Trial by Heist Read online

  A small boy skulked between two stalls. Starvation was a look I knew, thanks to the hand life had dealt me. The boy knocked into a woman carrying a heavy basket, mumbling an apology before stepping away. As she spun to scold him, her basket smashed into the teetering, precariously stacked fruit pile, spilling it onto the rain-washed cobbles.

  The stallholder barked a curse, hurrying to gather the fallen food as the woman became flustered and tried to explain about the boy. Others bent to aid the stallholder, upsetting the flow of foot traffic, the tangle of bodies adding confusion to the scene as it played out before my eyes. The boy emerged from the opposite side of the stall, clutching a few items to his chest as he tried to scramble away.

  “You there, stop!” the stallholder shouted.

  A burly man with a thick, red beard hauled the boy back to the stall. Recognising the boy and his stolen goods, the stallholder pulled something small and glinting from his pocket as he approached the two.

  I knew what would happen next. I’d seen it before.

  Not this time.

  I sprang from the shadows, crossing the distance in three strides, my elbow connecting with the stallholder’s temple. He staggered sideways into his stall, trying to evade me. What he didn’t realise was that I don’t like bullies, particularly the kind who would gut a starving kid for stealing a piece of fruit.

  I gripped his wrist and twisted, splintering his bones. His fingers splayed, forcing him to drop the weapon. He sank to the ground, cradling his damaged wrist and groaning. After bouncing the hilt of the blade on the front of my boot, I flicked it into the air and caught it in my outstretched hand, whirling on the red-haired brute.

  The boy shrank back into his captor when my eyes flashed with righteous fury. The crimson-haired Supernatural pulled his lips back in a sneer as he faced me down and pushed the boy to the ground. I didn’t break my stare as the boy scrambled to his feet and ran. He didn’t look back, and I didn’t blame him.

  Good lad. Keep running until you’re home, safe.

  I sensed the stallholder shifting behind me and shot my foot back, connecting with his face. His head hit the cobbles with a satisfying crack, and I listened again for movement, but none came. Realising he’d fallen completely silent, I turned just as the hulking man before me let out a snarl, his features twisting in rage. I cocked my head. Supernaturals were always…volatile. They killed everything they touched. It was what made my job so easy. To be death’s hand was to be the hand of justice.

  I threw the blade with pinpoint accuracy, and it quivered in the wooden strut of the stall behind the redheaded giant. I retreated, edging past the dead man, giving myself room to manoeuvre as he followed. The sheer girth of him was twice that of the dead man and five of me. His legs tensed as he zeroed in on my petite frame, and I read the signs of his attack. He lunged as I moved, already swinging my body up and around his, my hand angled beneath his chin. He reached up, grasping for a hold on my clothing, my hair, anything to give him leverage as I slipped through his fingers, making him stumble back. The knife in the post gleamed, and an idea struck as I closed the distance between the ground and myself. Bringing my foot down on the hilt, I used the little piece of metal to catapult myself backwards and land behind him. He turned, startling like a wild deer as I struck him, my aim always true. There was no snapping of bones when the dragon filled me and bade me to do his will. He grunted in pain with the first hit. His eyes glazed over with the second, and his legs became suddenly useless beneath him. I didn’t hit him a third time. I had sensed my mistake, but far too late, as he toppled to the ground. Not one muscle twitched as the light left his eyes, no bruises or proof of our fight, but he was dead nonetheless.

  I rushed forward, pulling his head up by the hair to check for breathing. Nothing. Those blows shouldn’t have killed him, but perhaps his passages were more clogged than I’d initially thought. The death touch was effective, but killing unsettled me. Supernatural or not. The loss of life never sat well with me. Uttering a curse, I glanced around.

  A crowd had formed, people gaping in open-mouthed horror at the scene. I remained crouched over my victim, golden eyes flashing with the ebbing rage that had fuelled me moments before. Someone hollered a warning from the back of the crowd to my left, and I ran.

