Clara
My skirt is wrinkled, my shirt drenched in sweat. At least they didn't strip me down like some prisoner in a medical ward.
Small mercies.
My neck feels colder now without my long hair. The beast didn't even bother to be gentle about it. Just chopped them off. Worse, she didn't even provide me a mirror to look at the damage and process the change.
Nevertheless, Everley is still gone. That's what unsettles me the most. I don't know what she's doing or If she's with them. If she's torturing them. Or him.
I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second before forcing them open again. No use spiraling. Leora must have relayed my lies to him.
"So, let's try this again." Stacy says, seated across from me, legs crossed. She hasn't spoken in a while, just tapping the end of her pen against her clipboard.
"Where did you get the gemstones?" she asks. She wants to be as threatening as Everley, but she isn't.
I force a small, tired smile while tapping on the table with my nail, watching her eye twitch as she stares at it, clearly irritated by the sound. "eBay."
Stacy glares, giving me another disapproving stare.
"Yeah. Seller had great reviews. Said they were 'cursed beyond belief' but, you know, I figured they were exaggerating."
Stacy sighs, rubbing at her temple as if I'm giving her a headache. "Clara."
I can tell she wants to be the good cop here. Wants to wear that mask of control and professionalism. But Everley's absence means she's trying to prove something—to herself, to her boss.
And I'm going to enjoy watching her fail.
"Why don't you understand the danger you're in? Do you want Everley to hurt those you care about? Just tell me the truth, and I'll make sure nothing bad happens to them." She says.
I want to laugh, but I bite it back. If she cared that much about us, she'd have released me right now. She wouldn't be standing there with that fake sympathy in her eyes, pretending like she has any power over me.
She wouldn't be trying to play nice, promising to protect those I care about. If she had the ability to do that, to stop whatever Everley's planning, she would have done it already.
"What if I found them in the woods? Maybe buried under an old oak tree? That sounds dramatic enough, right?" I keep tapping, letting the noise further annoy her.
Her lips press into a thin line. "You're testing my patience."
"No, I'm just trying to make your job more interesting. You don't actually want a boring answer, do you?"
She grips her clipboard tighter. "I could make this very uncomfortable for you." Her eyes search mine for even a flicker of fear.
I give her nothing.
"I've survived worse without breaking a nail. If this is your idea of being scary, it's hilarious."
Stacy slowly exhales, closing her eyes as if praying for patience. "…You think you're funny, don't you?"
I grin. "I hope so." I let my gaze flick over her clothes. "And someone who knows how to dress their age." I say, looking down at my perfectly manicured nails.
Her dark eyes snap to mine and I know I've hit something.
Finally.
"No offense, but you're what? Thirty? Forty? And you're still dressing like a teenager?" I let out a soft laugh. "That's just sad."
Her jaw tightens.
Then, carefully, she sets the clipboard down. "You're stalling."
I blink, tilting my head just slightly, like I don't understand. "Or maybe you're just running out of ways to ask the same thing over and over again." I smirk. "You old hag."
Pure rage flashes across her features as she walks to the table, picks up a taser, and, before I can say anything, presses it against my side.
A surge of white-hot and searing pain lances through me. My body seizes against the restraints as electricity rips through my nerves.
I bite my tongue hard enough to taste blood.
Then, mercifully, it stops.
"Are you done?" She says
I glare at her through the haze of pain. "You—"
"That was a warning," she says. "If I hear more nonsense from you, I won't hesitate to hurt you. Everley did say I could do whatever I want."
I force myself to smile. "Did I offend you?" I grit my teeth, forcing the lingering tremors in my limbs to still. "Listen, it's ok. You can't fight time. Some people just… age better than others." I give her a pitying look, then glance at my cerulean nails again. "Shame. Mine have always been my best feature. I take such good care of them."
I can see the moment her control snaps. Her eyes burning with something darker. She grabs a tool from the table. Pliers. The metal gleams menacingly as she grips the handles, her fingers flexing as she moves toward me.
She forces my hand back down, while the other brings the pliers to my thumbnail. My breath hitches as I realize what's coming. The pliers hold the nail firmly in place, but my body rebels, every muscle trying to fight back, even as my hand shakes violently in her grip.
And then, with one swift yank, the pliers rip the nail free from my finger. The world tilts as I scream. My body jerking against the straps holding me down, tears blurring my vision.
It's worse than I imagined.
So much worse.
But I'm finally there. An inch towards escape.
