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She swallows what’s left of her drink before pointing her eyes on me once more. “You can claim not to wish to mate, but you’ll never come into your Ethos if you reject what is meant to be yours when the time comes.” My mother’s head snaps her way, and the Mage corrects herself. “Should it come at all.”
She’s not lying. That bullshit fate slaps on you is real. Like shackles dipped in a pool of shielders’ blood, the chains around your Ethos are impenetrable, only cut free when the mating ritual is completed. When you’re ‘accepted’.
It’s sorcery if you ask me. We’re royals, Deverauxs, Lords of Darkness, for fuck’s sake. That alone should give us access to the gift our father gave us. Our blood should set us apart from the rest of our world in all ways, but it doesn’t.
When it comes to tapping into our strongest selves, we’re just like the rest of our kind.
Fucked until fate catches up.
The Mage smirks in satisfaction. Smug and assuming that she chose the right words and knocked me off my feet. As if I’ve never thought about it.
Too bad for her, I’m not the fool she’s making me out to be, so it’s a communal sight when a dark chuckle rolls past my lips, the sound sparking uncertainty and drawing wrinkles to the edges of her eyes.
I lean forward in my seat, placing my forearms on the table as I cock my head at her. “There are many ways to get what you want in this world, Mage, and in Stygian, we do what we must to ensure we get it.”
She holds my eyes for a long moment before pushing to her feet. “Well then, it’s a good thing you will be spending the next four years in the human world among both Argents and Stygians then, isn’t it? Perhaps you’ll learn a thing or two about…restraint, or at the very least, diplomacy.”
My monster digs its claws into the crux of my mind, my eyes flashing her favorite shade like a playful prick. “Don’t count on it.”
“What I’m counting on…” The Mage floats to a door that appears from nothing, turning to face me with her body hovering halfway through it. A smirk covers her face and she lifts her chin. “…is your prompt arrival on orientation day. See you then, Knight Deveraux. I look forward to…opening your eyes.”
With that one last threat, the bitch disappears.
I look to my mother, who frowns at the space where the Argent was, facing me when she realizes I’m staring at her.
“Yes.” She dips her chin, answering before I have a chance to ask the question. “The bitch is right. You must attend Rathe U. If you have to play dirty to pave your way there, so be it. You’re a Deveraux, strong. Stygian pureblood. There is nothing that town or school could throw at you that you can’t handle. You know this.”
I jerk my head in response, accepting the fate I knew I would be forced to face even before this pointless little mandatory meeting.
My brothers and I push from the table at the same time and our parents give a small nod, excusing us. We turn toward the wall, and a door materializes, the three of us stepping through, the other side leading to our mansion.
Legend and Sin pop off with jokes about the Mage, slapping my back as they curve left, knowing I need a fucking minute.
I curve down the long, winding hall, passing the cursed trophies from battles won encased in the walls, and pausing at the room you have to pass on your way out when I find it pushed open.
This door is never open.
It hasn’t been in over a decade.
I step up to the threshold, but something stops me, refusing to allow my feet to carry me inside. A gust of wind whirls this way, sweeping through the hall and slamming it shut in my face.
Of course, there’s a protection spell to keep you out.
If only there was one back then.
Shaking my head, I turn, and I don’t stop walking until I’m in the Phantom Gardens at the back of the estate. Why I come here when I need to feel grounded? I don’t know.
I’m not much for flowers or plants if I’m not swallowing or snorting them for the after-effect, but these aren’t just any gardens.
They’re grown with the blood and ash of my ancestors. Every Deveraux that’s come to pass lives on in the soils beneath my feet.
The weeds whistle in the wind, urging me forward, and I bend as the Phantom Rose sprouts from the dirt, growing from nothing but dirt to a fully bloomed flower before my eyes. I reach out, cocking my head as I tug the deep, midnight purple petal free, watching as it turns from its deep eggplant color, to black, and then a small puddle of blood sits in the palm of my hand. Drawing it to my nose, I seek the warning of the unknown Deveraux, look to speak and scent a lighter one than I expected. Closing my eyes, I call on my senses, seeking its name. It comes almost instantly.