  The horde parted as I raced towards them, fleeing the retribution that was surely close behind. I knew what was in store for me if I were caught. Murder was punishable by death, and I’d come too far to die at their hands.

  The narrow, cobbled alleys weren’t designed for swift travel, and the thick throng of people made it harder to get away as I dodged and leaped deeper and deeper into the neglected parts of the city. I needed a place to hide until nightfall, when I could slip away. Slowing my pace to catch my breath, I closed my eyes briefly, listening, feeling for anyone in pursuit. I was too exposed, so I ducked into a side alley and pushed my senses far and wide.

  The steady thrum of warning in my ears was enough to tell me I didn’t need to project to find them. Not when I could physically hear four, no, five of them, heading my way. I needed to move quickly, like a phantom through the night. I spun, full circle, looking for anything to get me out of this mess.

  Think, Johanna. Think!

  As I drifted farther from the main street, a wall to the rear of the alley came into view. I hauled myself over it, landing with a grunt on a pile of wooden crates and spoiled vegetation. I rolled from the heap, scrunching my nose at the stench of rotting cabbage.

  “Fantastic, just bloody—”

  “This way,” a voice whispered from a doorway to my right.

  “Who’re you?” I snapped, preparing myself for a fight.

  “You could attack me, or you could come inside where we can help you.”

  The man had the oddest eyes. So blue, they looked electric for a moment before softening to a plainer hue. Something in my chest loosened, sensing that he meant me no harm. His lips twitched up at one side, and he held out a hand. “Your choice, girly, but they’re closing the gap.”

  I studied him, attempting to read his oddly magnetic eyes. He felt safe, but I couldn’t be sure. Not without reaching into another spiritual plane, and there was no time. The decision had to be made now. With a glance back up the alley, I took his hand and let him tug me inside.

  The door closed quietly behind us, and he led me along a dark passageway. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I took in small details: symbols on the walls, framed photographs with scribbled notes stuck to the glass, the smell of something cooking, and a female voice humming a melody. I followed in silence as we turned a corner into a bright, strangely comfortable room. Large armchairs were positioned around an open fireplace, and in one sat a girl around my age.

  Her long, dark hair hung beyond her shoulders in tiny, intricate braids that swung as she raised her head. Dark gold eyes, framed by thick, perfectly arched brows, held mine for a moment as she weighed me. This girl was different from the strange boy with luminescent eyes; something in her reached out with an otherworldly touch before her full lips spread in a welcoming smile that creased the corners of her eyes. This half-Witch was a seer.

  “Didn’t have to run. She came to me.” The boy grinned, glancing sidelong at me.

  The girl left her seat, approaching me with open arms. “I’m so pleased you’re all right. Did he find you quickly enough? Were you hurt?”

  I flinched as she embraced me, unused to physical contact after living so long with the People of the East. While kind and caring in their own way, the East looked down on physical touch.

  She frowned.

  “Let her breathe, Jayma!” he chided, rolling his eyes. “This is Jayma. I’m Oliver. You can stay here until you feel you’d like to leave.” He gave me a kind smile then sauntered into the adjoining room, not waiting for a reply.

  I turned my attention back to the girl, Jayma, beaming before me, and smiled. “Johanna. Thanks for the rescue.”

  Her friendly face spread into a b
road grin, her round, flushed cheeks dimpling as she grasped my hand. “Come and sit. Tell me about your travels!” she gushed, ushering me towards the armchair.

  Definitely clairvoyant, I mused silently. Witches’ gifts were often tied to the Mother. Clairvoyance wasn’t uncommon among them.

  Her skin was even darker than mine, closer to Papa’s. I’d never met another half-breed Witch, although I was more of a mix than most. The Supernaturals didn’t treat our kind well, so it shouldn’t be surprising that most of us fled to the corners of the earth. Here she was, though, another half-breed in Supernatural territory, alive, and smirking, at that. My lips curved up into a small smile as I sank back into the soft cushions, physically relaxing for the first time in months.