The door slams open with a sudden force, making the hinges squeal in protest. Everley steps inside, her presence commanding as usual, but something's off. Her usual collected, in-control demeanor is gone. Her sharp gaze quickly flicks from Stacy to me, taking in the scene before her.
"Everley! This girl, she—" Stacy begins to explain as if she went against her orders.
"Not now." Everley says, massaging her temples. I notice the way she holds herself, her shoulders more rigid than usual, her expression far from the usual smug satisfaction.
Stacy sets the pliers down on the table, holding the dead body, and raises a brow. "What's wrong?"
Everley lets out a long, heavy exhale. "We may need to contact Ron," she says, the words hanging in the air like a warning. "I didn't want to... I wanted to handle this myself, but the situation seems more dire now."
Stacy leans forward. "More dire?"
Everley's gaze hardens as she looks at Stacy. "We might have a spy. Someone who's been leaking information about the artifacts. And I think it might be related to that stolen healer's goblet."
The air thickens with an unease that wasn't there before, and I can almost sense the weight of her thoughts. Not to mention the fresh marks on her throat stand out, vivid against her pale skin. My heart skips a beat. I know exactly who is responsible.
I can picture it in my mind: Alister, hands tight around her neck, the raw strength he must have used to bring her to the edge of consciousness after she showed him my chopped-off hair.
The fact he not only threw her off-balance mentally but also managed to land a hit, just makes my heart long for him even more. For a second, I feel like the pain in my hand, the blood, everything else fade away.
"Clara!" Everley suddenly turns to me, breaking my train of thought.
She steps closer to me, eyes piercing. "The man who told you about the knife. What else did he say?"
I freeze, the room feels suddenly too small, and I can feel my pulse throbbing in my ears.
Think. Alister would have told her the lie in such a way that I won't be in trouble. Just like what I tried to do. If she's asking about the man now, after clearly looking like she isn't buying it, I guess he made him into the prime suspect.
But what am I supposed to say then?
I take a breath, and finally, almost mechanically, I speak. "Umm... I don't know. I don't remember much since I was drunk."
It's a weak answer, but it's all I can muster.
Everley eyes me intensely for any sign of deception, any flicker of doubt or hesitation. Her stare feels like a laser, burning through me, and for a second, I wonder if she knows.
I glance at my thumb, and I feel her look at it too. The skin looks raw and sensitive, but sadly, it doesn't look like it'll bleed much.
I force myself to swallow, pushing past the knot in my throat, and speak with more conviction than I feel. "Even if I did, I don't think I would ever tell you."
Her lips curl into a cruel smile, making my skin crawl. "Is that so?"
Without breaking eye contact, she reaches for the pliers on the table. I know what's coming, but that doesn't make it any easier to brace for.
Her grip is like steel as she grabs my wrist and forces my pointer finger outwards. My stomach turns with dread when the pliers come closer.
I try to scream, but the sound gets caught in my throat as the pliers dig in. The pain is immediate, a searing sensation that shoots up my arm. It's a sickening feeling as she tears the nail free. The world goes white for a split second as I scream, and my body convulses in reflex. A broken sob escapes from my lips as I crumple in agony. I feel like I'm being torn apart.
I can't look at my finger. The pain is too much. All I can do is squeeze my eyes shut and try not to think about it.
"Clara." she says softly. "Do you remember now?"
"No...I really don't...know...anything." I manage to say. My body is still trembling, my breath coming in short gasps as I clutch my wounded hand.
She sighs in deep disappointment and tosses the pliers onto the other bed.
"I think she really doesn't." Everley says, dusting off her hands like she's just finished an unpleasant chore.
Stacy, who has been watching the exchange with an air of detached amusement, finally speaks up. "So you're going to contact Ron and use his Veritas Stamp to confirm it?"
Everley makes an irritated noise in the back of her throat, already turning toward the door. "Yes," as she pulls the door open and steps out, she adds, "I hate that pretentious prick. Just because your item makes people tell the truth doesn't mean you're good at interrogation."
Stacy chuckles, following after her without another glance in my direction. I hear them tell someone outside to make sure no one enters the room. I see the barrel of his gun just as the door swings shut behind them, the metallic clang of the lock sliding into place.
They're finally gone.
My fingers throb violently, every pulse a fresh wave of fire. I turn my head and bite into the fabric of my shirt, stifling the sharp sounds clawing their way up my throat. My body trembles as I clench my injured fingers, squeezing out warm blood and letting it roll down my skin, pooling at my wrist.
Pain is temporary.
That's what I tell myself. Since childhood. And then even in the nightmares.
