Page 2 of The Hearth Witch’s Guide to Magic & Murder (The Hemlock Saga #1)
A strong ward: a rare extra precaution that would deal an incapacitating jolt of energy to any creature who tried to tear it down or pass through it.
Balaskas hadn’t mentioned it. Then again, the incompetent probably hadn’t bothered to look at what sort of means of holding had been in place for her.
For most, a wand of rowan might have been used to gather up and unravel the threads of magic.
Removing wards could be tricky, and even a stick of the right wood could prove invaluable.
Gideon’s bare fingers gripped the weblike fabric of the spell; his wrist turned and he gave it a sharp tug.
The ward pulled free, and he dropped it down to a pile on the ground as if it were no more than a curtain.
He stepped over the fast-decaying remnants of the spell and approached the pedestal with a clinical disposition.
He examined the binding carefully before taking one of the ribbon ends between his thumb and forefinger.
As flesh met fabric, golden runes illuminated along the ribbon about her wrists and in a thin spiral around the armor, over and over again from head to toe.
He gave the ribbon a firm and deliberate tug. “Wecken.”4
As the ribbon came undone and began to untwist from its captive, the armor itself unraveled as well.
It freed her forearms, then her shoulders, her chest, and then past her knees, until the woman on the pedestal was merely dressed in simple cotton, the armor reduced to a pile of black ribbon at Gideon’s feet.
For a few minutes nothing more happened; long enough that the Archfey began to wonder if he’d somehow forgotten a step in the process.
Then the woman gasped for air as if trying not to drown, clawing her way to sitting straight up out of the nightmare she’d been pulled from.
Her eyes darted around the cell quickly before they rose, met Gideon’s, and hardened.
Her right hand pulled back over her chest, delivering a chop to the back of his knee.
Gideon crumpled to a crouch, catching himself on the low pedestal. He turned swiftly to grab the fleeing woman by the crook of her arm. This spun her back around, and his free hand caught the fist that immediately came careening toward his face. “Avery, it’s really me, you’re awake!”
“I know!” the woman snarled.
They struggled as he worked to stand again.
She was not a short creature by any means, but the Archfey had nearly a foot of height he could use as leverage.
Her fingers were poised like claws, reaching for his eyes as if to pluck them out.
He gritted his teeth as he stood to his full height and pushed her away.
Avery stumbled back into the wall of her cell.
She spat defiantly at the ground, her silver eyes ablaze with hate, but he could see the way her body reluctantly sagged back and leaned into the wall.
Magic could prevent the muscles from atrophying during her sentence, but she no doubt was feeling the ache of centuries of disuse.
She looked hollowed out and wild, dark circles beneath her eyes reminding him that it was a curse of sleep without rest. Her energy was fading, and he could almost see her clinging to the anger and the last remnants of adrenaline she could glean from it.
“Five hundred years passed so soon?” Sarcasm fought with bitterness for dominance in her tone. “My, how the time has flown.”
Gideon adjusted his suit where she’d rumpled it. “Just under two hundred.”
Her eyes betrayed her surprise momentarily, then narrowed in suspicion. “Why?”
“The council saw reason to wake you before the end of your sentence.” He chose his words carefully. Remaining vague. If he could pique her curiosity, he might be able to save her from her own damn pride.
“Getting off for good behavior? Or do I just snore too loudly for the other inmates?”
He sighed, disappointed. “I see prison has done nothing to curb your tongue.”
She raised her chin in defiance. “Two hundred years, it needs the exercise.”
“Then the rest of you should also welcome a walk,” Gideon clipped before he strode from the cell and down the hall.
She didn’t follow him, not at first, but he’d expected that.
She would first debate if she could make a run, then dismiss the idea as quickly as it was conceived.
Avery was often prone to petulance around him, but she was too smart to make such a grave error.
Eventually, he heard what could only be described as a resentful stomp behind him, the cadence broken up by a slight limp in her left leg as she reacclimated to walking.
He listened to the rhythm of her steps. The limp improved, then seemed to act up again.
Only this time it was different. It was consistent, like her walk had been set to a metronome.
It was not the limp of someone whose leg had fallen asleep, it was the practiced step of someone living with an uncooperative limb.
