Page 113 of The Diamond in the Rough

Killing me,I thought.Disposing of my body somewhere no one will think to look.

Although I had hope that Raj and Hart might well find this place if it was connected to Garraway.

It was just a question of whether they found me or my bones.

I hurriedly shut my eyes again as Edson heaved me off his shoulder, half-setting, half-dropping me to the floor.

“You may as well open your eyes,” a new voice said, its tone dry. “I know you’re conscious.”

I briefly debated continuing to pretend, but decided there probably wasn’t much point.

The new person appeared male, older than the others—fifties, maybe sixties—and very slightly amused, a small upward curve to his lips.

“Rayn Alverno,” he said looking at me.

I had no idea who he was or whether or not I was supposed to. I said nothing.

“You look like your father,” he remarked, almost casually.

I swallowed, but still kept silent. What are you supposed to say when someone has kidnapped you—or at least participated in your kidnapping—and then announces that you look like your now-dead relative who threw you in an asylum for killing his brother? Silence seemed like my best option.

The man grunted. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that your intellectual development was stunted,” he remarked, sounding almost disappointed. “Given your… upbringing.”

So he knew me. Knew my parents. Knew that they’d thrown me in Tranquil Brook.

Did that also mean he knew I was a death witch?

My lungs felt tight, fear making it impossible for me to draw a full breath.

“Mr. Garraway,” Mulrooney said, stepping forward, his tone respectful.

Oh, shit.

My heart pounded faster, a sour lump forming in the back of my throat.

“I assume you were not followed?” Garraway said to Mulrooney, who shook his head.

“No, sir.”

“You are certain?”

“Yessir.”

Garraway let out a soft grunt that may or may not have indicated satisfaction, then rolled up his sleeves and closed his eyes.

Wary, I shifted, sitting up slowly, pulling my knees toward my chest, leaving a smudge of chalk on the knee of my slacks.

I frowned down at it.

Chalk?

Shit.

But before I could seriously think about what Garraway was doing—what kind of spell or curse he was beginning to chant—I felt cold starting to seep into my body from the places where my butt and feet touched the ground and the chalk-lined sigil Garraway had presumably drawn on the broken tile.

He was draining me.

Panic made me lash out before I could stop myself, my magic desperate to protect itself.