Audrey
I loathe him. I walk past him to avoid being in his presence any longer and take a seat at the small diner-style table in the kitchen. My gaze bores a hole through his back as if I can pierce the distance between us with sheer will. Every muscle in my body tightens with resentment as I fight the urge to hurl something at him to shatter his calm facade.
Varyn Blackmoore now sits firmly at the top of the list of people I hate most in this world. Granted, it wasn’t a long list and contained only one name: his. I would obliterate him if I had even the slightest clue how to use his magic. Okay, maybe not obliterate…but turning him into something small, something unimportant…like a worm? That’s the least he deserves. Crawling through the dirt, powerless. Then he could feel how I feel—small and insignificant.
How dare he call me weak. Me? He has no idea what I’ve endured, no clue how I’ve clawed my way through this relentless storm of a life. He doesn’t know the strength it took to survive—how every breath I take feels like defiance in the face of a world that’s tried to crush me over and over again. Now that I know magic exists, maybe it explains the curse my life seems to be under—one disaster after another like I was destined for this endless cycle of misfortune.
I left home at fifteen, and I’ve been on my own ever since. I knew, even then, that I could take care of myself better than a man who had chosen the bottle over me time and time again. I didn’t need his empty promises—I needed a life. So, I scraped by, working any job that would have me, sleeping in the back room of a convenience store because the manager took pity on me.
When that store burned down, they blamed me for the fire. Arson, they called it. I spent years in and out of juvie, but honestly, it was a step up from sleeping on the streets. At least there, I had a roof over my head, even if it came with steel bars.
By the time I was eighteen, I finally got a job cleaning at an art studio. It was the only place willing to take in a ‘troubled kid’ like me. That’s when I discovered art—the way it reached something inside me I didn’t even know existed. Until then, I’d been numb for so long, too used to surviving by predicting someone else’s moods just to stay safe, never letting myself feel anything. But art? It broke through. It let me feel again. Maybe for the first time.
At every opportunity, I studied Indie, the studio owner. I followed her like a second shadow. Her knowledge became my lifeline, and each bit of wisdom was like nectar to a starving soul. I craved it. I wanted to absorb everything about art—how it moved people, how it spoke without words. I worked tirelessly, proving my worth by memorizing each masterpiece that came through the studio’s doors, cataloging every brushstroke in my mind.
Years passed, and Indie finally saw me for more than just the troubled teen who had knocked on her door, desperate for a chance. She took me on as her apprentice. I began managing artists, curating pieces, and organizing events. I was no longer trying to prove myself—I was someone she trusted and had earned a place beside her.
Indie was preparing me to take over the studio when she retired—a dream I never thought possible. Not everyone was happy about this news. Her nephew, Noah, was livid when he found out. I overheard his angry shouts from her office the morning before she gave me the news. He believed the studio should be his by right, simply because he was her only living relative. The fury in his voice was undeniable. And on the very day my dreams were about to unfold, I was taken. Coincidence? I think not. It felt like the curse of never allowing Audrey Sinclair to find happiness had sprung to life once more.
Like any other night, I closed up the studio and turned the key. The loud click of the lock rang out louder than usual, echoing into the stillness. Something about the air felt wrong, like unseen eyes traced my every move. I shook it off and hurried down the street, but the sensation only grew stronger, crawling up my spine.
Then, I felt it—a hand on my back. A light touch on my shoulder and the world around me collapsed. It was as if my body had been drugged, buckling under a force I couldn’t fight. Everything went dark instantly, the eerie feeling confirming what I knew: this was no accident. Something—or someone—had come for me.
When I woke up in that warehouse and saw Varyn, I briefly dared to hope someone had come to rescue me. To save me. But it quickly became apparent that he only wanted his magic back—the power that now resided inside me. He called me a weak vessel, reducing me to nothing. He didn’t even see me as a person.
As my eyes roamed the small house, they accidentally met his gaze. A shiver of anger coursed through me. His dark chocolate eyes seemed vacant and unfeeling. I scoff to myself, trying to suppress the desire to tear him apart with my words.
“You can sleep in the bedroom,” he says, his voice breaking the tension like glass shattering. “I’ll take the couch. We should be safe here for a while.”
“Fine,” I retort tersely, but the sudden grumbling from under my worn-out t-shirt betrays my bravado, igniting a fresh wave of embarrassment.
“Are you hungry?”
“No,” I reply, but my stomach growls again, sounding more like a protest than a declaration of independence.
“Are you sure?” he presses, his gaze fixed on my midsection with disbelief.
“Fine, I’m hungry,” I concede, my pride slipping further away.
“I have some beef jerky in the pantry for now, but there’s meat in the freezer we can thaw for tomorrow. I’ll head to the store for supplies then,” he rattles off, focusing elsewhere.
“Thanks,” I mutter
I grab a hunk of jerky and inhale its smoky aroma. The scent of hickory fills my nostrils, and my mouth waters in anticipation. Before I realize it, I’ve devoured five pieces. My face heats with embarrassment as I quickly check the bag for Varyn’s share. Thank God there’s still plenty left. Just as I’m about to offer him some, he places a water bottle in front of me.
“Thanks,” I say, lifting it and taking a long, grateful sip. The cool liquid soothes my dry throat. I hesitate several times before asking, “So what are we going to do about the Siphon?”
“I’ll reach out to some contacts I have out here, and hopefully, we’ll know more soon. Not sure if we’ll need this or not.” He gestures toward the broken box from the warehouse, setting it down on the table with a quiet intensity.
“What is it?” I ask, curiosity sparking despite my wariness.
“It’s a dark object,” he replies flatly, as if that’s all the explanation I should require.
“Oh, right,” I shoot back with sarcasm. “A dark object. Obviously. How could I have missed that?” I knock my knuckles against the side of my head in exaggerated realization.
I catch the flicker of annoyance on Varyn’s face before he answers, his words tight and bitter.
“It helped the Siphon steal my magic and shove it into you,” he huffs, pacing the cramped kitchen. “I don’t know how exactly, but I’m sure one of my contacts will.”
“And if they don’t?” I push.
“I’ll figure it out,” he growls.
“What if you can’t? Am I stuck like this forever?” The question comes out sharper than I intended.
“Over my dead body,” he mutters, eyes dark with determination. “I will get my magic back, one way or another. This—” he waves a hand between us, “—is not my future.”
Anger flares in me, hot and instant.
“Good!” I shout, rising from my chair. “Because I don’t want this either, least of all with you! I’ve survived worse—”
Before I can finish, Varyn’s suddenly in front of me, close enough that I feel his breath on my face.
“You’d be dead without me, honey,” he snaps, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t forget that.”
My blood boils as I stand toe-to-toe with him.
“And your precious magic would be lost without me, honey,” I fire back, matching his intensity. “You remember that.”
For a long, heated moment, we stand, breathing hard, eyes locked in a silent war. But then, something shifts in him. His eyes soften, just a fraction, and he takes a step back.
“Don’t worry,” he says, almost too calm. “Once I’ve figured this out, you’re free to go. You’ll never have to see my face again.”
“Promise?” I hiss, my anger still sharp.
“Promise.”
