(I finally decided on a plot! I also have approximately 82 pages of the first draft of my real-life book written and decided that I'd share a small bit of it. So, here we go. It may get slightly intense.)

"Anlyn damn all of you!" Joan spat, thrashing like a wildcat against the four men who held fast to her, dragging her to a chair in the center of a dimly lit room. The brick walls were stained with blood. They'd taken her twin jakhri blades and beat her until she was fairly sure her entire body was just one massive bruise. "What do you want from me?"

As if she expected an answer. They shoved her into the chair, and her fist flashed up, catching one of the men right in the jaw with all the adrenaline-fueled anger Joan could put into the blow. He reeled back, grunting curses. The other three slammed her back into the chair, and bound her hands to the wooden arms with chains.

All the while, she panted through her gritted teeth, glaring at them. They strapped her legs, then one, satisfied that she was thoroughly restrained, moved to strap her neck.

The second his hand was in range, she bit him. Hard.

He shouted, then cracked her across the face with the pommel of his dagger, yanking his injured hand away. "Weaver almighty, woman!"

Blood dripped from her newly split lip. "I could do worse." She hissed. "Touch me again and I'll make you regret it."

"Alright. No need for the neck." One said, stepping toward her. It was the one she'd punched in the jaw. His eyes were narrowed. "Joan Manning. Bladesinger, yes?"

"Go to hell."

"Very creative." He fished around in the pocket of his surcoat, then removed from it a small copper token, engraved with a jumble of Canamalian letters. "This marks you as a trained member of the Thal'mati order. Yet here you are. Chained. And, despite your continued insistence, entirely at our mercy."

She locked her gaze on him. "I wouldn't be so sure."

"A predictable and vague response, as expected." He flashed a mocking smile. "Nevertheless, let's get on with what you were brought here for, Joan Manning." The smile dropped as his face hardened. "What magic do you possess?"

Joan's eyes went nearly feral. "You brought me here because I have magic?"

"I ask the questions here." He latched onto her jaw, forced her to look him in the eyes. "And if you don't answer in a way that I like, I will have my men beat you within an inch of your life."

"Don't look now, but I think they already did that."

His grip tightened. "Tell me." He leaned forward. "What magic do you possess?"

"Spirit magic." Joan growled, her fair falling into her face. She didn't bother trying to flick it away, not with her interrogator so close.

He let go of her, stepping back, satisfied that she understood his message. "What coven do you belong to?"

Joan fought the urge to close her eyes. He'd taken her wand, too. He knew she was a witch. "I don't have one. I was kicked out."

"Liar." He said calmly. "What coven do you belong to?"

"I just told you. I got kicked out of Ravenscry Coven up in Tenerish. I don't have one." Joan replied heatedly, allowing a little annoyance to slip into her voice.

He stared her down for a moment longer, then waved a hand. A man behind him held out a cup of clear liquid. He took it, then stalked up to Joan. "You've been seen in the company of another witch. I will allow you one opportunity to change your answer, and we shall continue as if nothing happened. Refuse that opportunity, and I will show you no mercy."

Joan gave him a strange half-smile. "And what if I tell you that was just my lover?"

He blinked, caught off guard by her answer. Then he said, slowly and with careful deliberation, "This is not a joking matter, Bladesinger. Admit that you are of the Mirror Lake Coven or suffer."

Her heart started pounding. This was definitely not good. But, at least the choice he offered was an easy one.

"Never heard of them." She said with false sweetness.

A flash of fury in his eyes. He dumped the contents of the cup onto her face. Joan flinched at the sudden movement, then steeled herself for pain.

It didn't come. But the liquid smelled familiar.

Then it hit her.

Kerosene.

His face was devoid of anything close to pity as he struck a match. The flame flickered to life, and with it, the realization of what he intended to do.

"You have one chance to put that out," Joan rasped, her eyes fixed on the match.

He sneered, tilting his head. "Afraid of fire?"

"Very." Joan muttered as he stepped closer. "And that's very bad for you."

"And why is that?" He smirked, then pretended to drop the match. She flinched again.

"Because I'll do anything to avoid getting burned." Joan replied, trying to stay composed, to look him in the eyes. Her hands were shaking, despite how hard she clenched them in an attempt to hide it, and he noticed.

"Then answer my question honestly, you coward!" He suddenly shouted. "Are you part of the Mirror Lake Coven?"

No wand. No precision. No direction for her magic. Joan could end up hurting herself - even killing herself. She'd seen what had happened when Alina used too much of her magic at once, without a wand to act as the siphon. She stared into the eyes of her interrogator, then glanced back at the match. The burns on her right arm flashed with phantom pain. Even though the injuries were years old, they'd never really healed right.

Magic, or the alternative...

"TALK!"

The match went out a moment before each and ever man in the room went rigid, muscles locking up. For a few seconds, the room was plunged into unearthly silence. Then, one by one, they twitched violently and collapsed.

She sensed their spirits, restless and panicked. Drained, both physically and emotionally, Joan reached out.  Then she waited.

Her interrogator eventually twitched, his muscles and limbs slowly beginning to respond now that a new spirit had entered to replace the one Joan had ripped from his body. His eyes turned to her as he rose. Then he looked to the three others, who still lay, motionless, on the cement floor. "I presume you require me to release you from the chains." He murmured.

The voice was the voice of the interrogator, but also...not. The emotion in it, the words he chose. Him in general. Clumsy, unused to inhabiting a physical form.

"Please." She replied, pulling at her restraints as if to prove her point. "I wouldn't have done this if it wasn't serious."

"I am aware of that, Spirit Caller," the man who was not a man spoke as he made his way to the chair and began undoing the chains. "You have always been respectful to our kind, and careful with your magic. You have many friends within the realm of spirits." The chains binding her hands slithered to the ground with a loud clank. "Myself included."

Joan lowered her head in thanks as she lifted her arms, rolling her wrists and checking for bruises. "I can manage from here," she said quietly. "Before you leave, may I ask your name?"

"I am called Raleigh Carlsdrake," he responded.

Joan nodded faintly. "Thank you. You will be remembered."

Then the spirit vanished, leaving the body of her interrogator a hollow, empty shell. Without the spirit, the essence, the man was not himself at all. Just a lump of flesh. A vessel without a passenger. Without sustenance, the four bodies would die and rot.

But in a way, they were already dead.