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Beast barks a laugh. “Pretty words, nephew. I can’t say why the Oracle wishes to see you, but an invitation from them doesn’t come lightly. You will sail first thing in the morning.”
A squawking gull lands a few feet from me, bringing me back to the present. It tilts its head, its beady eyes sizing me up. For a moment I wonder if Morana controls more than just the ravens, and a shiver rolls through me. The thought is a terrifying one—never being able to ascertain whether you are being spied on.
The gull, apparently deciding I’m inedible and uninteresting, takes off, soaring up into the cloudless sky. My inner beast wishes to be free to do the same, and I silently reprimand him to settle down. It will take months to arrive at the Forbidden Isles, and although I may be powerful in my alternate form, I can’t fly that far. Seamen are already incredibly superstitious; I don’t fancy my chances of making it off this ship alive should they discover I’m more than just a man.
That night, I toss and turn in the small bunk of my minuscule cabin. Nightmare has come visiting and drags me down into the dark depths with him. Images of death and blood, of mouths open in terrible screams, dance around me. A bitterly cold pain slashes through me, and I cry out, desperately trying to stuff my intestines back into my gut. A sinewy shadow falls over me, and I back away, pleading for my life. Sharp claws dig into my chest, ripping my heart from me.
I throw myself into a sitting position, cold sweat dripping down my face, my heart hammering madly in my chest as Nightmare releases me from its grasp. Bile rushes up my throat, and I leap to my feet, emptying the contents of my stomach into a bucket, the sound of my father’s screams replaying over and over in my mind.
Chapter 11
Morana
Descendingintothedungeons,I kick a decomposing rat out of my way. My lip curls with disgust at the soft squelch it makes, and I lift my skirt higher. Grabbing a torch from the wall, I allow its flickering light to guide me into the dark, damp tunnels.
While the palace previously only hosted the two cells Snow White had been imprisoned in, I have since reopened the original dungeons. You will find no windows here, just pitch-black hunger and despair. Rats gnaw on both the living and the dead, while fleas and lice torment the living with the never-ending itching.
Luminescent mold, in a variety of neon colors, grows profusely down the walls, their weak glow the only light available. Frail moans and feeble pleas for mercy accompany me to the cell at the farthest end.
Alaric covers his eyes, protecting them from the light of the torch when I reach his cell. Before he can speak, I thrust out my magic, boring into his skull. He throws his head back, his eyes bulging as he fights against it. I cackle. Does he truly believe he can best me? No one is more powerful than I.
Alaric, as the lead huntsman, has never once caused any trouble over the years. Therefore, I left him alone, which was one mistake I won’t repeat. “Why is your son heading to the Forbidden Isles?” I hiss.
“I will tell you nothing,” he spits back defiantly. His neck snaps back at a painful angle when I force more magic at him. Screeching with irritation, I cut the flow when I realize he’s one of the few immune to it. No matter. I have other means.
Flicking my wrist, he flies back against the wall, glowing bands of magic pinning his wrists and ankles to the wall with unbreakable manacles. He glares at me, gnashing his teeth, fists clenched rebelliously.
“Where have you taken Snow White?”
Alaric clamps his mouth closed, refusing to answer. He wishes to do this the hard way? Fine. My nails grow into claws, and I tear the shirt from him, then swipe down his chest, leaving jagged lines of bloodied flesh behind. He grunts in pain, but his mouth stays firmly closed.
A red mist lowers over my vision, and I scream my questions at him—each unanswered one earning more strikes. Blood splatters across the moss-strewn walls and drips from the low stone ceiling. Panting heavily from exertion, I finally stop when he passes out, greedily taking in the gruesome sight before me. Alaric’s head hangs low, his body limp, crimson strips of flesh dangling from his torso. My stomach clenches with taboo hunger.
Scooping up the water bucket in the corner, I toss it over him. Alaric comes to, weakly spluttering. “I have no more use for you, Alaric the huntsman. But know this: I will hunt down your son and the princess. And when I do, I will tear them limb from limb and hang their heads on spikes on the palace gates.”
His eyes go wide when I rush at him, swiping my claws into his belly. His entrails spill out, and he screams as he fights against the restraints. I rip the steaming mass from his body, tossing them on the floor, then tear into his chest and cleave his heart from his body.
His body slumps, the light quickly leaving his eyes. The heart quivers in my hand and then stills. I breathe in the rich metallic scent, then bite into it, taking Alaric’s strength and life force into myself. Once it’s consumed and the hunger appeased, I paint my face and neck in Alaric’s blood before sweeping out of the dungeon, leaving his mangled body behind without further thought.
Flowersandcandlesdeckthe great hall, the long tables decorated in fine linens and the best dinnerware. Trumpets blast, and the doors are thrown open in front of me as I step out of the palace.
Small groups of villagers stand by the gate, shouting and chanting. I raise my arms high, magic blasting from me. It dips and swirls, moving from one person to another. Guards, huntsmen, villagers, servants—it matters not. Blessed silence descends, and I breathe in deeply before calling out, “King Silas has heard your pleas! Come, come, one and all. A feast awaits you.”
The dead-eyed masses come pouring in, taking seats at the various tables. I gently pull back on the magic, just a little, enough for the people to not be total puppets. I need them to be on the brink of awareness.
Silas sits on a golden throne on the dais, his crown placed at a jaunty angle, a bottle of wine before him. He looks around almost bewilderedly, his consciousness struggling against the hold I have on his mind.
I join him, gesturing for the people to stand. “A toast to our most beloved king!” A weak cheer joins the raising of glasses, and my eyes narrow at their disrespect. “To our king!” I shout angrily, and those closest to me jump. They cheer louder this time, and I fall back onto my throne, satisfied with the effort.
Servants scamper out of the kitchens, bringing bowls laden with a thick stew. Hardy bread and cheeses accompany it, and the starving villagers waste no time digging in. Silas sits silently beside me, his dour face ruining my mood. “Here, my love, eat your stew. We must keep your strength up.”
I must have released too much of my magic, as he ignores my command, his eyes locked on the flames burning merrily in the man-sized fireplace. Squeezing his leg under the table, I lean closer. “Now, Silas. Eat your meal.”
He finally does as I request, woodenly spooning the stew into his mouth while returning his gaze to the flames. I studiously ignore the liquid dripping down his doublet, and instead focus on the people lapping up their meals like the good little dogs they are. I must pay my respects to the kitchen staff; the stew is wonderfully flavored, rich and intoxicating.
When everyone has gorged themselves on food and drink, I raise to my feet, dragging Silas up with me. Excitement buzzes through my veins, and I have to stop myself from jumping up and down like a child. The murmurs die down, and the room goes silent. A wicked grin splits my face when I lean over and yank down the curtain behind us.
Three spears rise from behind the thrones, the skin of a man bound to the furthest two, holding it out on display. The middle spear holds Alaric’s severed head, his face forever frozen on a scream.
