“Yes,” I sighed.
He glanced back down at his notebook. “‘During the interrogation, you are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say may be given in evidence.’” He turned his head and coughed into the crook of his arm. “Joseph Hunter, you are detained with respect to the five bodies found burned on your property. If you have spoken to any police officer, including myself, with respect to this matter, who has offered you any hope of advantage or suggested…”
Detective Gross droned on for another minute. I wondered if he was the same detective who had called before the four derelicts decided to surround me. Did it matter? It did. What had Xander told him? How had the other officer… Deputy Aarseth, responded so quickly? And why was he so willing to ignore my story, but listen to everyone else’s?
“Do you understand?” he asked, closing his notebook and placing it back in his shirt pocket.
“Ask your questions,” I said. “I don’t need a lawyer. I need to get this over with, and I need to get out of here, now.”
Detective Gross rubbed his palms on his khaki slacks and then leaned forward on his chair. “Well,” he said, “before we begin, are you thirsty?”
I shook my head and glared at him, willing him to keep his flabby ass on the chair and ask his questions. “Not thirsty. Not hungry. Don’t need to shit or take a nap. I’m as right as rain, as ready as a college coed.”
He sucked on the tobacco wedged in his mouth. “I’m pretty thirsty. Tired, too. Think some coffee will serve us both well.” He stood, using the table between us for assistance. Before walking away, he stretched his back, rotating to the left and right. “You sure you don’t want one?” he asked.
I shrugged, rattling the handcuffs. The steel had started to chafe my wrists. “Fuck it,” I said. “If you’re getting up anyway, I’ll take one, too.”
He poked out his lizard tongue and licked his lizard lips. Without a word, he pivoted, exiting the small room and leaving me alone. The detective wanted me alone, wanted me angry and uncomfortable, wanted me antsy and on edge. As I grew more impatient and frustrated, my chances of making a mistake increased—and the detective was betting on that, I was sure of it. He moved and spoke slowly to show me how much time he had—and to emphasize how little time I had. His method was nothing less than a legal form of torture. He didn’t cause gross physical pain, but he did cause great mental torment and emotional distress, and he would use those advantages in his favor to garner pertinent information. Lucky for the bastard, I was about as desperate as they came. If he offered me a night of freedom, I would confess to anything he put in front of me.
I stood from the plastic chair and stretched. I paced the ten-by-ten room, my torso aching from the beating, but movement helped push blood through my veins and alleviate some of the stagnant pain. My magic trickled through my body. I thought of accessing the power to help me escape. If I used it, though, I risked overexerting myself and losing consciousness. A headache already throbbed behind my eyes, and my hands trembled with fatigue. A bout of chills racked my body every couple of minutes, and an exhausted weakness coursed through my limbs. Not to mention the way-too-much alcohol I had consumed. The effects had probably numbed me, so whatever pain I did feel was only the tip of the penis. Is that the saying? I’m still drunk, so who knows.
After five years of doing the equivalent of sitting on the couch playing video games and eating hot pockets all day, I now felt like a man who had never exercised in his life trying to complete wind sprints with professional athletes.
Why hadn’t I kept up with the basics, at least?
Because even the basics left a trackable aura for any Cursed or Acolyte to follow.
What the hell did it matter? Before, I could have protected Mel from any danger. I had weapons and magic that didn’t wipe out my energy after a few light uses. Now, I barely had the strength to access enough magic to enhance my senses, and Mel was gone. So, all in all, I was in no better shape than if I had kept practicing my magic.
I sniffed, smelling smoke—like someone had just exhaled their cigarette breath all over my face. Detective Gross hadn’t returned. The door was still shut. I scanned the ceiling and walls for vents, but I didn’t see smoke entering from anywhere. Yet, the stench intensified, and a brown haze crept around me. Before I had the chance to cough, a warm fog surrounded me like a cloud, pressing against my body as if squeezing me from existence.
Then, I fell weightless into a void.
10
I reappeared into existence sitting in a wooden chair in the middle of a dingy shop. Smoke curled off my body, as if I had just stepped out of a fire. Fans pulled it toward the ceiling, and vents carried it from the space. I lifted a hand up reflexively—the handcuffs I had worn in the precinct were replaced with heavy manacles that bound my wrists to each chair arm. The warm steel bit further into my sore wrists. Glancing down, I saw trickles of blood sliding off my forearms and down the sides of the chair—my ankles were also restrained, similarly clamped to the chair’s legs.
Reaching for my magic, I found nothing but emptiness—there was no power to tap into, no more energy to expel. I strained against the chains that bound me. The metal chewed deeper into my skin, pressing against my bones, and I growled with all my strength. Only my energy snapped. I sagged against the backrest and gasped for more smoggy air.
Panting, I scanned the room. I
