Outfoxed (The Fox Witch #1) - R.J. Blain Page 0,47

beloved but never used.

I wondered what being quenched with her forger’s blood had done to the blade, and what darkness had grown in the years of her mourning.

Hot magic boiled through the building, cresting over every item held within the museum, and Peace’s desire for the justice she could never claim darkened to something malevolent, a need for revenge—not on the bandit who’d first stolen her, but for all who would steal and kill.

The years could not bring life to the desire of her steel heart, but she could do one thing. She could put an end to those who would bring harm to the innocent.

Peace’s rage told me another truth of her maker and how deep her love for him ran.

He’d died with pride, staring his killer in the eyes without fear. Being stabbed hurt, I’d endured a nasty cut or two, but he’d faced his demise with dignity. I would have to find a way to learn the man’s name, although I doubted I’d be learning much more.

I needed to have a long talk with my magic about its tendency to cause me problems.

Magic pulsed through the museum in bands of gold and green, reminding me of an aurora curtaining across a clear winter sky. Peace listened, her spark of magic strengthening with every flash of light sweeping through her display.

Somewhere distant, people screamed. Footsteps drew close, and a man in rags tiptoed through the darkened room. His vest had seen better days, and I could see through patches of his shirt, revealing soot-stained skin. Bruises and scabbing sores mottled his face. I’d seen such sores before, and I frowned, wondering how I could recognize an illness from so long ago.

While the Alley had diseases aplenty, especially among those who stayed in the outskirts too close to the bodies, it wasn’t quite the same. The bubonic plague manifested in a distinct way, with egg-sized lumps in the throat, blackened flesh, and bleeding from the eyes or mouth. The plague went from bad to worse, and the gentlest version of it involved a controversial nursery rhyme nobody could confirm was actually about the black death but usually associated with it.

A ring around the rosy sounded a great deal more pleasant than blood seeping from most orifices. I had no idea if the plague actually involved rashes at all.

Whatever he had, it wasn’t the plague.

I dubbed him Scabs for a lack of anything else to call him. Scabs checked out the exhibits, and he picked up an iron pot on open display and smashed it through the glass of a case, snatching the jewelry on display.

Peace seethed, and I couldn’t blame the sword. Scabs’s behavior matched that of the man who’d stolen the sword’s beloved maker. One by one, Scabs smashed his way through the museum, stuffing his pockets full of small valuables. When he reached Peace’s display, he hesitated.

The katana’s rage remained, but another emotion surged within the weapon, one I recognized as a desire for vengeance. The magic blossoming within Peace strengthened, and she took fiendish delight in Scabs’s interest in her.

In his hands, she could do something.

I understood that desire well enough; I hated being unable to do anything.

Scabs’s greed won, and he smashed through the glass, grabbed Peace, and ran for the questionable safety of the streets.

In school, I’d been told the world had gone mad the day magic burst to life. On New York’s far younger streets, thick currents of light flowed over the street, swirling around the legs of horses and people alike, and imbuing all it touched with a golden glow. Scabs ignored the torrents of magic taking over the city, dodging across the busy street for the safety of an alley, cutting in front of a carriage drawn by four horses.

Peace, somehow calling on the magic surrounding her, did something to the man stealing her, and he froze in the path of the animals.

The carriage didn’t slow before the first of the horses crashed into Scabs, crushing him beneath their heavy hooves. He screamed once but fell silent before the wheels reached him.

Peace bounced out of his twitching hand, and she rejoiced in Scab’s death before seeking her next target on her quest to rid the world of thieves and murderers.

Seven

I wondered what Tulsa had done to deserve Mother Nature’s wrath.

Monday, May 4, 2043.

Tulsa, Oklahoma.

The Alley.

* * *

The cellar shook, breaking Peace’s hold over me. I stared up at the trembling ceiling overhead, wondering what sort of storm could rattle my new