Page 41 of The Fated and the Damned
“Who?” I breathed. “Who does it?”
“That’s just the thing.” Margit sighed, drumming her nails on the table. “Kind of hard to guess the killer when everyone is wearing a mask.”
“What kind were they wearing?” Dante asked slowly. “We might not guess the killer but if we know what we’re looking for—”
“We can devise a plan,” I finished.
“Surely we can dispense with the ball altogether?” András said, his green eyes narrowed in thought. “No ball, no stage for a murder.”
I glanced at Dante, whose grimace mirrored my own. We both knew that wasn’t possible. If the covens and clans were coming together, it was certainly for more than a High Witch’s election. Namely, a wedding day and an excuse for all covens and clans to be present.
The ball was just a courtesy—a grand affair for the people, when really it was to tighten our alliances and secure aid for the battle that was inevitably coming. The covens had demanded a display of leadership. Marriage was the first step and the coronation, I was guessing, was the final piece to play to see us through.
“Why make it a masquerade ball then?” Dante asked. “If there are no masks, the killer cannot hide.”
“Hidden by masks or shadow or in plain sight, what’s the difference?” Margit shook her head. “The odds remain the same, no matter how the game is changed. I haveseenit happen, mask or not. In my dreams, the killer remains faceless. We will not discover the culprit until it’s too late.”
Dante growled, slamming his hand on the table. “Nothing can be done then. We’re to roll over and play into Sylvie’s hands?”
“There will be no avoiding it,” Margit said. “Lord Sándor’s mind is made up. A wedding shall be held, and the ball shall be the crown jewel of this affair. Mistvellen needs its lord, and Lord Sándor needs an heir. And the people”—her eyes flicked to me—“need a symbol of hope. A woman whose power alone may yet rival that of the Dark Queen.”
I scoffed. “My magic might be strong, but I’m not stupid, Margit. Without the crown, there will be no stopping her.”
She quirked a perfect brow. “A good thing then, that you came to discuss that very object.”
“I came here to see you too,” I protested, scowling.
“Yes, yes, everyone missed each other and we’re all one big happy family,” András snapped, holding out his hands as he stood. “Can we get back to the dying part? I won’t deny our desperate need for allies, but are we going to ignore the fact that one of us is will soon be seeing a very excitable horseman who will delight in torturing us for all eternity?”
Dante’s lips tipped up and, despite our predicament, I couldn’t help but laugh at András. His frown was entirely too comical in that overly dramatic flair he always had. He sat back down and folded his arms, muttering something about uncivilised company and death wishes.
“What mask was the murderer wearing in your vision Margit?”
“It was a sheep’s face of all things.” She fluffed out her hair. “Neither graceful nor regal.”
I scowled. A threat. And Sylvie’s not-so-subtle way of mocking my upbringing as the shepherd of my village. Baba Yaga had said to me once, right before she drove her blade into my chest and sucked the blood from my flesh,“A wolf cares not for the sheep; we devour it.”
Now that I thought about it, her choice of words was interesting. Wolves were a symbol of the táltosok and, before them, the loyal beasts who once guarded gods. Baba Yaga had given up her right to call herself a wolf the moment she joined the cultists. Whether she still held some love for her old home or family didn’t really matter though. Her days were numbered, and I could count on one tall, dark and handsome táltos to ensure it. If he didn’t, well, I’d have no problem finishing the job myself.
“If we know what mask they’re wearing then we can ensure they can’t get in,” Dante said. “We’ll double the guards, make sure the area is secure.”
I smiled at him half-heartedly and Margit pursed her lips. We both knew it wouldn’t be that simple, but it was something. At the very least, it seemed to calm András. I flexed my fingers, absentmindedly realising I’d been picking the skin raw around my nails while we spoke. An anxious habit I’d developed in the last few months and one unseemly of a lady.
“There will be convoys of dignitaries, nobles, generals … the list goes on. There’s no way to ensure everyone attending has our best interests at heart. The best we can do is have the guards vet everyone attending and to keep our wits about us. Right now, I’m more interested in knowing whether this vision of yours is set in stone or if our fates might find a different path.”
Everyone looked at Margit and she chewed her lip as she considered. “Honestly, I don’t know. This vision is different than usual. Distorted, like looking into a rippling pond. I have never had a shared vision, which tells me our futures rely upon each other’s actions. I’m sorry, I just … I don’t know.”
“It’s okay,” I said softly, offering her a small smile. In the last five minutes, she appeared to have rapidly declined, barely clinging to consciousness as her eyes kept fluttering closed. “We have enough to go on. And once we speak to Lord Sándor and gather more information, we’ll see things in a better light. We’ll talk about the crown tomorrow. For now, you should get some rest. It’s late and you need your strength.”
She nodded, rising unsteadily, and I glanced at András with a single dip of my head. He was out of his seat and escorting her from the room in an instant. I was more grateful for his assistance now than I’d ever been. Margit was a key unit of our little family and she needed us. Goddess only knew the weight of the world was a heavy burden, not to mention holding the lives of loved ones in the palm of her hands.
I didn’t envy her magic. We all had power, in our own ways, and we had all suffered much to get it. Each member of our little unit had lost loved ones. All of us carried pain and suffering, but I had to believe the bad things came with purpose. The magic I had might not be conventional, but the darkness in me could protect the ones I loved. Dante and András might not like using their necromancy, but it made them strong soldiers. Margit certainly didn’t revere her gift, but she never complained about it, just shouldered it and carried on. Because we all had one thing in common. We made do with what we had and we fought for each other.
A simple thing like love could change the course of all things. Simple … and monumental. Something Sylvie and her cronies would never understand.
Dante’s hand slipped into mine and I relished every callous and bump as his skin slid against my own. It didn’t matter what was coming.
We’d face it together.
