Page 59 of The Fated and the Damned
The woman shook her head in disbelief, a sly smile forming on her lips. “You are blind to what is right before your eyes.”
The words struck me as odd, as though we weren’t in on some little secret. A frustrated growl tore through me. “Does Viktória follow the Dark Queen? Has the coven turned to dark magic?”
“The same dark power that lives in you?”
I turned to the owner of that voice. A cultist who’d been silent, half hidden in shadow at the end of the row. “My magic is not the same as Sylvie’s,” I said firmly. “I am not the same.”
His eyes glittered. “Not yet, but the change has already begun. You will soon heed its call if you don’t die by witches’ hands first.”
A tremor rolled through me at those words. No, it couldn’t be true. I controlled my magic. It didn’t control me. But a small voice in my head had me questioning if that was true. The black eyes, the black magic, the beast who seemed to roar louder, take up more space inside me … Fuck.
“Silence,” András barked, seeing me visibly shaken. The man just smiled, sinking back into shadow as he rested his head against the wall. He didn’t seem frightened, just pleased with a job well done. They might not have succeeded in killing me and the others, but discord and the seed of doubt had indeed spread.
Why would Viktória do this? Had enough witches not died already?
Endless possibilities ran through my mind, everything falling into place, piece by piece. On my wedding night, I’d seen water witches leaving the hall not long before the bells had tolled and “Fire” had been shouted through the keep. I’d thought it odd, but hadn’t investigated, assuming, like many others, they had simply wanted to walk the gardens or take fresh air.
Of course, the fires had been little more than a diversion to grant the coven good favour amongst Mistvellen. Water witches had been killed that night, which I’m sure wasn’t part of the High Witch’s plan, but it did make it an easy way for cultists to don witches’ robes and dresses and enter our keep without question.
The first scheme. Followed by tonight’s assassination attempt. I kept thinking of Viktória’s face—the sharp line of her lips, those grey eyes that shone like steel. And then it clicked.
“Viktória didn’t join Sylvie’s ranks to protect Budapest from her wrath, did she?”
The woman looked at me, her pebble eyes gleeful as I worked through my thoughts. “She did not. The High Witch of the water coven was much more selfish in her reasoning. She didn’t do it for her home, or even for her people. She did it for revenge.”
I glanced at András, then turned my attention back to the cultist. “Tell me. Tell me the name of the one she avenges.”
“Poor witch.” The woman tutted. “You killed someone very dear to her, Kitarni of the dark blood. You know of whom I speak.”
I did know. Gods save me, but I knew all too well. My heart rattled in its cage, pumping blood loudly in my ears. I almost laughed with the absurdity of it all. I hadn’t even known the woman the cultist spoke of had birthed a daughter, but now the similarities between both women suddenly rang with crystal clarity. I’d recognised the familiar features. Now it was too late.
“Who?” András asked, frowning.
“Someone who burned for their crimes,” I said grimly. “The High Witch tried to destroy us, my dear András, because I killed Caitlin Vargo. I killed Viktória’s mother.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Dante
Screamsechoedoffeverycrack and crevice of the black cliffs as I made my way silently through the maze. It was so dark I had to channel my inner táltos, allowing my eyes to adjust and give me a better line of sight. The maze was more complex than I’d been able to foresee from the mountain behind me.
Doorways channelled into the rock, forming prison cells and torture chambers, demons hacking at their victims with delight. I didn’t look inside those cells, didn’t listen to the occupants’ whispered pleas or deranged babbling.
This was the Under World. A place where only the worst sinners were treated to Death’s indulgent ministrations of pain. I patted my pocket for the fiftieth time, ensuring the vial of Kitarni’s blood was nestled safely inside, along with the precise instructions for a spell hastily copied by Margit from the tome she’d been consulting.
If the spell didn’t work … I shook my head and set my jaw. Itwouldwork. Even if I didn’t make it back in one piece, the crown must. My wife was awaiting my return, as was the Kingdom of Hungary. I would not let them down.
Muffled words reached my ears and I stiffened, squeezing behind a rock as best I could—which was kind of hard with my bulky frame. My palm tightened around my dagger, and I readied to fight as two demons approached.
They stopped right by my hiding place, and I held my breath as their words reached me.
“—expects her to retrieve it. It’s only a matter of time.”
One of the demons hissed, and I realised belatedly that it was laughing. “She won’t get very far. He knows the smell of her blood. The moment she steps into this realm, he will have her.”
They were talking about the crown. I released a small breath. Of course Death would know if Sylvie returned. He would have tortured her before exiling her to the endless sea of souls where she had dwelled, formless, for centuries. He would know the ripe stench of her tainted blood. I raised my eyes to the flashing skies. A small mercy, at least, that she wouldn’t be stupid enough to enter his domain. One less enemy for me to watch out for.
It dawned on me that he would likely have known if Kitarni had come instead of me. If he didn’t know her blood, he sure could track her through those scars on her back. Thinking of whatever horrors he might have subjected her to made my magic float around me, dark and stormy as the sky above. If I ever made it out of here and Kitarni did return the crown to him, I’d make that fucker remove those scars if it was the last thing I did.