  Jayma watched me, a frown etching furrows into her brow. “How long have you lived out there?” she asked, her cheerful tone gone.

  “A few months.” I shrugged, gazing around the room.

  Before my attention could settle on any individual feature, movement in the doorway distracted me. Oliver crossed the room, offering me a steaming mug of tea, and sat in the chair to my left. I thanked him and looked from one to the other, waiting for someone to say something.

  A look passed between them before Oliver said, “What you did for that boy… Do you know him? Is he with you?”

  I shook my head, lowering my eyes as I sipped my tea. “No, I don’t know him. All he did was steal some fruit, and that— He pulled a knife on him. I couldn’t…” My voice trailed off as I remembered why I couldn’t have allowed them to harm him. Too many had died, just trying to survive in this cruel, unforgiving world.

  While Europe may have been Supe country, it wasn’t much better in the East. The People of the East had nearly been wiped out by the Supes until they went into hiding a thousand years ago. Now the rest of the world thought they were dead. The East didn’t take kindly to travellers, though, and unless you shared the blood of the dragon, they couldn’t care less whether you lived or died. The South was more ideal from a freedom perspective—if your goal was to escape persecution. The Witches who lived there were kinder, but most couldn’t survive Africa’s desert long enough to find them. They’d hidden their villages much like the People had, but the world still knew that Witches lived. They’d thought being on the Council would change things, that the Supes would accept them well enough to leave them be…but some still hunted them. Needless to say, being a half-breed in a world ruled by the pures wasn’t easy.

  Oliver twisted in the chair, facing me. “You killed two men, Johanna, to protect one little thief. Why?”

  There was no anger in his tone. No threat. No malice. His gentle voice seemed to hold more concern than anything else. How very strange for a Supernatural. I considered how to answer, but I had questions of my own. “Why did you offer me sanctuary?”

  His gaze flicked to Jayma, who simply nodded and settled back into her chair. “We are a small group,” he began, uncertain. With a subtle nod of Jayma’s head to urge him on, Oliver loosed a sigh of resignation. “Who dislike the inequality of our world.”

  That’s one way to put it.

  There was a slight quiver behind his brave façade, and while Jayma looked my age, he was at least a good two years older. “Jayma saw what you did, watched you fight for that child’s life, and she believes you’re like us. I brought you here, because, well…we look after our own.”

  I processed his words carefully, reading between the lines, and nodded my understanding.

  “Technically, Oli, she brought herself here. You simply opened the door,” Jayma quipped, pulling her legs up beneath her and curling into the arm of the chair.

  His lips twitched, and he looked back at me. “Are you like us, Johanna?” he asked, his piercing blue eyes boring into mine. This boy of no more than sixteen was recruiting me to join the fight and step out of the shadows.

  I glanced at Jayma then back at him. While he hadn’t been quite as frank as I’d have liked, he was as honest as he could’ve been, given the dangerous turn our conversation had taken. If the Council knew about them, this place, there would be war, and the boot would come down on all our heads.

  I should’ve turned and left. Thanked them for their help, and walked away. Something about these two called to me though. What would’ve persuaded a Supernatural boy to turn on his own kind? And who was this golden-eyed Witch blessed by the Mother? I stilled, reaching out to see the truth. As my spirit eyes opened, I saw them for what they were: flawed but true. Jayma glowed with a startling yellow, and Oliver was an intense but brilliant blue. Loyal to a fault.

  Maybe it was time to settle for a while, and see what these young rebels were made of.

  Are you like us, Johanna? The words rang through me again. I knew my answer.

  “If you’re asking if I kowtow to them, Oliver,” I said, evenly, “then, no, I don’t. I live as I do because they took everything from me.”

  Jayma huffed a short, smug breath through her nose as Oliver sighed with relief. I looked at him, waiting for his response, and was met with a sad smile. “You’ll probably fit right in then.”

  The small smile I’d allowed myself at the memory vanished as a key scraped at the lock of my cell door.