It's not real. Not in the way we think. It's just signals, just nerves firing, just my brain trying to scare me into submission.
It's not real.
But freedom? Freedom is.
I twist my wrist, feeling the slick blood spread. It seeps into the narrow space between my skin and the restraints, creating a slippery barrier.
The first pull sends a jolt through my wrist. I pull again, twisting, jerking my arm at different angles, trying to find the right one that would let me break free.
I breathe in, steady myself, then start working my hand back and forth. My fingers ache with every shift, every pull against the bloodied leather, but I keep going. The moisture helps, letting my hand shift just a little more.
Pull. Twist. Slip.
My raw nail bed screams with each jolt, but I don't stop.
I have to endure it. For them. They're in danger, and I need to save them. It's my fault we're in this mess in the first place. If I'd just shot Everley when I had the chance. If I'd just been abit smarter. We wouldn't be stuck in this situation.
I have to fix this. I have to rescue them, get us out of here, and tell them I'm sorry for everything.
I wrench my wrist again, and at last, my hand jerks back.
I'm free.
I sigh in relief before quickly getting back to undoing the restraints on my other hand. My fingers throb in pain as I pull on the leather and free my other hand.
My arms are free, but my chest and head are still pinned. I fight the urge to panic and move on instinct, digging my fingers under the chest strap, unbuckling it. After that, I reach up, hands shaking as I work at the strap around my forehead.
Just three more left to go after this.
My legs remain bound, the straps around my thighs and ankles holding me down. I sit up and reach for the buckle of the restraint across my thighs. Once it's done, I move onto the second last strap.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps approach the door.
My blood turns to ice.
They're coming back.
I claw at the buckle, my hands slick with sweat and blood, before I free my ankle.
The doorknob rattles.
They're unlocking it.
No, no, no! I'm not done yet!
I quickly focus on activating my ability, trying to push past the panic as I fumble with the last strap.
It falls as soon as the door swings open, and Stacy strides in, her expression shifting from irritation to pure shock the moment she lays eyes on the table.
I watch her eyes dart around, scanning the room. My chest tightens, and I stay perfectly still.
"Where is she!?" Her voice slices through the air like a whip. She turns sharply to the guard standing just outside.
"Isn't she inside?" he asks, peering in. His brows pull together when he sees the empty table. "It's impossible. No one came in or out while I was here."
Her face twists in fury. "You must have let her out!"
While they're distracted, keeping my breaths shallow, careful not to make a sound, I slip off the table. The moment my bare feet met the cold tile, I fought the shiver that ran up my spine.
"I swear, I didn't!" he insists anxiously.
My chest is on fire. My lungs scream for air. Holding my invisibility this long is killing me.
"Then where the hell is she? She was strapped to the damn table." Stacy snaps, her glare cutting into him. "People don't just vanish, Carter."
My body protests, lungs burning as I push my stiff limbs forward.
Stacy's head snaps toward the table. To me.
I go rigid.
Her eyes narrowed, locking onto the restraint. "What the hell…?" she muttered, stepping closer.
I don't wait.
I have to drop the invisibility soon.
I clutch my chest, feeling my ribs constrict, the pain unbearable.
Stacy walks over to the table, fingers grazing the strap and the metal table. Her jaw tightened. "It's warm."
I quietly move towards the small table near the door.
The guard shifted uneasily in the doorway. "What?"
My hand wraps around the pistol lying among the tools.
Stacy straightens abruptly, eyes going wide as she spins toward the guard. "Close the do—"
The shot rings out.
For a split second, time stretches. Her mouth hangs open mid-syllable, shock frozen on her face. Then, between her eyes, a small red hole blossoms. Her body crumples, collapsing onto the floor in a lifeless heap.
The guard barely has time to react. His eyes dart to me, except he still doesn't see me.
The bullet catches him in the throat. A wet, gurgling sound escapes his lips as he stumbles back, clutching at the wound. He collapses against the doorframe.
Silence crashes into the room.
I drop my invisibility. My breath comes in quick as if I've emerged from underwater. I look down at the gun in my grip and check the magazine release. Four rounds left.
Not enough.
I move fast, crouching beside the guard's body. The SIG Sauer P226 at his side is heavier than the Glock. Larger but more powerful.
I pull it free, checking the mag. Fully loaded.
Good.
I tuck the Glock into the empty holster on my thigh, along with a knife just in case, and take the SIG in my hand. I push forward, slipping out of the room.
I'm getting my friends out of here. No matter what it takes.