Chapter 7: Nagini's Escape
The alley behind the Circus Arcanus was a suffocating soup of burnt sugar, wet sawdust, and the metallic tang of fear. The massive tear in the main tent, which Sam's chaotic luck had engineered, flapped overhead like a ragged, defeated flag in the night wind, perfectly masking their retreat. Every nerve ending Sam possessed was singing with high-pitched tension, but his steps remained deliberate.
Sam, Newt, and Nagini were crammed into a pocket of relative safety behind a barricade of overturned trash cans and splintered wood. Nagini, in her temporary human form, was trembling, her wide, haunted eyes darting at every distant shout. The faint, sweet ghost of jasmine perfume from her earlier performance was now thoroughly drowned out by the pungent, raw musk of the circus animals still penned nearby.
"We cannot linger here," Newt murmured, his voice strained and low, his eyes constantly scanning the gaps between the debris.
He frantically searched the inner pockets of his coat, the tips of his fingers stained a vivid green from the various herbs and ingredients he habitually carried.
"The main exit is choked with screaming No-Maj. We go out through the maintenance flap by the cages, then double-back through the storage lots."
"No time for a scenic route, Scamander," Sam rasped, his own throat dry.
" He's a mess right now. Too emotional. This rescue was sloppy and now the Aurors are coming. Minimize future effort, Sam. That's the Prime Directive. "
Sam instinctively raised his wand hand, his knuckles stark white against the dark mahogany, driven by a fierce, protective urge to buy them ten seconds of quiet.
"Protego!"
The shield that erupted was a violent, shimmering sheet of opaque energy, not the clear dome of defensive magic he remembered from fractured lessons. It emitted a low, powerful ozone hum, and his skin instantly tingled with the aggressive, raw power of the spell.
[SYSTEM: +1 Magic Defense. Debuff: Emotional Strain.]
[Warning: Unstable spell usage detected. Your Emotional Strain is causing Mana leakage, Sam. Pull it together, or this shield pops like a cheap champagne cork.]
" Unstable or not, it works. Better a short, strong shield than an hour fighting the wizard cops later, " Sam rationalized, the intense headache from the strain a dull throb behind his eyes.
Nearby, Jacob, who had materialized seemingly from nowhere, was pacing a nervous rut into the muddy ground, chewing rapidly on a heel of stale bread he'd somehow pilfered.
"I don't like this at all! This is exactly when the guys with the funny hats show up and everything goes to pot! Can't we just… Accio a getaway car or something?"
Newt shook his head once, sharply.
Sam let his lips curl into a thin, wry smirk.
"You always have an awful lot of confidence in my ability to summon things I actually want, Kowalski," he muttered, the dry Midwestern drawl in his voice an anchor of unintended normalcy that momentarily eased the surrounding tension.
The sheer absurdity of a muggle baker complaining about the lack of magical getaway options in a collapsed circus tent was a momentary relief for them all, setting the stage for their frantic, high-stakes teamwork.
The plan was enacted with brutal speed. Newt, stammering slightly, tossed a small, Lumos-infused seed toward the two nearest Circus Performer guards—the Fire Breather and a strongman Nagini had called a friend. The seed burst in a fountain of brilliant, blinding saffron and cobalt smoke. The guards were momentarily paralyzed, their hands flying up to shield their eyes.
Sam didn't waste the flicker of time. He darted toward the heavy, riveted iron door of the maintenance cage, the lock an archaic, interlocking mechanism designed to contain far stronger magic than Alohomora could breach.
" Too complex. Too much time. Efficiency is key. "
He slammed his open palm against the cold, grimy metal, focusing every errant, chaotic thread of his infinite luck into a raw, non-magical pulse of force. He was actively testing the upper limits of his Luck-stat's raw power output.
The result was less an unlocking and more a controlled explosion. The heavy steel of the lock didn't simply click open; it shattered. The ancient metal components snapped with the sharp, deafening sound of a pistol shot, the pieces flying off in four distinct, randomly dangerous directions.
