0.5-The Asylum Interviews: Bronx: An Asylum Tales Short Story Read Online Free PDF Page B

smearing some of the black chalk. Tall, with dark hair and silver-gray eyes, the warlock ignored me as he casually inspected the glyphs I had drawn. I tapped down the energy I had summoned up as my stomach knotted and my breath exploded from my lungs. Fuck, indeed.
    “Interesting,” Gideon murmured, his narrowed eyes shifting over the symbol on the door before settling on me. “What are we up to?”
    “Just a little protection.” I smiled, trying for light and innocent—not that I thought he was going to believe it. Gideon was my parole officer, my warden, my babysitter. The Ivory Towers were willing to let me live only if I agreed not to practice magic beyond a little self-defense. Naturally, they weren’t willing to take me at my word of honor. If I stepped a toe out of line, Gideon was there to knock me around and then bring me back before the council to be executed.
    The warlock arched one brow at me. “With black chalk?” He stepped into the room, brushing his fingers together to dust them off. He looked around, his upper lips curling in disgust. It wasn’t much. Stained carpet, walls spiderwebbed with cracks and spotted with random holes that had never been fixed, and furniture held together with duct tape and wishful thinking. The profits from the first year at the tattoo parlor were lean, but improving. My new apartment was better, but still not something Gideon would care for.
    “That’s a pretty impressive ward,” Gideon continued. “But I don’t think that’s what was agreed upon when you last stood before the council.”
    I opened my mouth to counter his comment, but something clamped on my wrists, snapping them together before jerking them over my head. Pulled upward, I gritted my teeth against the pain in my shoulders as Gideon’s spell torqued my body, fighting to stay flat-footed on the ground instead of off-balance on my toes.
    The warlock stood on the other side of the room with his arms folded over his chest, looking supremely bored and more than a little irritated. When learning magic, all warlocks and witches used their hands to manipulate and move the energy in the air toward the desired target. It was clunky and not very accurate, but it was fast and could be effective. Students then moved on to wands for delicate, tightly focused spells. Gideon used neither, which meant that he was experienced, focused, and fucking powerful.
    The warlock stepped into the room and the door slammed shut without him touching it. “At the close of your case, the council ruled that you would be permitted magic for self-defense only, not that you should actually need to do so. I always thought you were skating on thin ice when you pursued this tattoo artist disguise. You could never stop using magic. You’re more likely to be carried off by a dragon than voluntarily stop using magic.”
    “This isn’t some disguise,” I snapped, sickened by his reference to the now-extinct race destroyed by the Ivory Towers. “I am a tattoo artist and a damn good one! I’m helping people, which is a whole hell of a lot more than any of you Ivory Tower fanatics can claim.”
    “Helping people?” Gideon scoffed. The energy tightened and I was lifted another inch higher, pulling my heels up off the carpet as my spine popped. “I’m sure you get a lot of visits from half-starved orphans and little old ladies on pensions. And naturally, you’re doing these good deeds for free because you’re such a humanitarian.” He snorted as he let his hands drop to his sides and took a step closer. “Don’t lie to me and definitely don’t lie to yourself. You’re only out for yourself, just like everything else that crawls on this mud ball.”
    Swallowing a curse, I turned my attention from the warlock to the spell holding me in place. It was basic enough. Opening my fingers, I pulled together a web of energy while kicking my feet out so that I would be suspended by my arms. The combination of the energy and the sudden shift