To heal a Rogue

LYCAON

A thread of raw magic snapped from my fingers and wrapped around his head before he made it three steps. His body jerked to a stop, his arms flailing uselessly as an invisible pressure closed around his skull.

I tightened my grip without mercy.

His head caved inward with a wet, ugly crunch.

Blood poured down the sides of his face as his eyes bulged, then burst beneath the pressure. His knees buckled, and he collapsed beside the others, leaving a smear of blood across the otherwise immaculate floor.

I looked over the three bodies and stepped carefully between them, making my way into the ward proper.

The rogue lay chained to a narrow bed near the far wall, his wrists and ankles secured with heavy restraints. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and measured, but I clocked that it was in that particular careful rhythm people used when they were pretending sleep had claimed them and hoping desperately that whoever was watching would believe the performance.

I walked to the bedside and let the witch’s features settle back into their natural lines.

"I suggest you stop pretending to be asleep. That cannot save you now."

His eyes snapped open immediately.

They darted toward the bodies he could see behind me before returning to my face, and whatever he saw there made his expression tighten.

"Do you work for the Alliance Against Ranks too?" he asked, his voice hoarse and thin from whatever they’d already put him through that night.

"I don’t believe in ranks," I said. "I’m a top dog. Always have been, long before this entire species learned to walk upright."

"Release me." He strained against the restraints binding his wrists to the frame, though whatever they’d done to him had left him with barely enough strength to make the chains rattle. "They’ll be coming for me in droves soon. You don’t want to be here when they do."

"Poor you." I managed something close to sympathy. "But I’m not here to be your salvation, child. I myself need that."

I studied his face for another moment, taking in the bruising, the dried blood at his temple, the exhaustion that had settled into the hollows beneath his eyes.

"You know secrets," I continued, tilting my head slightly, "secrets that could unravel someone that is currently rather important to me if they ever slipped past your lips. I have to make certain that never happens. Nothing personal in it, truly."

I raised my hand.

His entire body stiffened.

Then he began struggling in earnest, throwing what little strength remained in him against the restraints. The chains rattled violently against the metal frame, his breathing turning ragged as he realized exactly what I intended to do.

"Wait."

I kept raising my hand.

"Did the Queen send you to assassinate me?" Panic finally broke clean through his composure. "That bitch! No... no... no... Wait, wait, please!"

His voice cracked on the last word.

"Even if you kill me," he rushed on, "they’re already calling in a delicate. Everything gets discovered eventually, one way or another. I can’t be found here, dead or alive, so you’re better off taking me somewhere else alive."

"Hmmm."

I considered that.

"That’s clever."

His expression changed immediately, hope flashing across his face so quickly it was almost amusing.

Then I smiled.

"I’ll use the red, then."

The hope vanished, and he asked. "What is that? What is the red?"

I did not tell him. Who the fuck was he? I did ponder using it. The red was something I could only use once a day, which made it too valuable to waste casually. But this was precisely the sort of situation it was meant for. A delicate could never look into me, which meant poofing the dead sentinels outside from existence was ultimately irrelevant. But this rogue... Even if I would escape unscathed, Edie would not. So it needed to be done. Whatever traces remained here would be reduced to something no paranormal investigation could ever recover.

His eyes widened as the realization settled in.

"No."

I continued the gesture.

"No, wait. I have so much to live for. I thought I wanted to die, but I don’t. I don’t want to die."

He pulled desperately against the restraints, his voice climbing into something raw and ugly.

"Please. I’ll do anything. Whatever you want, I’ll be your slave. Just don’t—"

He never finished.

I completed the motion I’d already begun.

His head burst apart in a violent spray of blood, bone and tissue that struck the wall and ceiling behind the bed, spattering the sheets and metal frame before gravity dragged the mess downward in thick red trails.

I didn’t give it time to settle.

A different light bloomed from my fingertips.

Deep crimson.

It spread outward in a widening wave, swallowing the bed frame first, then the body, the blood, the scattered fragments of bone and brain matter, and finally the stained wall behind him. Everything it touched began to break apart, flesh and metal and paint collapsing into fine ash that lifted briefly into the air before mostly disappearing.

Within seconds, there was nothing left.

No body.

No blood.

No chains holding a corpse to the bed.

Not even a stain on the wall to suggest that someone had been murdered there.

The room probably stood exactly as it had before they brought him in, sterile and empty, as though the rogue had never existed at all.

Then I heard boots pounding down the corridor.

Several sets.

They were close. Very close.

Someone shouted an order outside, followed by the metallic clatter of weapons being readied.

I looked toward the door.

Apparently, the rest had finally arrived.

I dug quickly through the witch’s borrowed memory, searching through the layers of formal training and practical knowledge until I found what I needed: a small concealment spell designed for stealth rather than combat. It was hardly impressive magic, but I only needed it to do one thing.

Hide me.

I cast it in a single breath.

The spell folded around my body, bending light and perception just enough to make me indistinguishable from the empty space around me. I could feel how thin the veil was almost immediately, the magic straining at the edges and threatening to unravel beneath the slightest disruption. It would buy me seconds, perhaps a handful if I was fortunate, but seconds were all I required.

I stepped out of the empty room just as the door behind me exploded inward.

Boots thundered across the threshold. Voices barked orders. Weapons came up as several sentinels poured into the room, their eyes sweeping over the spotless walls and the complete absence of the intruder and prisoner they’d been racing toward.

None of them saw me.

I lingered in the doorway anyway, invisible and utterly unhurried, watching the confusion spread through them.

Then the man leading the charge stepped into view.

I recognized him immediately.

High fucking Beta Bradley.

I had hated that face for longer than his entire insignificant little life could ever hope to comprehend, and I knew with absolute certainty that I would continue despising him across centuries long after his brief existence had been reduced to nothing more than a forgotten name.

I wanted to kill him now, even. But that could wait. It had to wait.

I then walked off.

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