Page 83 of Fated to the Wicked King

The Hatter’s entire backyard was buzzing. The fantastic machine rose among the towering trees, standing in stark contrast to the lush green wilderness surrounding it.

Hammers rang against metal, popping sparks burst from welding torches, exposed gears, soot-blackened chains, tooth edges meshing and clashing with a clanking rumble, shuddering steam sputtering from overworked valves, and black-oiled joints, bleeding dark grease.

Compelled hands moved amidst the whining hum of machinery throughout the clearing as several dozen ghostly villagers hurried about its grassy base in ceaseless motion. They would have looked like normal citizens of Wünder if not for their graying skin, their unblinking, blank gazes.

As we hid from view behind a tree, the king’s gaze darted around. “I don’t see the Hatter.”

Crouched beside him, I kept my voice hushed. “Do you think he’s commanding them?”

“What other explanation could there be? The Hatter is the one behind all these strange machines, this malady, this phenomenon.” His jaw clenching, the king stifled a groan, his hands balling into fists.

The strange otherworldly energy emanating from the machine was affecting him again, but he wouldn’t say as much.

I chewed on my bottom lip in concern. “I have to do something about that contraption. I don’t know what they’re trying to accomplish with it, but I do know we can’t possibly let them succeed.” I pushed off to leave. “You stay here.”

He caught my arm. “What? Absolutely not.”

I gave him a pointed look. “Look, this happens to be what I’m good at. I can sneak over and sabotage the machine quite easily.”

He hissed in protest. “If you think I’m letting you do this alone, you are mad.”

“I have to do this alone,” I insisted. “Your powers don’t work against the machines, remember? It’s dangerous for you. It’s a risk I have to take.”

He tried to stare me down. “You don’t get to decide who risks what.”

I gawked at him. “Look who’s talking.”

He squared his shoulders and puffed up his chest in seeming offense. As if I couldn’t even fathom his boundless powers. As if it were the gravest of sins to think him less than. As if I needed reminding who exactly I was dealing with. “I am the King of Wünder. I am the most powerful sorcerer assassin on this land.”

Despite everything, I bit my lip, unable to help the flutter in my stomach at the fiercely determined look on his devastatingly handsome face. I had to admit I was freshly warmed by the knowledge that he was willing to do anything to protect me. “You’re cute.”

Flinching, his cheeks reddened. “What?”

I stifled a chuckle. I was confident this was a particular debate I would easily win—if not by factual logic, by mere distraction—but there was no time to argue. “Fine. There’s no way for me to dissuade you from this crazy folly, is there?” I taunted.

He gave me a meaningful look.

No way in hell.

The Hatter’s ghosts seemed highly preoccupied with their tasks. They didn’t notice as we ducked behind bushes and crates to move toward the clearing and toward the great looming machine.

Upon closer inspection, I marveled at the gleaming glass panels, the polished rows of levers. More than curiosity, my heart thumped in vague recognition. I felt intimately connected to every single part of this fantastic machine.

My machine.

My work.

Mine.

But how?

I shook my head to clear it.

That was impossible.

A low grunt from behind me stirred the uneasiness in my stomach. The king was blinking hard, his teeth clenched. The closer we got to the machine, the more he struggled.

He was such a stubborn ass.