Page 127 of Cursed Crowns

Oonagh raised her palm and slammed it shut before the king loosed the command. She came toward them, pushing against Banba’s waning wind.

Banba shut her eyes, every ounce of her magic straining to keep Oonagh at bay. “Run!” she heaved. “Wren, go!”

Oonagh looked between them. “I’ve never sacrificed a witch before.”

Wren whirled around, desperate, searching. There were no weapons in sight, no sand or earth. No time. Only Alarik’s sword. In a fit of desperation, she opened her hand and slashed her palm across it. Alarik leaped backward. “What are you doing?”

Wren ignored him, trying desperately to come up with a blood spell that would stop Oonagh. Something that would cut her at the knees, give them time to get away.

Banba whipped her head around. “Wren! Don’t!”

Her grandmother’s concentration faltered, allowing Oonagh to close the gap between them. She grabbed Banba by the throat, using her free hand to send out her own howling gust. Wren screamed as she was thrown backward. Alarik landed on top of her, his sword spinning across the floor.

The wind became a wall. Wren beat her fists against it, shouting for her grandmother. “BANBA!”

Oonagh picked up the king’s sword. Banba flailed in her grip, out of magic and out of breath. With the last of her strength, she turned her head, her emerald gaze finding Wren’s. There was no fear in it, only love, as fierce and bright as Wren had ever seen. And then the sword came down in a flash of silver, and Banba’s body was slumped on the floor and Wren was screaming again, her grandmother’s blood racingtoward her in crimson ribbons.

Oonagh knelt and soaked her palms in the blood, her skin glowing as she absorbed it. Her lips moved, and the wind got stronger. The walls trembled as she gathered new power, the strands of her magic knitting themselves together until lightning blazed behind her eyes. She turned away from Banba’s broken body and stalked through the wind, dragging Alarik up by his collar to yank the crown off his head. She settled it on her own. “There,” she purred, as she flung him across the room. “That’s better.”

She looked down on Wren. “I’ll spare you once, little witch, for casting blood magic and waking me from my slumber. But do not cross me again.” Wren was trembling too hard to speak, pain and rage and fear making a knot in her throat. Oonagh crouched down, until Wren could see the shadows moving beneath her skin. Something inside Wren writhed in answer.

“You look justlike my sister.” Oonagh dropped her gaze to Wren’s bleeding palm, a smirk tugging at her lips. “But you remind me of myself.”

And then she was gone, sweeping through the door like a wraith and making the mountain tremble as she went. Icicles fell from the ceiling and shattered around Wren as she crawled toward her grandmother and cradled her head in her lap.

“Banba,” she sobbed. “Banba, wake up.” Her grandmother’s eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling, the last wash of color fading from her cheeks. “Banba,please,” she begged. “Please, don’t leave me.”

An icicle shattered by Wren’s foot, cutting her ankle. Another nicked her cheek, but she barely noticed. She was looking into her grandmother’s eyes, praying for a spark. The ceiling began to crumble,plumes of dust and shale stinging her eyes.

A hand closed around Wren’s arm. “Move,” said Alarik. “The mountain’s coming down.”

Wren shook him off. “I’m not leaving her.”

“Wren, she’s gone. We have to move.”

“I don’t care! Leave me be.”

The mountain rumbled, the crash and thud of falling rock getting closer and closer. There was dust everywhere. Wren’s eyes were so blurry she couldn’t see anything beyond the shape of her grandmother dead in her arms, and her blood painting the stones red. She thought the king had left her, but then she felt his hands under her arms, pulling her away. She tried to fight but grief was in her bones now, making them heavy. Banba slid from her lap as she was lifted to her feet.

“Move,” growled Alarik.

Wren stumbled as he pushed her toward the door. He grabbed her waist and carried her over the threshold, just as the ceiling caved in. Wren turned to go back, but Alarik tightened his grip, dragging her down the narrow passageway as rocks thundered to the ground behind them.

“Stop fighting me!” he shouted. “Come on, witch, save yourself!” He dragged her on, weathering her punches. “That’s what she would want. She told you to run!”

Alarik’s words jolted something inside Wren. She remembered her grandmother’s plea, and the last spark of her determination kindled to life. She picked up her feet, stumbling into a run. The king hurried alongside her, both of them matching each other stride for stride as Oonagh tore the mountain down, burying the catacombs with rubble and ice.

Wren fought for every breath, but she didn’t allow herself to slow down, or to think about what she was leaving behind her. She reached the end of the tunnel and flung herself at the staircase, the steps trembling underneath her as she scrabbled on her hands and knees, climbing for the palace. Alarik was behind her, his hand pressed to her back, urging her higher, faster.

And then marbled ground was before them and they were on their feet again, staggering into the sunlit atrium. The dome had shattered, the fallen glass glistening across the floor like diamonds. Soldiers and beasts lay scattered among them, some groaning. Some dead.

The doors were swinging on their hinges, revealing the snow-swept gardens beyond.

Oonagh Starcrest was gone. She had blasted her way through Grinstad Palace, leaving a trail of destruction in her wake. The mountain had finally settled, but the wind was picking up again. Pieces of glass lifted into the air and swirled into a tornado, gathering speed at an alarming rate. Wren stood frozen in the center of it, watching the shards get bigger and faster and—

“Wren.” Alarik’s hand fell heavy on her shoulder. “Stop doing that.”

Wren blinked. “Doing what?”

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