going to frown when you read that.

A laugh gets caught in my throat, strangled by the sob that tries to erupt as I smile at the page.

I blink against the wetness brimming my eyes as I drag another long inhale of the cigarette into my mouth.

A few errant tears spill over, rolling down my cheeks.

Cursing, I brush them away, tapping on my empty glass when the bartender passes by.

He fills it, paying no mind to the sheen of moisture in my eyes.

When the bartender wanders off again, I look down at the journal, at his words, and whisper, “I miss you so much.”

I know.

I hear his voice perfectly, as though he’s standing next to me.

It’s just as rich and warm as I remember.

My heart breaks all over again, because I know he won’t be there, but I cannot stop myself turning in my seat and searching the shadows.

My eyes land on a few bar patrons, sitting as far apart as they are able, and no one else.

Choking on a sob, I swallow the drink in one gulp, motioning for another refill from the bartender.

Stamping out the used cigarette, I pull a fresh one out of the pack, placing it between my lips as I fumble with the lighter.

A gloved hand comes into view, pulling the cigarette from my lips.

I’m frozen in place, watching as a second hand appears from the opposite side, his arms caging me in as he snaps the cigarette in half, letting the pieces fall onto the bar.

He leans over, placing his hands on my shoulders, gripping them hard.

I feel him lean over, nuzzling the back of my neck as he inhales deeply.

As he drinks in my fear.

I haven’t moved an inch, but my heart is racing like I’m running a marathon.

I want to turn, to look at the door, or a window, any escape I might have, but I’m frozen in place.

His fingers drum on my shoulder, beating an incessant rhythm, before he moves his hands.

They rise, circling my throat, squeezing and tilting my head as far back as it will go.

He stares down at me, his normally coiffed hair falling into his eyes. He does not look angry, but rather disappointed. My hand begins to creep out along the bar in front of me, achingly slow to not draw his attention.

“I do hope you gave Irina my love,” he says, removing one hand from my neck and beginning to stroke my cheek in slow, gentle motions. “Are you satisfied now that there is no way to outrun me? Are you finally ready to come home?”

My hand creeps further, until I feel the highball glass under my fingertips.

“Aren’t you so tired—”

I don’t waste a moment. I raise the glass and smash it down on the bar as hard as I can. The noise startles Alister and he releases me, jumping back. I grip a jagged piece of glass in my hand as I spin around and scream, “Get your fucking hands off me !”

Someone lets out a startled yelp, and another bar patron swears loudly before muttering something about stupid junkies.

Looking wildly around, I wait for him to rush forward and grab me, but I know in my heart he won’t.

He’s doing this on purpose, letting the fear build so he has something to gorge himself on when I finally return.

“Are you alright, ma’am? Did the glass cut you?” the bartender asks, holding out a grimy towel. Opening my hand, I drop the shard, ignoring as blood drips onto the mess of glass and whiskey on the ground. Glancing at the bar, my eyes catch on the split cigarette.

I give the bartender some halfhearted excuse; I’m not even paying attention to my own words as I slide a pile of cash toward him before rushing from the bar.

I burst through the doors, running into the night.

The seeping wound on my hand leaves a trail of blood behind, a ruby-red road to lead him directly to me.