Caged Kitten (All the Queen's Men #2) - Rhea Watson Page 0,6

all alone in the world, I had been able to spit everything under the sun successfully. Sloppily, sure, but that was just par for the course without a wand. Every spell, glamor, and hex in my arsenal—it came to me, whether I was broken or not.

Today—tonight?—shouldn’t have been any different.

Yikes. No windows, not even on the huge, intimidating metal door dead ahead. Not a great predictor of my chances when I couldn’t answer where or when.

Willing myself to relax with a deep breath, I unlocked my jaw and forced my shoulders down. The tightness remained, despite my best efforts, and the crick in my neck hurt when I rolled my head side to side, trying to work it out.

It was then I felt it—featherlight and barely there against my skin. Like a pair of lips whispering across my throat, so different from the shackles around my wrists and ankles, whatever it was evaded me when I peered down, high enough on my neck to hide under my chin. Cursing softly, I glanced over my shoulder…

And saw myself staring back.

In a mirror.

My heart plummeted. Was that a… two-way mirror? Were people watching me? Fighting to keep my breath even, to not spiral out, I gave my rumpled appearance a quick once-over. Although my flaming red hair was no longer neatly knotted on top of my head, frazzled instead with loose wisps spilling everywhere, I wasn’t beat up. No bruises or marks. No split lip. Everything hurt, but there was no indication that someone had taken a baseball bat to me in my sleep. Although, my shirt had been torn, one shoulder exposed, and then twin slashes cut over my waist. Same with my leggings, ripped up the middle like they were a cheap pair of split tights.

Heat flared in my cheeks. Sure, I was still covered from head to toe, my shirt long-sleeved and my leggings opaque, but someone had stolen my skirt. Ripped it clean off if the soreness around my waist was any indication.

Took that but left the four-inch heels. Sure. Why not?

A thick leather collar snaked around my neck, its girth suggesting it ought to be heavy and very present. Instead, I barely felt it.

Seriously though.

What had happened to me?

Fear made my chest tight, and after another quick scan, the room had an unnerving sense of familiarity to it.

An interrogation room.

Oh gods, it really did look like an interrogation room, something straight out of one of those human cop shows. The table, the chair, the cuffs, the mirror… None of it good.

Shitshitshitshitshitshit. Panicked, I struggled against my restraints, a string of spells flying from my lips as I fought for freedom. In the end, the cuffs just bit harder, sharper, my wrists brutalized, the skin on the verge of splitting open. No way was I going to bleed in here. Blood had such potency in our world, used for both light and dark magic, and I wouldn’t spill any unless I had to.

Maybe…

No, I couldn’t cast. Couldn’t reach the ground to draw a blood-magic portal even if I tried. And if I succeeded, I clearly had no juice to fuel it.

Craning my head back once more, I squinted at the mirror, eyes narrowed on the collar’s reflection. Although it was obviously leather, with no end and no beginning, just a perfectly fitted circle, there was more to it. Runes. Sigils carved into the black, unrecognizable—but I’d been out of the academy for a while. Magical runework had never been my strong suit; I much preferred earthbound magic. But these definitely weren’t for decoration. They had purpose. Marks that most likely stopped my magic like a cork in a bottle. Made me pliant. Made me weak.

What was a witch without her magic?

Practically human.

I flailed again, battling my restraints as a high-pitched whine stretched through my skull from one ear to the other, growing louder by the second—

Until the door opened.

And then everything inside went quiet, save for the hammering of my heart.

A towering blonde in a navy pinstriped pantsuit strolled in, clipboard in hand and a pair of reading glasses propped up on her head. Peering down at the documents, her heavily masacara’d eyes narrowed briefly as the door swung shut behind her, nothing but a dimly lit stone corridor on the other side.

“What the hell is—”

“Katja Fox?” she interjected, gaze snapping to mine. Ice blue—severe, like the rest of her appearance, from the too-tight high ponytail down to the svelte white heels with their ridiculously pointy toes. If