SEQUEL OF GYMNOPÉDIE
The war is inevitable. Wizards, witches, pick a side, pick your ruins. Because in the eye of war, brothers shared no blood though came from the same marrow, families strayed and abandoned, heart ostracized from mind, and you mi...
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Platform 9 ¾ 10.45 AM
When Johanna Meadowes was seated across him, she hardly recognized his behavior. Before her, the warm sun was as cold as a dead star, keeping his attention on a copy of The Picture of Dorian Grey as a distraction but his eyes found its way back to the window. He scoured sea of strangers, combing the faces, and she knew exactly who he was looking for.
She tried to part her lips, but not a word was able to escape her.
"She should be here by now," it was his murmur and again Jo could take a guess of whom he meant by she.
"I saw her earlier," her voice cut the silence between them but Martin remained still as stone, unbothered. It was as if she was invisible to him or he pretended like so. She tried again, "Gemma," the name drew the magic inside McKinnon's bones, she went on once she gained his attention. "I saw her entering a lavatory, she'll be here soon."
When Jo expected the strings of worry on his face to diminish or put his heart at ease what she witnessed was the opposite. He quirked an eyebrow. Mistrust stanched his eyes, under his gaze, she felt like she was a suspect of high crime. He only asked a question. "Was she alone?"
"Yes."
That answer flicked a feral switch in his mind. In that shifting, unpleasant atmosphere he ditched his rationality and let guilt sank its iron teeth to his skin, tormenting him. The next thing Johanna heard was the door slammed shut, harsh. And Martin McKinnon vanished like sunshine before her eyes.
Panic crawled in his chest, crisp as frostbite when Martin polarized his motives, slipping between gaps of skin and satin in the packed up corridor. He lowered his gaze, allowing himself to have another chance to skim the crowd. In the hope, the witch inside his mind would miraculously appear before him to calm his jottering heartbeat. He pushed himself harder, fists clenched on the side. Merlin, he already told her to not come. He told her it was not safe.
If Evan Rosier was the personification of death then Gemma was chaos made into a person. An undaunted rebel in blood and bones. Keeping her restrained would mean trying to domesticate a blood-thirst raven. She could not be tamed by honey and sweets not when she'd a taste of flesh and ichor, no. She wouldn't accept her defeat, always plotting an escape and twisting her perspective to break free from her fancy cage. It was an impossible task.
However, had anything happened to her, McKinnon would tear up the skin of her snatcher the way the sun could start a forest fire in a blink of an eye.
