“Yes,” I whispered. “She’s alive. She was pretty beat up, but she’s alive. Now listen to me. I’m going to break these chains, and you’re going to wonder how, but I can’t answer questions now. I need you to promise me you’ll let me get you out of here. Promise you’ll listen to everything I say. Do it,” I ordered.
I could easily break the chains with my magic, but I couldn’t afford to waste time while they asked questions I couldn’t answer.
An erasure spell was in their near futures, but for now, I needed them to cooperate, and when I got the blankety-blank out of here, I was going to hunt this mothertrucker down and make him rue the day he ever thought up this insane plan.
I desperately wanted to zap us out of here, but I know my magic only too well. Simple tasks are one thing, zapping all three of us out, when I’m as stressed as I was, could land us somewhere I couldn’t keep us safe.
So I’d have to take it one step at a time. Patience. Patience, Poppet, I heard Atti say in my head.
Closing my eyes, I said again, “Ladies? Do you hear me? I’m going to get you out of here, but it’s crucial you listen to me.”
“But how—”
“Lisa!” Jasmine chastised. “She said don’t ask questions. Do you want to be in here forever? Or do you want to go home to your cat, Seamus?”
That gave me a talking point, something to distract them. “You have a cat, Lisa? Me too. His name’s Phil. Mine’s a total jerk. Super aloof, hates any kind of affection unless it’s on his terms…and to think, I rescued him. What’s yours like?” I asked as I rubbed my fingertips together and twisted my wrists.
As Lisa began describing her cat, I focused on freeing myself. My trusty magic surged through me in a tidal wave of blissful power, popping first one cuff and then the next.
Finally free, but unable to see a bloody thing, I felt around.
The floor was dirt, and cold, but when I reached out, I felt material. A blanket? Then something soft that almost had me recoiling until I realized it was a pillow.
With my pulse racing, I called out, “Jasmine, talk to me. I can’t see a thing. I need to follow the sound of your voice.”
“My name is Jasmine Franks, and I want to go home, Hal. I want to go home so bad, I can’t even tell you. I…I miss my mother. I miss my dog Juniper. She’s a rescue. A French bulldog, and she sleeps with me every night. I…I miss her…” she sobbed softly.
I began crawling, my hands touching every inch of the surface between myself and Jasmine’s voice. “I saw your mother today, Jasmine. She misses you so much. She’s going to be so happy you’re okay.”
I heard her gasp softly. “You saw her? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine, Jasmine. She just misses you, but not for long,” I said as I struggled to bridge the gap between us. When I finally touched flesh, I asked, “Is that your ankle?”
“Yes. Oh, thank God, yes!”
“Hold your hands out to me, Jasmine. Reach for mine.” When I felt her fingers touch mine, I worked my way along her hands until I gripped her wrists, and she began to openly weep. “Hush now, Jasmine,” I soothed, stroking her arm. “I know you’ve been locked away here a long time, but I’m begging you, listen to me. I need you to stay calm, and I promise I’ll get you out. I swear it. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get you home to your mother and Juniper.”
The last thing I needed was for my magic to go kerflooey due to my stress. Rather than succumb to her soft sobs, I focused on the feel of the shackles and Jasmine’s icy fingers—and to my sheer delight, her cuffs fell off and clanked to the ground.
“How did you…?”
Hearing the awe and wonder in her voice, the relief, almost made me tear up. Being here so long must have been a living nightmare, but I couldn’t afford to lose my focus.
“No questions!” I all but yelled. “Lisa? Now you, sweetie. Talk to me. Tell me what your favorite subject was in school. It was art, right?”
I think I recalled that detail from her Facebook page.
As Lisa began to talk about her art class, and the teacher she’d so admired, it was easy to find her. The room was quite small, and when I walked my way up her legs, I grabbed onto her wrists, rubbing the smooth metal of the thick cuffs until they fell away like melted butter.
Sitting back on my haunches, I took as deep a breath as my congestion would allow while I thought about how I was going to do this without them losing their minds and becoming what I most feared.
Afraid of me.
I wanted to zap us out of here, but my fear was the same as it’s always been. What if I was so stressed, my magic failed and we ended up in the outer regions of Mongolia—or worse, another dimension? I wanted to trust myself, but I’d done worse under far less stressful circumstances.
Or what if they became afraid of me and my powers and they flipped? I couldn’t afford for them to become hysterical.
Licking my dry lips, and flexing my icy-cold fingers, I said, “I need you both to listen to me and I mean truly listen. I’m going to do something that’s going to—”
But I didn’t have time to finish that sentence before a heavy metal door burst open—and there in the very pale light of a quarter moon stood the repulsive scumbag who’d started this whole thing…all for a leg up.
Westcott Morgan.
Chapter 18
Mistletoe
Written by, Nasri, Justin Bieber, Adam Messinger 2011
And Westcott Morgan had a really big gun.
Now, I’ve said this before, I don’t know a whole lot about guns, but I think it was Mr. Feeney’s shotgun, and all I can tell you is this: no matter the cost, I wasn’t going to let these girls end up with big ugly holes in their chests the way Gable had.
Both of the girls cried out in what sounded like surprise and, of course, terror, but I shoved them behind me as my eyes adjusted to the light and the wind rushed in, blowing snowflakes directly into my face.
“You!” he seethed. “Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone? Why couldn’t you just go away?!”
From the kneeling position I was in, Jasmine and Lisa clung to me, their bodies trembling so violently, I almost tipped over.
Yet, I countered, my head throbbing, my eyes fixed on the barrel of that gun. “Why did you murder Gable Norton? How did that fit into your sick plan to manufacture a big story?”
Because, BTW, that’s what he’d done. He’d manufactured this entire mess from start to finish.
His nostrils flared, his eyes wild and his face distorted as he cried, “I didn’t mean to kill him! That was never part of the plan! Never! If he’d have just given me the SD card, I would have left and no one would have gotten hurt! I just wanted to prove I could write a story! I swear I was going to bring them all back. No one was supposed to get hurt!”
My seething anger, my disgust, took over as I clenched my fists. “Isn’t there something about the best-laid plans, Westcott? You’re a writer,” I spat. “You know what I mean, don’t you, wordsmith? But in your quest for a story, you almost killed my uncle!”