Incendiary (Hollow Crown #1)(9)

But now the heat and pain focus me. Entering someone’s mind requires complete control and balance. Once the connection is made, a number of things can go wrong. If I let go too soon, if we’re interrupted, if I steal too many memories, I could leave his mind hollow.

As my power latches on to his most recent memory, I brace for the shock of seeing into the child’s mind.



He can’t sleep. Papá and Mamá sent him to bed, but Francis wants to wait for Aunt Celeste to return from one of her adventures. Then he hears footsteps.

Clang.

The noise comes from the kitchen. Maybe Aunt Celeste is back! Francis pulls off his covers. Cold toes touch the stone-tiled floor. Maybe she’ll keep him company, tell him one of her stories of ancient princesses from the long-gone kingdoms of Memoria and Zahara. Or of the old glowing temples of the magical Moria. Last time she put her finger to her lips and made him promise to never repeat those stories.

He tiptoes to the door and twists the doorknob.

He freezes.

There are strange men in the kitchen. Francis feels his voice creep up, wanting to scream for Mamá and Papá. But a twisting fear in his heart tells him to stay quiet.

There’s a crash. Glass breaking.

Then fire.

Men screaming. One of them catches flame, flailing and running across the room.

He sees Aunt Celeste. Wants to call out to her, but then she turns and does something very strange: While the guards try to put out the rising flames, she takes a glowing stone the size of a crab apple from her pocket and swallows it.

The boy’s scream gathers in his chest as Aunt Celeste falls like a bundle of wheat. When she doesn’t get back up, Francis’s cry finds its way out. “No!”

The guards all turn to him. Francis wants to move, but his feet feel like lead.

“Grab the boy,” one of the men says, his golden hair obscuring his face as he stands over Celeste’s unmoving body. “Arrest the family.”

The flames catch on the wall, spreading up and out.

“No one can know I was here,” the golden-haired man whispers. “Let it burn.”

Francis makes to run out the window, but a large hand grabs the back of his neck—



There’s a white light, shouting that’s louder than the boy’s memory. Something’s wrong. A wrenching pain stabs at my temples. The connection is breaking. It’s like I’m falling straight over a cliff. I try to hold on to the thread of magics connecting me to the boy’s mind, but the thundering gallop of the Second Sweep breaks my concentration. I frantically try to rein back my power, to salvage what I can from the boy’s memory, but I’ve latched on and more memories tumble after, one chasing the other, ripples of color as they’re erased from his mind and flood into mine.

I shake from the aftershock of it and let go. I try my hardest to stay upright despite the headache that pounds at my temples. The only good thing is that the boy—Francis—is asleep. He’ll never again be able to recall Celeste dying or the soldier trying to grab him. In the years since the Whispers saved me, I’ve learned to comb through stolen memories. These are the ones that become a part of me. I can see Francis running with the kids across the green hills of Esmeraldas. His father laughing with Celeste while making supper. His mother stitching beans for a rag doll’s eyes. Francis running away from the guards to retrieve it.

I don’t have time to pick up my gloves. I heave the plank off his body, grunting as I lift, and let it slam to the ground. Tucking the doll in his pocket, I scoop Francis into my arms and glance around the room. What fate did his parents face if he ran back here on his own? Who will he have in the world? We’ll take him with us until we get to the next town. Sayida will be able to keep him calm, while Margo can search for allies to take him in. I carry him out the door and into the kitchen, where Celeste lies dead with the alman stone. And this time, I know exactly where it is.

But before I can take another step, the side door slams open. I stumble back and hold Francis closer to my chest.

“Put the boy down,” the Second Sweep guard commands, leveling his sword at my face.





Chapter 3


I’ve done two of the things the Whispers have trained me not to do—used my power on a civilian and gotten caught.

Panic and fear course through me as I consider my options. I’m fast enough to outrun the guard if I make for the front of the house, but I can’t leave Francis or the alman stone behind. Either I abandon both, or I stay and fight. Before I can lower him to the ground, the boy snaps awake from his daze. He kicks out of my grasp and screams when he sees me.

“You’re safe now,” the guard tells the boy, softening his voice. His uniform is pristine, clean, and his youthful face welcoming. “No one is going to hurt you.”

My blood boils. I know exactly how this works, how easy it is to fall for. The Second Sweep is the caress after the king’s brutal slap. The weapon to show his mercy—putting out fires, rescuing stragglers, offering food and safety. It doesn’t seem to matter that the king’s men razed the village themselves.

I keep a firm grip on Francis’s shoulders. His muscles tense, but he doesn’t try to bolt. The guard terrifies him just as much as I do, apparently.

“Let go of him,” the guard demands, but fear makes him stammer. He shifts his weight from side to side, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. “You’re surrounded. There is no way out for you, bestae.”