Wait for the sharp puncture of teeth.
Wait for the putrid smell of their sweat to surround me.
Wait for the rank stink of their breath as they open their mouths to devour me.
All I can hear is the beat of my heart and the blood rushing through my veins. Waiting for death makes time slow down, like ridiculously slow, like maybe even backwards.
Surely, I should be dead by now.
They’re taking their time.
I have to open my eyes to look.
The lions have shifted back into human form, and they are all laughing at me. Weak with laughter, crying with laughter, pointing at my curled up form, pointing and shaking with laughter.
Rude.
I sit up, annoyed and blushing with embarrassment, but too scared to get up.
“That was the best thing I have seen for ages,” one of them says, wiping at his eyes and coughing with laughter.
“I’m not sure what was funnier,” another one of them says. “the pathetic attempt at flying or the curled up in a ball waiting for death.”
“Definitely the attempt to fly,” the last of them says, and I wish I was a better witch because I’d magic them all a punch in their smug little faces.
I stand up, anger making me braver than I ever usually am. “I’m not sure what’s worse – getting eaten by three ugly lions or having my life spared and having to look at their ugly, stupid faces.”
This doesn’t have my desired effect and actually sets them off laughing again, literally howling with laughter, and gasping for breath.
I don’t know what to do – I don’t dare try flying again, and I don’t dare try any magic with them watching and making fun of me, so I fold my arms and scowl at them, wondering what the hell is supposed to happen next.
If they wanted me dead, I’d be dead, so I’m back to exactly where I was when I was kidnapped by the evil fairy twins; wondering if these are angry members of the council or pissed off rebels.
I don’t even want to guess.
I clear my throat and glare at them, hoping it ends their mirth.
The first one to speak is the first one to speak again. “Oh, you are a funny one. You need to come with us. Don’t try anything.”
The third one snarls, looking weirdly lionesque despite his human form. “Exactly. We spared you, but only because we were told to. I’d have preferred to eat you.”
Nice.
The middle one coughs. “We don’t mind keeping you alive, but not if you try any funny business. One step out of line and I’m happy to bite you, even in my normal form.”
Nice.
Council or rebel, none of them are turning out to be particularly pleasant guys.
I close my eyes and nod. Here we go again – somebody else calls the shots and takes over my life. I can’t remember the last time I did something that I wanted to, but what choice do I have?
“Or you could try flying away again, I could do with a laugh, I really could.”
I refuse to answer, so one of them takes hold of my arm, finger pinching into my skin, reminding me of Efa, when she delighted in hurting me, even though I was already under her power. I shake off his grip, and sparks fly out from my fingers. I silently beg for more, for flames or heat, but nothing happens, and I close my eyes for a second, frustration taking over. I’ve obviously got performance anxiety.
I conjured up lovely pizza and chocolate when nobody was watching me, and I have made my fledgling magic work, but it’s just not happening now. It’s exactly like when I was in primary school and got the coveted part of Mary in the nativity. I practised my song – a solo of Away in a Manger, over and over and over. I was pitch perfect and delightfully sweet. I had my little tea towel over my head and a blue dress made of pillowcases and I was ready. This was my calling, where my future lay – the screen, the stage, the bright lights, fame and fortune of stardom were calling me. Until the first night when the hall was full of family and friends and my mum was waving at me like a maniac, pride colouring her face, and I stepped forward to sing, forgot the words, tripped over my pillow case, fell flat on my face, and ran out of the hall crying.
This is the same thing – I’m not tripping over my pillowcase, but I cannot do magic when everyone’s watching me and judging me. It’s so sad.
He leads me forwards with a hand on my back, rather than a tight grip on my arm, and I relish in one minor victory.
Pathetic, I know.
I’m still being led to a house by rebels or angry council members, who were happy to shift into lions and scare the life out of me. And, if technology is right, they probably have Ember as a prisoner, and if she hasn’t escaped, I know I haven’t got a hope.
One of them pushes open the door of the middle house in the row of innocent looking terraced houses and ushers me inside. I swallow down the vomit and hold my head up high. Whichever way the Grim Reaper takes me, he won’t take me begging for my life.
The first room we come to is empty of people but full of furniture. The one with his hand on my back gestures to an armchair and I take a seat, perched on the end, wondering what’s next.
The henchmen leave the room, leaving me alone, but one of them stays put just outside the door. I know I won’t get to escape as easily as I did when the evil twins took me, but I am trying to keep my wits about me.
Best as I can after nearly being eaten by three lions, you know.
I hear voices coming nearer and
