Winged

Chapter Thirteen

Sabrina

The net flies in from out of nowhere, sending me toppling over into the shockingly cold water of the fountain from the frosty night. It had come so fast I hadn't had enough time to send a blast of air to divert its course, but my magic fails me now as the cool metal weights hold me down, resilient to my magic.

The metal hums and I try to recoil from it, only to have my back and wings pressed up against more shrieking metal, seeming to burn my skin without leaving a mark.

I try to make myself smaller, shrink down so the net can't hold me, but my flexible cage flattens as I do, a second skin wrapping itself around my frail body.

In my peripheral vision, I see a tall man with dark curls in some fancy suit come up to me, chains in his hands.

This is what I wanted, I tell myself. This is why I came here, why I waited all night in the cold.

But I just wish I could remove this metal. Oh, it will be a relief when they take it off me.

Is this what Harriet and Jackie went through?

What Lucy went through?

The thought fills me with anger, and my magic rages, blood pulsing fast, to-

To absolutely nothing.

The metal fights back any magic rising to the surface, with a sizzling noise, burning my skin. I scream in agony as the heat scalds my flesh.

Breathe. I make myself take deep, calming breaths. Breathe.

The man comes closer, and I can see purple eyes, the dark hair now blonde.

Ethan.

What is he doing here? Where's Hali? Does he know where Annabelle is? I look closer at his face to see whether he is triumphant or angry.

But it's not him, this man. This man is taller, with broader shoulders. Older.

He turns his head, and with the sunlight off his hair, it's back to dark brown. Not Ethan.

Then who is he?

He grips my arms and pulls me to my feet, the painful net still covering my head and shoulders, making my head spin.

"Grant Washner, Siren catcher at your service."

꧁꧂

Grant Washner politely insists I call him by his full name as he leads me into the dungeons below his "Extravagant Exhibitions" shop, leading me by chains around my wrists made of that metal, that hurt every time I twisted my wrists. I had looked at the design multiple times and cursed myself for how easy and simple it appeared to be to take off, the design obviously created to save materials.

If I could just move my thumb up that way, then twist my palms to face upwards, bend my wrist back, and I should be able to be free of these chains. But the frustration of realizing I simply could not do that was driving me insane.

Every time I so much as lifted my hands, stinging pains from the metal shot up my arms, wrapping around my body like a bear hug, spreading itself around my body to my aching wings.

Grant Washner leads me down dark steps, sinking in the middle from so much use, the edges caked with grime and slime, the light from far up above finally seeming to slink away, the only light source now the flimsy flame a lantern held, Grant, gripping the golden ring with his fingers.

Reaching a landing, he nods to his companion who takes a link of silver keys from a chain around his belt. Reaching for a simple, plainly cut, almost grey-ish silver, he inserts it into the thin lock and twists. Grant Washner steps in front of the closed, unlocked door, but makes no move to enter. He looks at my face, the thin scraps of clothing covering my malnourished body from stealing kitchen scraps for almost a week, and frowns at me.