Page 1 of The Fated and the Damned
PROLOGUE
The Dark Queen
I’dforgottenthetasteof blood. The metallic tang upon my lips, the surge of power slipping through my veins. A gentle buzz thrummed through my body, and I marvelled at every small sensation tingling beneath my skin. I was whole again. Beautiful and strong, soon to be unstoppable.
The underling fixed between my thighs picked up his pace as I arched my back, opening my legs in a simple command. His tongue swept up my centre, heightening my desire, my need for release filling me up in waves.
I fisted his hair in one hand, grinding my hips as I pulled him closer. A soft moan spilled from my mouth and I paused, taking a breath before once more feasting on the neck of the witch hanging limply in my other hand. Her blood—the very essence of her power—misted past my lips, coating my tongue as I swallowed greedily.
Thiswas what it meant to be alive. My enemies laid before my feet, my disciples responding to my every whim. I had forgotten what it was to have magic, and I had no qualms about restoring it.
The ritual circles my faithful flock had been casting to drain the girls of their vigour were no longer necessary now that my body was fully restored. The last few months I had been little more than a wraith as my strength slowly returned, my body repairing a little more with each kill.
But now … I was restored to my beautiful self. Better, in fact, no longer needing spells or ceremony to serve my dark magic.
I was no longer a witch, but something other. Neither living nor dead, but a new breed of chaos. My power was heightened, my thirst for blood and strength never sated. Gone was the hunger for feeble human food. My resurrected form could take power direct from the source—feed on witches like the vampires of old. Baba Yaga had even fashioned my teeth like them, enhancing the pleasure of each kill.
Witches were my sisters once, yet I felt nothing but joy when I drained them of blood. No sorrow or empathy, no regret or guilt. Not after witchkind had hunted me down, killed my followers and tied me up like a dog as they watched the flesh melt from my bones. No, I would offer them no mercy, no quarter, and I would take pleasure from ripping out the throats of every damned witch I destroyed.
Pleasure had been beyond my reach for too long. Any physical sensation at all, thanks to that wretched horseman. I’d expected pain for my treachery—torture by the hands of demons and ancient creatures beyond even my comprehension—and indeed Death and his minions had granted me such for a time. When that didn’t break me, he’d gifted me something so much worse.
An eternity of emptiness. I’d been but a speck of energy in a void of darkness. Incorporeal, unable to feel or speak or do anything at all except float alongside the other souls damned to a fate worse than death.
Trapped. What could be more horrible than the agony of physical pain? The absence of everything that made one alive. Just another ripple in a never-ending river.
It was worse than any hurt I might have felt by a blade. I’d have taken the stake over the desolation he’d wrought upon me any day, if only to feel something. Somehow, I’d clung to my sanity all these long years and, against all odds, my followers had defied the will of the gods—defied Death himself to bring me back. And, like any fool brought to their knees, I had learnt my lesson. Challenging a greater power was not without risk. My death had been the price of such stupidity, and I would not fall so easily again.
Not with an army of loyal worshippers at my back. Not withherin the picture now. The girl presented a problem, but one I planned to rectify soon. And now that my body was back to its former glory, my strength had returned. My ambition, with it.
“Faster,” I whispered to the man on his knees, driving him harder against me as I reclined against my throne, sucking the last of the witch’s power from her lips. Her body sagged, the light in her eyes flickering out as I took my last breath and shoved her away.
The witch thudded to the ground, her ribs caved in, her body deflated. Utterly drained of all her worth, which wasn’t much—her power was weak, her magic little more than dregs in the bottom of a cup. And I was hungry, alwayshungry.
My minion gripped my thighs with two star-scarred palms, ravishing me with rapid strokes of his warm tongue. Pleasure surged, a breathy moan leaving my lips as I grinded against him. My black, varnished claws dug into the throne’s arms as my core tightened and I came, high as a towering wave before it strikes.
When my thighs ceased their quivering, I looked down at the man between my legs, satisfaction roiling through me as he bowed his head in reverence. He had done his job adequately enough. I flicked my hand dismissively. “Go. Summon Yaga and bring the next prisoner.”
He nodded, backing away a healthy distance before disappearing out through the crumbling doorway of the castle. My new stronghold was ancient. A crumbling, dilapidated sprawl of stone and creeping ivy. Once home to a forgotten king who’d no doubt fallen to a greater man, judging by the ruination of the keep. What it lacked in charm and sophistication, it made up for in location and security.
My followers assured me we’d be left alone. All because of a ghost story, no less. The entire household had been slaughtered once upon a time after an arranged marriage went awry. A result of treachery and greed between houses, supposedly when the other family reneged on their promises and ended that marriage early. The human wretches in the nearby towns said the spirits of the castle’s previous inhabitants walked the halls and would kill any who dared enter its threshold. Nothing more than a folktale for superstitious humans.
I scoffed. Small-minded fools. Ones who I planned on wiping from the earth soon enough. They were beneath us, those gift-less creatures, and I would crush every colony and remind them of their place before I was done.
“My queen,” a lilting voice uttered, breaking me from my thoughts.
My gaze snapped to its owner. She was a picture of grace—would have been disarmingly beautiful in her youth. Baba Yaga, my second, my most loyal servant among the flock. She bent her head as I gazed at her, a cruel smile carving her lips as she noted the limp body on the floor.
“Did the witch please you, Your Grace?”
I rose, padding over to the body and tilting her cheek with my toe. “She’d barely a drop of magic in her. Useless.”
Yaga looked at the body with disdain. “A half breed, my brothers informed me after her capture. A mistake I will ensure does not happen again.”
“The father was human, I presume?”
She dipped her head. “The blood of witches runs thinner by the year. They have grown lazy from idleness and peace, thanks to the wards erected around the village. The humans are none the wiser about their existence, and those that cavort with witches do so willingly or have their memories wiped soon after. The coven has been quiet.”
“Not for much longer,” I said with a small smile. “These wards you mention—they can be removed?”