  Chapter 2

  Passing through the long, tiled corridors, I continued to think of my friends. My dead friends. They were the only family I’d known for years, and now they were gone. Jayma. Jayma was gone. Who knew when I’d see Oliver again? I hoped to see him once more before they carried out my sentence—I knew it would be the gallows for me. A half-breed on trial before the Council? Not even Oliver, one of my best mates and heir to House Fortier, could save my life now; it was in the dragon’s claws.

  Five years ago…

  In the beginning, I never left the safe house. Jayma had taken me up to one of the spare bedrooms that first afternoon, told me it was mine, and that was that. I had a home again.

  Over the following weeks, I became accustomed to being around people, getting to know Jayma and Oliver a little better and learning about what they did. Oliver, it turned out, was very well connected. The only son of one of the more prominent Supernatural Council Members in England, he worked covertly to help as many half-breeds as possible escape the tyranny of a small but powerful sect of Supernatural elite. One his family happened to belong to, as did several of our small but growing rebellion.

  Admittedly, it took me a while to relax around him. He was a pure-blooded Supernatural, and having only ever been on the receiving end of their hatred, I was wary. He soon changed that. His easygoing, friendly nature won me over as the weeks passed. It helped that he was loyal to Jayma; I’d never seen a pure-blood treat one of my own as an equal.

  Jayma, half Witch, half Supe, was the spearhead of their organisation. Her bubbly, optimistic nature was in stark contrast to her fierce opposition to the oppression of our kind by the ruling families.

  It made for some heated conversations where she and Oliver were concerned. They had a difference of opinion as to what the end game was, if we ever did succeed in overthrowing the ruling family. Oliver wanted to see the Council reformed, and actually do well by his people—and ours, by extension. Jayma wasn’t keen on this idea, though, because she, like myself, knew that for true change, it all had to go. The Council wouldn’t allow itself to be reformed, and eventually the same evil that came from the Fortescues would pass on to whatever ruling family was next. I understood where they were both coming from, being both a half-breed and the should-be heir of House Kozak. There wasn’t a right answer, but for the most part, they worked towards the same goal, and until House Fortescue fell, that would be enough.

  Sometimes, the house was busy, people coming and going, relaying information or calling in for news. Other times, it was just Jayma and me. Those quiet times were nice, getting to know her better, spending days discussing the rebellion, and gleaning more of an insight into who they were, what they were doing, and why they were doing it. I never told Jayma
about my own past; she’d already seen it, of course, but in the five years I knew her, she never mentioned it, and for that, I was grateful.

  I was sitting on the floor, between Jayma’s legs, as she braided my wet hair by the fire. “Do you think you’re ready to come out with me tomorrow?” she asked, gently kneading my hair apart like my mother used to. It had been several weeks since they took me in, but going back out still didn’t sit well. I hadn’t forgotten my time in the real world, and the things I’d seen before I was even a teenager.

  “Do you think it’s safe? What if I’m recognised, after…?” The shame of killing those two men was still gnawing at me, however deserving they’d been of their fates.

  “People have short memories, Jo. No guards saw you. You’ll be fine,” she assured me, fastening a bobble to secure my hair.

  “If you’re sure…”

  She leaned over my shoulder, her own dark braids jingling as the wooden beads knocked together. Smiling, she raised a brow. “I know you’ll be fine.”

  I laughed. Of course she knew. “Fair enough,” I conceded, jumping up to look in the mirror. “Brill, thanks! I can never get them that tight.”

  She settled back into the chair, tucking her feet beneath her. “You’re welcome. You owe me a brew.”

  Rolling my eyes, I headed for the kitchen. “You’re going to turn into a teabag, all the tea you drink.”

  Of course, I was the last to arrive for my trial. The very act of parading me before the families gathered as my jury was contrived to intimidate, to unnerve and muddle me, forcing my admission of guilt. They sat in a semi-circle on varnished oak benches, higher up on a platform. Heads turned to catch a glimpse of me as I was ushered into the centre of the room.