Read Online Mine to Spell (Mine #2) by Janeal Falor - Free Book Online
Authors: Janeal Falor
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only ones I trust, and even then I don’t know how far my trust goes. I spotted one, and followed her to a house, but she slammed the door so fast my words were good for nothing but banging on the wood. I don’t blame her. Talking to me would probably only lead to her getting in trouble.
Which brings trouble. If my being around causes trouble, I shouldn’t go home. Not that I know where it is anyway, but I had hoped. Perhaps I can still send a message to Serena and she could at least send me a few clothes along with enough money to do… well, something.
The longer I wander, the more my stomach feels hollow and angry. When was the last time I ate? I’ve had water, but food? I don’t even remember for certain. Back at home, there was a small roll for breakfast before Edward came, though with my nerves it was difficult to eat. How long ago was that? Over two days, I think. The pain in my stomach makes it hard to think.
The rain makes my hair soggy, something my spell has dealt with before. It feels as if it’s slipping from its bun, but I don’t dare fix it in public. Even if I were to dart into an alleyway, there are too many people and someone may follow. There’s nowhere safe from prying eyes. It can’t be expected that my hair remain perfect in such weather. Naturally, they can and will, but I don’t know how women manage it without magic. I do my best to smooth it, and hope it’s enough to draw any unwanted attention away from me.
Suddenly, I realize a warlock is striding in my direction. Not just any warlock. Black breeches, orange shirt, baton hook at his side. A law officer. My hands go clammy. Is he coming for me? Have I finally been caught? What’s to become of me if I am his intended target?
I cross the street. He crosses as well. My pace quickens. So does his. My heart races, magic banging about inside me, but I keep my outward appearance in check. This can’t be good. I glance behind my shoulder and he’s almost to me. I pick up the pace so I’m almost running.
“ Stop,” he calls out.
Which is worse: to stop and listen, or to run? Neither are likeable options, but I stop. Running can come later if needed, with a hex to give me a head start. Only it’d better not come to that. Perhaps he only wants to tell me to fix my hair and leave it at that. Unlikely, but I can pretend to myself as well as others. I have options. Just not good ones. I keep my head down and my back straight, not letting any other reason for him to find fault with me to slip out.
“Where’s your owner?” he demands.
A few people on the street stop to watch. I don’t know whether it’s good or bad they look on. I do know this is a bad, bad situation.
“He’s just…” Not a he, he’s a she who’s me. Blasted words. If I’m confusing myself. He’s not only going to be confused, but bring more trouble for thinking I’m untruthful.
As if to prove my fears just, he pulls out his baton and smacks it against his hand. “Where’s your owner?”
A beating. That’s what he has in mind for me. My gaze can’t tear itself away from his baton, which slaps against his hand several more times. It will be painful. Not what I want, yet something I can handle. What comes after the beating, though? Why did I think coming to a town full of people and law officers was a good idea?
I open my mouth to say something, though I’m still trying to formulate what, but before I speak, a voice with a drawl says, “Do you have a problem with this woman?”
Coat Man. Without his umbrella now and more soaked than ever. What is he doing here? And why is he interrupting?
The questioning warlock scowls, his crooked teeth bared. “And just who are you?”
“A friend of her owner.”
My owner? Does this mean he’s claiming to be my friend, Edward’s friend, or Serena’s? And why, exactly, would he claim such a thing?
“Doubtful,” the warlock scoffs. “With your looks and accent, you’re not from
Which brings trouble. If my being around causes trouble, I shouldn’t go home. Not that I know where it is anyway, but I had hoped. Perhaps I can still send a message to Serena and she could at least send me a few clothes along with enough money to do… well, something.
The longer I wander, the more my stomach feels hollow and angry. When was the last time I ate? I’ve had water, but food? I don’t even remember for certain. Back at home, there was a small roll for breakfast before Edward came, though with my nerves it was difficult to eat. How long ago was that? Over two days, I think. The pain in my stomach makes it hard to think.
The rain makes my hair soggy, something my spell has dealt with before. It feels as if it’s slipping from its bun, but I don’t dare fix it in public. Even if I were to dart into an alleyway, there are too many people and someone may follow. There’s nowhere safe from prying eyes. It can’t be expected that my hair remain perfect in such weather. Naturally, they can and will, but I don’t know how women manage it without magic. I do my best to smooth it, and hope it’s enough to draw any unwanted attention away from me.
Suddenly, I realize a warlock is striding in my direction. Not just any warlock. Black breeches, orange shirt, baton hook at his side. A law officer. My hands go clammy. Is he coming for me? Have I finally been caught? What’s to become of me if I am his intended target?
I cross the street. He crosses as well. My pace quickens. So does his. My heart races, magic banging about inside me, but I keep my outward appearance in check. This can’t be good. I glance behind my shoulder and he’s almost to me. I pick up the pace so I’m almost running.
“ Stop,” he calls out.
Which is worse: to stop and listen, or to run? Neither are likeable options, but I stop. Running can come later if needed, with a hex to give me a head start. Only it’d better not come to that. Perhaps he only wants to tell me to fix my hair and leave it at that. Unlikely, but I can pretend to myself as well as others. I have options. Just not good ones. I keep my head down and my back straight, not letting any other reason for him to find fault with me to slip out.
“Where’s your owner?” he demands.
A few people on the street stop to watch. I don’t know whether it’s good or bad they look on. I do know this is a bad, bad situation.
“He’s just…” Not a he, he’s a she who’s me. Blasted words. If I’m confusing myself. He’s not only going to be confused, but bring more trouble for thinking I’m untruthful.
As if to prove my fears just, he pulls out his baton and smacks it against his hand. “Where’s your owner?”
A beating. That’s what he has in mind for me. My gaze can’t tear itself away from his baton, which slaps against his hand several more times. It will be painful. Not what I want, yet something I can handle. What comes after the beating, though? Why did I think coming to a town full of people and law officers was a good idea?
I open my mouth to say something, though I’m still trying to formulate what, but before I speak, a voice with a drawl says, “Do you have a problem with this woman?”
Coat Man. Without his umbrella now and more soaked than ever. What is he doing here? And why is he interrupting?
The questioning warlock scowls, his crooked teeth bared. “And just who are you?”
“A friend of her owner.”
My owner? Does this mean he’s claiming to be my friend, Edward’s friend, or Serena’s? And why, exactly, would he claim such a thing?
“Doubtful,” the warlock scoffs. “With your looks and accent, you’re not from
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