Pilar awoke in an unfamiliar room, though one look around the bare space, and she knew where she was. The silver walls were adorned with only four things: a sealed door, a doorway leading to a tiny bathroom, a sustenance generator, and a bed–if it could be labelled as such–that was nothing but a metal slab built into the wall. No mattress or pillow or blanket. No v-screen. No closet or change of clothes. Nothing.

She was in a brig cell.

Cursing the hexes, she pounded on the door, calling for someone–anyone. That lasted only a moment or two before she decided to take matters into her own hands, and snapped her fingers, intending to return to her room.

Nothing happened.

She tried a few more times, imagining her room forming around her as it had every other time she’d attempted this, but without success. She snapped her fingers imagining flowers, chocolates, the dog–anything she’d done before with ease. But each time, the only profit of her effort was the soft echo of the impact of her thumb and middle finger.

“They drugged you.”

Pilar dropped to the floor, her back pressed against the door.

“The effects would wear off, but they plan on giving you a new dose every twelve hours, so I wouldn’t count on it.”

“What kind of drug?” she hissed between clenched teeth.

“What did you think they did to unruly hexes? The only thing that could be done when the mutations first sprouted was kill them. But we’ve come a long way since then, haven’t we?”

“What. Kind. Of. Drug.”

“Patience, Pilar. You have all the time in the world now that everyone knows. You won’t be leaving this cell.”

She grunted in frustration, standing and facing the door again to bang on it with both fists.

“It only blocks your powers.”

The sides of her fists sore and her ears ringing, Pilar realized her attempt to garner attention was doing more harm than good. She sat on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. “Why would I believe you after everything you’ve done?”

The door slid open, and Pilar scrambled to her feet, trying to figure out how she could protect herself from the hexes.

But it wasn’t a hex. Not fully.

“Who are you talking to?” Twyla asked, stepping into the room without hesitation, though two guards stood behind her, blocking the doorway.

Pilar breathed a sigh of relief. “Twyla,” she stood, closing the distance between them and taking the girl’s hands, “what is happening?”

The girl flinched at her touch, and Pilar released her hands, taking a step back, not bothering to hide the hurt on her face.

“I’m here as a kind of emissary,” the apprentice began. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

“You don’t even know what the truth is, do you, Pilar?”

“Of course,” she answered, ignoring the voice. “What do you want to know?”

“How have you hidden your powers for so long?”

Pilar considered lying, but Nicola already knew, and she was determined to prove the voice wrong anyway. “I only recently developed them.” She explained her discovery and subsequent experimentation.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

If the news was shocking to the girl, she didn’t let on. She only listened attentively, as if she were memorizing the words to report back to the others.

“And, did you…” She looked down, fiddling with her thumbs before slowly bringing her attention back to Pilar. “Did you have anything to do with the Head’s disappearance?”

“No.” Pilar looked the girl in the eyes and allowed no hesitation, no room for doubt.

Twyla nodded once, and turned swiftly back toward the door, her maroon robes swirling around her.

“You’re leaving?” Pilar called, heartbroken.

The girl kept her back toward the prisoner. “As a hex without proper training, you are considered a danger to yourself and others. I don’t know how long they want you confined. Until we meet again.”

#

It didn’t take long for Pilar to lose track of time. The injections came every twelve hours, as promised, but she wasn’t sure if she’d had ten or a hundred of them. Another constant was her meals–the generator was on an automatic setting; she didn’t even have the option to choose her food. But the monotony of the rest of the time made it impossible to count the days; the hours simply ran together.

Most of the time, she laid on the bed. But she also spent hours each day in the shower, letting the water wash over her, hoping she would step out into a different circumstance–just as she had in the past, when stepping out meant suffering Rory.

No matter what she was doing, she was always in a constant battle with herself and the voice. Half the time, she tried to ignore it, begging it to leave her alone. The other half, she tried to encourage it, begging it for company.

She was lonely, after all.

Nicola had visited once, near the beginning. But neither the drinking trio nor Christof showed, nor did Twyla ever return. Guards spoke to her every now and then; mostly just to make sure she was still alive. But the voice–the voice was always just a thought away.

It was simultaneously comforting yet made her want to rip her skin off.

The door slid open without a knock or any other courtesy.

It was yet another insult to the prisoner, the worst of which was the flickering power. The lights of the brig didn’t work quite right, the standard twenty-four setting seemingly malfunctioning. There were times when she woke to a chill on the metal. Or the generator delayed giving her water by several minutes. Or the scalding water of the shower faded into a cold stream without instruction to do so.

Pilar remained laying on the bed, her hands folded over her stomach, her eyes locked onto a speck of dust on the ceiling. Only when a masculine throat cleared did she sit up, eyeing the intruder.

He didn’t wear a guard uniform, but something more akin to an officer’s suit–though it was a charcoal grey rather than the deep blue of those. She said nothing as he took methodical steps into the center of the room to face her fully, his hands behind his back.

“Pilar Armada?” he asked, his voice much softer than she would have expected. When she nodded, he continued. “We have concluded our investigation of your crimes.”

“Crimes?” she whispered, interrupting what she was sure was a practiced speech. “What crimes?”

The man twitched his neck. “The entire list will be read at your tribunal. But the most egregious of those that you are being tried for are the murders of Rory Ackerman, Florence Josiah, and Head Morgana.”

Blood rushed Pilar’s ears, drowning out the man’s continued words, her world spiraling, the air crushing. For everything she was unsure of, everything she overthought, everything she doubted, she knew one thing: this couldn’t be happening.

She popped off the metal slab, and the man had a stunner pulled and aimed at her in half a heartbeat. “This is you, isn’t it? You’ve moved on to hallucinations?” she called, spinning around, speaking to the empty space.

“This is you, Pilar. This is the consequence of your actions.”

“They were your actions! You told me to do those things.”

The man kept the stunner aimed at Pilar, though had taken a few steps back, watching the woman with horrified interest.

“You must have misinterpreted.”

Pilar stopped, her chest heaving. Then she dropped to her knees, screaming, pulling at her hair. “This is all your fault!”

The man took an investigating step toward her. “Whose fault, Mrs. Armada?”

“And who am I?”

Two questions; one answer. She wanted to tell them. But the cold truth was that she didn’t know.

Pilar slumped over on the floor. The man came another step closer. She barely felt the sting of the stunner.