“Haven’t remembered that yet?” asked Mal.
Maeve shook her head in disbelief. “You’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong. I remember it perfectly. Oh, you were so easy to manipulate then, vain little thing that you were. You didn’t hesitate to exchange part of your Magic for Immortality.”
He pointed a finger at her. A small orb of silver mist drifted towards her. She held out her hand and accepted it. As the swirling memory brushed the tips of her fingers, white light flashed into vision.
She’d somehow suppressed her memory of this particular bargain. She gave Mal her blood in order to access the hidden Library in Castle Morana, in exchange for prolonged life and youth.
Her eyes snapped open, pressing his memory back towards him.
“What a wonderful trade,” said Mal, his head tilting to the side. “I got the Dread Spellbook, which has shown me more about my power than I ever imagined, and I get to keep you like a polished trophy forever.”
Maeve scowled, not even bothering to hide her resentment.
“Have you felt the way at times it bleeds from you into Maxius?” he asked, his features sharpening. “Makes it truly impossible to know just how many times you fucked up. Just how long we’ve been at this. But I can assure you now, that this is the final destination, Sinclair.”
The use of her last name burned. No affection. Nothing but the aim to hurt her. Just as she had hurt him.
The attire she’d once cherished as Mal’s second felt like a costume. Perfectly sculpted to her body, but otherwise unfitting. Her entire reflection in the clouded windows of the Great Hall at Castle Morana was like a distant version of herself, the bruise on her cheek from his fist still evident, healing at a human pace.
Someone, Astrea she assumed, had healed her broken arm. There was no trace of soreness there. The suspicion that Mal had instructed Astrea not to heal her face swelled inside her. She pressed down on the feeling.
A large throne-like chair was positioned at the head of the table that dominated the space. Once a place for dinners and music, this was now a meeting hall. She walked silently behind Mal, observing that every seat was full. Roswyn and Mumford, always tailing Roswyn likea dog, other officials and high-ranking Bellator were there, enduring the silence of Mal’s approach. Alphard was nowhere to be seen.
Maeve’s throat tightened as her eyes landed on Abraxas sitting to the left of the oversized chair. She steadied her breathing. He was alive.
Maeve took her seat at Mal’s right.
“Show her,” Mal ordered Abraxas.
Abraxas’ throat bobbed. He hesitantly opened his mouth. Maeve prepared herself to see the result of Mal’s mutilation. To her surprise, Abraxas’ tongue was now bright silver. Mal’s Magic, no, Shadow’s Magic radiated from his mouth.
“Lovely adjustments to my most trusted,” said Mal. “Maeve can no longer disobey me, and Abraxas can no longer speak against me.”
Abraxas met Maeve’s eyes across the table. Neither of them spoke.
“A matter of the utmost importance is at hand today,” said Mal. “It seems with a recent break in Magic thanks to my cunning and selfish Dread Viper, that the whiff of a rebellion on Heims has taken root.”
Mal’s eyes moved to Abraxas. He spoke at once. His voice caused Maeve’s chest to tighten. Her cousin, previously so full of life and mischief, now spoke with reserved fear.
“Mordred made us aware of the situation early this morning,” he said. “He’s been overseeing Hiems under Mal’s rule for months, squashing small rebellions and maintaining order. But this. . .incident was different.”
“What happened?” asked Roswyn. There was no fear in his voice. He had not betrayed their king. He had nothing to fear.
“Some of Mordred’s wolves joined with a pack of wild wolves,” answered Abraxas. “This particular group had been giving Mordred and his Guard some trouble. They killed at least a dozen Bellator, and Astrea is seeing to a handful more who are in critical condition. Somehow, they have an Alpha with quite explosive Magic. Roswyn, you’ll head to Heims and aid Mordred. Take as many Bellator as you see fit.”
Roswyn nodded and shared a sickening grin with Mumford.
Maeve dared a glance at him fully, wondering if he thought of Antony, too. And if he was commanded to kill those wolves, who were likely only protecting themselves from the tyranny reigning down upon them all, would he feel Antony’s disapproving stare as he did it?
Magic drifted under her chin, bringing her attention back to Mal. His eyes were already on her.
“I’m sure you’re wondering what good you are to me now that you sacrificed the only useful parts of yourself,” he said.
“Yeah,” drawled Maeve, “that’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Abraxas’ eyes flashed to her. A beg. A warning. She ignored it. Mal’s cool demeanor didn’t change, despite her lack of manners.
