Corinne Duyvis: Otherbound

She wouldn’t need Amara to get hurt in her stead.

Amara wanted the mages dead. These two. The knife-wielder. All of them.

But that was Jorn’s task. She reined herself in, focused on her own. Were the mages tracking Cilla? She checked the lamps suspended to the walls and the beers in people’s hands for any immediate reactions to nearby magic. Nothing.

Magic backlash wasn’t always visible, though.

They needed another exit. Amara nodded at the door to the dumphouse and didn’t wait for approval to pull Cilla along toward it. She’d grown up protecting Cilla, and Jorn let her do that however she saw fit.

The dumphouse’s shit-stink grew thick as they neared it, streaking past rented rooms. Amara chanced a look over her shoulder. Someone waltzed into the dark behind them. Too big to be the woman, too dark to be the man. Too drunk to be either of them. Good, so—

—Amara barely corrected her stumble. Cilla’s grip kept her upright. Her hand squeezed Amara’s in reassurance, or a wordless Careful!

What had she stumbled on? No time to check. The dumphouse door stood ajar. They barged inside. Shuddering gas lamps lit the hut, illuminating men leaning into walls to piss into ditches, two other shapes sitting in crouches. Amara ran straight through, Cilla’s hand safe in hers.

“You girls in a hurry?” a woman shouted, her voice thick with alcohol. Too loud. If the mages heard, it’d point them right at Cilla.

Amara reached the doors on the other side of the dumphouse, the ones that led to the street, and stood aside so the light hit the lock. Often, inns locked their dumphouses, unlocking them only for back-street cleaning. No one wanted to drag shit through the inn, and no one wanted a dumphouse on a respectable street front.

Amara really missed the mainland’s sewage system. For all you could say about the ministers, they’d still come up with a decent invention or two.

If the doors were locked, she could manage the mechanism with her knife, but if she was lucky she could—

—Amara’s hand rested loosely around the handles. She blinked a couple of times fast. Cilla stood awfully close all of a sudden, close enough for Amara to smell the wine on her breath despite the dumphouse stink.

There’d been a full footlength between them a second ago. What’d happened?

“What is it?” Cilla asked, tension visible in the hunch of her shoulders, the press of her lips, the balls of her hands. Both hands. Just a moment ago, Amara had been gripping Cilla’s fingers tightly. Why hadn’t Amara noticed them slip away? She should’ve noticed.

Shaking her head to clear the fuzz, she pressed the handles together. The doors opened wide, fresh air and light bursting in. Amara shielded her eyes. The inn was all low ceilings, black wood, shimmering gaslight, and flickering fire pits. She’d almost forgotten it was daytime.

Amara checked behind her. A woman stumbled in and hunkered by the door. Another two shapes approached. Their steady, sober gait told Amara enough.

This time, Amara probably did grab Cilla’s arm too tightly. They turned north and ran.

Nolan had separated the whites and darks just like he’d always seen Mom do, keeping the patterns he wasn’t sure about to one side, and tossed the whites into the washing machine. While that ran, he’d pulled up yesterday’s laundry from the clothesline in the stairwell. Still moist. That couldn’t hurt, could it?

He sat on his parents’ bed—better AC in this room—and tried to fold carefully, like Mom, but his movements came anxious and fast, resulting in uneven folds and sleeves that stuck out the wrong way. The faster Nolan moved, maybe the faster Amara would run through the inn, too. The faster she’d be safe.

Downstairs, Dad talked on the phone—

—Amara disappeared. From one moment to the next, she was gone, and—

—Nolan grasped an undershirt tightly. This was the second time Amara had blacked out in the space of a few minutes. First in the hallway, now here, by the outhouse doors—

—Nolan always got more of Amara’s thoughts the longer he stayed, until he forgot there was a Nolan at all. But even when he was there for just a blink, kept his eyes shut for under half a second, he sensed her.

Not now.

Nolan still saw the outhouse doors through her eyes, still felt the chilly, rusted metal of the door handles. Still smelled the stench. Still saw Cilla moving closer. Her hand fell from Amara’s, leaving behind cool air on clammy skin.

But Amara wasn’t there. Her mind was empty.

Move ! he wanted to shout.

For three full seconds, she stayed at the doors, thoughts beyond reach. Then, as quickly as she’d left, she blossomed back into the vacuum at the edge of Nolan’s mind.

Amara blinked rapidly, looked at Cilla, then at her now-empty hand. Her confusion didn’t last long. She threw open the doors, and they fled, cold blasting inside—

—Nolan stared at the crumpled undershirt in his hands. Shakily, he spread it on the sheets. He could do nothing for Amara, anyway. He watched. He dealt. End of story.

Fold the sides in. Fold it double. He pressed the fabric flat, hoping to get out the wrinkles as he watched flashes of Amara running through the streets, dragging Cilla along, their boots slamming into painted cobblestones—

— we can go inland , Amara was thinking, lose them in the streets like Jorn always says, hope he finds us soon . But if she led the mages west, toward the dunes, Cilla could flee into the local carecenter. A carecenter meant healing spells. The mages might lose track of Cilla’s curse in all the magic swarming around the area.

Amara tugged at Cilla’s arm. A moment later, they dove into an alley on their left, narrow enough that no one had bothered painting the pavement. Laundry hung from beams suspended between high-up windows. Sheets flapped in the wind and blocked the afternoon sun, choking the alley in darkness, as if night had fallen in the space of a second.

They hadn’t ducked into the alley in time. Pain flared in Amara’s shoulder—

—Nolan jerked back. He reached for his shoulder, intact under his shirt. The pain faded into a memory. It wouldn’t stay that way. Already, his eyes were dry enough to sting.

He dropped flat on the bed until he could reach his backpack, fishing out the notebook and pen he carried with him no matter where he went. He blinked. Kept in a scream. But he had to see what happened—

—Amara ran, clutching her shoulder. Blood seeped through her topscarf and into the gaps between her fingers. The arrow had only scraped her. Could’ve been worse. If it’d hit her spine, she’d be down for the count. But the cut was deep . It’d take at least twenty seconds to heal—twenty more than she could afford, especially with no other alleys in sight, nowhere to escape.

“Get—in front—” Amara tried to sign, hoping Cilla could see her hands. Cilla didn’t run fast enough. She lagged behind. Amara needed to shield her in case the mages let loose another arrow.

Normally, they’d simply fire raw magic they drew from the spirits, as the ministers had when they took over Cilla’s palace all those years ago. These mages couldn’t afford to. You didn’t enchant something—or someone—twice. Ever. That was why Jorn deactivated his boundary detection spell whenever they needed to cross it—it might interact with Cilla’s curse or Amara’s healing.

Sometimes, mixed magic flared tenfold. A single bolt could destroy the whole street. Other times, spells canceled each other out. Hitting Cilla with a bolt could mean the mages sabotaged their own curse and the bolt fizzled into nothing before even breaking her skin.