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Authors: Karina Cooper
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moved; it was soundless in the vacuum her consciousness left behind.
The view tilted. Upended. Golden sunlight faded to hazy blue. Opulent wallpaper withered to mottled paint, and Jessie lurched back into herself with pain, fear, and pure rage beating at her skull.
Only half of it was her own.
They were going to kill Caleb. They knew he was a witch, thought he’d been killing people . . .
No .
Nausea slammed into her body, her stomach twisting. She had only a second’s reprieve before it splashed into the back of her throat.
Jessie staggered toward the bathroom.
She retched into the toilet until her stomach wrung itself dry. When she could move again without feeling as if the ground rolled out from under her, she stood, shaking, and staggered to the cracked sink. She gripped the edges for balance, stared her pale, dripping reflection in the eye.
“Pull it together,” she told herself. She breathed in, counted to three. Her wayward, roiling stomach refused to settle.
The nausea wasn’t new. Snapping back like a rubber band always left her feeling like she’d left half of her necessary organs behind, but it had been years since she’d connected so completely. So effortlessly. And even then, only with Caleb.
What did it mean?
And what had she seen?
Missionaries, they called themselves. Killers, every one of them, and she’d seen four. Silas, the exotic woman they called Naomi West, the leader named Peterson, and the bald one.
Four , Silas had said. Maybe five.
A fully fledged mission. To kill her brother.
Jessie twisted the tap, splashed cold water on her face until she could breathe without the acidic burn of bile on her tongue. She patted her face dry, checked her reflection again.
She was still pale. Tired. The corner of her mouth, noticeably purple around the rough scab, looked as if she’d gotten caught chewing on a leaky pen. But her chin was high and her eyes seemed steady, bright in the weak bathroom light. Jessie smiled tightly.
If they thought she was going to gift wrap her brother for them, they had something else coming.
Chapter Five
T hree hours and thirty-six minutes.
It was an eternity to spend trapped in the tiny, ruined apartment. The sharp, lingering scent of smoky incense and fouled carpet made it almost impossible to breathe.
She still tried.
Each gasping breath battled against time, a struggle to pull oxygen into her lungs and expel the fluid that gathered there instead. Minute by minute, drip by bloody, agonizing drip.
Down in the ruins of the old city, where even the sun couldn’t push through cracks in cement and every day was a fight for survival, no one would miss her. She’d probably rot here, alone and forgotten. Her body would decay, flesh sloughing off from her fragile bones to melt into a viscous puddle useless to everyone but the hungry, vengeful city she putrefied in.
The City of Glass.
The city of magicians and fools.
She moved. A shudder. It rippled across her naked body, sucked at the breath gurgling deep inside her chest. She had been beautiful once. Even before her pale skin had been carved with ritual symbols, before the incisions had hobbled every joint and seared bloody and black into every bone.
She had smiled once.
Now she lay splayed on the floor, bound by silk and iron. Her long, long legs pointed to the east and south, held open by a length of carved wood that pierced her thighs. The concave dip of her belly twitched, strained to suck in the air her body so desperately craved, and fresh scabs split again to drool bloody tears over her thin hips.
She was naked. Of course she was naked. It wasn’t sexual. It had never been sexual, this ritual. Far from it; it was the worst ritual he’d ever witnessed.
And so necessary.
Blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth, sprayed over her chin and chest with every shallow exhale. The only possession she had been allowed to retain winked now in the sickly green light of the glow rod beside him, but
The view tilted. Upended. Golden sunlight faded to hazy blue. Opulent wallpaper withered to mottled paint, and Jessie lurched back into herself with pain, fear, and pure rage beating at her skull.
Only half of it was her own.
They were going to kill Caleb. They knew he was a witch, thought he’d been killing people . . .
No .
Nausea slammed into her body, her stomach twisting. She had only a second’s reprieve before it splashed into the back of her throat.
Jessie staggered toward the bathroom.
She retched into the toilet until her stomach wrung itself dry. When she could move again without feeling as if the ground rolled out from under her, she stood, shaking, and staggered to the cracked sink. She gripped the edges for balance, stared her pale, dripping reflection in the eye.
“Pull it together,” she told herself. She breathed in, counted to three. Her wayward, roiling stomach refused to settle.
The nausea wasn’t new. Snapping back like a rubber band always left her feeling like she’d left half of her necessary organs behind, but it had been years since she’d connected so completely. So effortlessly. And even then, only with Caleb.
What did it mean?
And what had she seen?
Missionaries, they called themselves. Killers, every one of them, and she’d seen four. Silas, the exotic woman they called Naomi West, the leader named Peterson, and the bald one.
Four , Silas had said. Maybe five.
A fully fledged mission. To kill her brother.
Jessie twisted the tap, splashed cold water on her face until she could breathe without the acidic burn of bile on her tongue. She patted her face dry, checked her reflection again.
She was still pale. Tired. The corner of her mouth, noticeably purple around the rough scab, looked as if she’d gotten caught chewing on a leaky pen. But her chin was high and her eyes seemed steady, bright in the weak bathroom light. Jessie smiled tightly.
If they thought she was going to gift wrap her brother for them, they had something else coming.
Chapter Five
T hree hours and thirty-six minutes.
It was an eternity to spend trapped in the tiny, ruined apartment. The sharp, lingering scent of smoky incense and fouled carpet made it almost impossible to breathe.
She still tried.
Each gasping breath battled against time, a struggle to pull oxygen into her lungs and expel the fluid that gathered there instead. Minute by minute, drip by bloody, agonizing drip.
Down in the ruins of the old city, where even the sun couldn’t push through cracks in cement and every day was a fight for survival, no one would miss her. She’d probably rot here, alone and forgotten. Her body would decay, flesh sloughing off from her fragile bones to melt into a viscous puddle useless to everyone but the hungry, vengeful city she putrefied in.
The City of Glass.
The city of magicians and fools.
She moved. A shudder. It rippled across her naked body, sucked at the breath gurgling deep inside her chest. She had been beautiful once. Even before her pale skin had been carved with ritual symbols, before the incisions had hobbled every joint and seared bloody and black into every bone.
She had smiled once.
Now she lay splayed on the floor, bound by silk and iron. Her long, long legs pointed to the east and south, held open by a length of carved wood that pierced her thighs. The concave dip of her belly twitched, strained to suck in the air her body so desperately craved, and fresh scabs split again to drool bloody tears over her thin hips.
She was naked. Of course she was naked. It wasn’t sexual. It had never been sexual, this ritual. Far from it; it was the worst ritual he’d ever witnessed.
And so necessary.
Blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth, sprayed over her chin and chest with every shallow exhale. The only possession she had been allowed to retain winked now in the sickly green light of the glow rod beside him, but
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