She was stalling, buying time to understand her situation before he could explain it to her.
“We’re on a bit of a tight schedule, I can’t abide dawdling. ”
“I have two centuries’ worth of pins and needles impeding my movement,” Avery spat, but it did nothing to slow the Archfey’s pace. “Perhaps your secretary can rearrange something, so my legs might have a precious second to acclimate?”
“Perhaps you can give me the credit that I can tell the difference between genuine struggle and an affectation.”
A defeated pause. “What about my things?”
At this, Gideon did stop to glance back at her, arching an eyebrow humorlessly. “What things?”
“My accoutrements, my personal effects. Upon my release from prison, they should be returned to my person, as is customary.”
“You had no personal effects.”
“I had a sword.”
Gideon stared her down, but she didn’t so much as smirk, so he chose to answer her with sincerity. “That weapon, as you might imagine, was permanently confiscated.”
“Hm,” said Avery, pursing her lips. “Very well, but I also distinctly remember a marvelous bag of toffees in my right pocket, and a silk cravat. It may have been two hundred years ago, but I am quite certain I did not stand trial in…” She gestured distastefully to the plain cotton breeches and shirt. “This.”
Gideon began walking toward the exit again.
Avery tsked. “Two hundred years, and you have still not found the time to develop a sense of humor.”
He could hear that her walking, while not hurried, had returned to its normal unhindered cadence.
“Quick!” she theatrically called out to the office. “Stop that man, he’s getting away!”
Having heard the commotion, but not the context, a confused Balaskas poked his head out of his office.
“Balaskas,” Avery bellowed in surprise. “Two centuries of blunderous investigations, and you are still managing to pass as a police officer? I would salute your accomplishment were it not heartbreaking proof of the death of common sense.”
The kallikantzaros glared daggers and shrank back into his office.
Gideon was holding the front door open for her.
“The politician holding the door for the prisoner,” Avery observed. “If that is not a metaphor—”
“I’m in no mood for your jokes.”
“You never were,” Avery muttered, stepping outside.
The downpour startled her into stillness.
It took a moment for her to comprehend what she was feeling: the rapid individual points of pressure, the chill, the way fabric clung to her skin as it dampened.
She lifted her hand to observe the waterdrops fall and pool in her palm, then gazed heavenward and stretched both her arms to the sky as if to greet an old friend.
She inhaled the scent of storm-soaked earth, the cool air stinging her lungs.
Gideon moved his hand as if parting his way through a crowd, and the rainfall shifted to move around him, still falling toward him but unnaturally veering off before actually touching him.
He eyed her, wondering if this was one of her ploys—but then she sobbed.
Animalistic, delirious, and undignified, she sobbed—a sound he hadn’t heard from her since she was just a child.
He stepped up beside her, unable to keep the concern from his tone. “Avery?”
“How did I ever forget the rain?” the changeling whispered, tears lost in the downpour.
He swallowed and his hand tentatively reached for her, hesitated, then retreated. He cleared his throat, resolved. “Come.” He walked down the steps to the vehicle where his driver was already waiting, opening the door as the Archfey approached.
The automobile stumped her as Avery first followed him with her gaze.
It was, as always, curiosity that drew her forward, not obedience.
That was fine; he was betting on that. He had also hoped that if he could show her even a shred of evidence of how the world had changed, she would be tempted to accept the proposal they had for her before she’d even heard it.
A horse and carriage was a logical thing to replace after two hundred years, he could see her accepting that, but she never would have imagined such a design.
Her hand slid over the chrome body, pushing a slick layer of rain off the surface.
She was investigating it—verifying that moisture could not be absorbed by the material that made its exterior and observing how the design and shape naturally redirected the flow of water.
“Self-powered?” She directed this question to his driver.
“Yes, ma’am. An automobile—or colloquially a car.”5
“Well, I suppose it is a wheeled vehicle,” said Avery, “though the term has evolved much since I last knew it.”
“As you might imagine”—Gideon spoke carefully—“the world has evolved much in your absence. You’ll find most things run on a kind of bottled lightning, including this.”
“Electricity?”
“You know of it?” Of course, she did. Of course, he knew she did. And he knew she would delight in telling him how she did.