The noise was instantly swallowed by the distant, continuous screams of the crowd and the frantic, booming shouts of the returning circus owner, Skender, who was yelling threats.
Nagini, who had been watching Sam's desperate, physically aggressive move, pushed the heavy door open before the dust settled. She didn't spare a glance for Newt or Jacob. She walked straight to Sam, her body still moving with the wary, coiled tension of a captive animal.
Her hand—the wrist still faintly shadowed with the texture of scaly skin, a tell-tale mark of her Maledictus curse—reached out and instantly grasped his forearm.
The touch was strangely grounding, an immediate, physical affirmation of the profound trust he had just earned.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice a soft, low sound, laced with a natural, gentle, sibilant cadence that was only audible inches from his ear.
" The mission is now validated. The reward isn't Mana, it's this. That's worth the Mana leakage. "
Her raw, sudden gratitude was a balm that instantly settled Sam's inner turmoil, solidifying his cynical resolve. He had acted out of compassion, but it had yielded a pragmatic result: a crucial, loyal ally.
Suddenly, the moment was violently undercut by a new sound: a loud, flustered oof!
Jacob, trying to follow the duo quickly, had tripped over a loose mooring rope—the same length of rope that had failed to hold the main tent pole. He went down in a spectacular, chaotic sprawl, hitting the damp sawdust face-first.
Sam saw the absurd, chaotic physical comedy—the bread still clutched in Jacob's hand, his Yankees cap having spun off—and he let out a quick, sharp bark of laughter. The sound was entirely inappropriate for the high-stakes moment, but entirely necessary, a quick, venting release of adrenaline.
They scrambled through the maintenance flap, bursting out of the circus's garish confines and into the dim, damp exterior of a service alley. The jarring shift from the bright, oppressive canvas interior to the grimy, shadowed brick exterior was disorienting.
As they pressed themselves deep into the alley's shadows, Sam felt the familiar cold prickle of being watched—but this time it was far colder and more ancient than the pursuit of MACUSA Aurors. He quickly scanned the chaotic edge of the fleeing No-Maj crowd.
Near the mouth of the alley, standing perfectly still while the rest of the world rushed past in a tide of panic, were three figures. They were utterly draped in heavy, dark cloaks that concealed not only their features but also the details of their bodies. They were silent amidst the ear-splitting noise.
A faint, cloying incense scent—a mystical, ancient aroma of frankincense and dry earth—seemed to linger around them, a chillingly out-of-place detail in this grimy corner of New York.
The feeling of their collective gaze was a palpable, icy weight, like a physical brand on his skin.
" Relic Seekers. They're not looking for the girl. They're looking for me. They know what luck is. "
Sam's infinite luck immediately flared, not to cause an explosion this time, but to render them forgettable to the passing crowd. He instantly clamped a hand onto Newt's shoulder and another around Nagini's arm, driven by pure, animal survival instinct.
He shoved them deeper into the shadows, a silent, frantic command in his action.
The figures didn't move an inch, but a low, unnatural rustling of their heavy cloaks suggested a subtle movement beneath the fabric, an acknowledgment of Sam's evasion. They were the Relic Seekers, and they had seen him perform a miracle of chaos. This brief, ominous glimpse confirmed that his true pursuers were far worse than the wizard police, planting the seed of the long pursuit arc.
Nagini, still gripping Sam's arm, was quickly enveloped by Newt's hurried application of a Disillusionment Charm. The surrounding air shimmered, and the girl simply seemed to fade from view, though her comforting touch remained.
"Don't look back," Newt whispered fiercely, his eyes wide and dilated as he caught the last glimpse of the still figures.
They plunged into the labyrinthine alleys, Newt frantically whispering directions, Jacob flustered but loyal, a comforting presence at their heels. The Seekers' gaze—cold, patient, and full of ancient, unhurried purpose—felt like a physical brand on Sam's back, a promise of danger to come.
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