My legs strained with effort, my steps so quick and so sure my heels hardly touched the ground. When I reached the yellow torchlight, I threw myself against the brick wall near my uncle’s gate and forced myself to take long, burning breaths.
I peered over my shoulder down the road, half expecting to see them chasing me. But the darkness was merely punctured by trees and mist.
The Nightmare and I were alone once more.
My arms continued to burn, even when my lungs grew steadier. I rolled up my sleeves, staring at the ink-black tributary of magic shooting down my veins, flowing from the crook of my elbow to my wrist. It looked just as it had that night eleven years ago when the fever took hold of me.
It looked just the same every time I asked the Nightmare for his help.
I waited for the ink to burn off, grinding my teeth against the stinging warmth. Do you think they realized I’m infected?
They’re Card thieves. Report you, and they report themselves.
A few moments later, the warmth was gone, its ghost twitching up and down my arms. I leaned up against the brick wall and heaved a rattling sigh. Why does it burn every time? I asked.
But the Nightmare had already begun to vanish into the dark chasm of my mind. My magic moves, he said. My magic bites. My magic soothes. My magic frights. You are young and not so bold. I am unflinching—five hundred years old.