Page 63 of The Fated and the Damned
“Then hers alone it shall be.”
“No, I like it. I like being reminded that there is more to me than fire and blood.”
“You are more than your magic. You can be the wrathful blood witch, the lady of Mistvellen, the High Witch of the Green Coven … and Kit.”
I chuckled. “I wonder sometimes, what it would be like to remain just Kit. The girl who, in another life, might have travelled the world and explored the ends of the earth.”
András took my hand in his own, patting it fondly. “That’s where you went wrong. You could never be ‘just’ anyone. The world is too small for even you, Kitarni. And once we get out of this mess, I’ll prove it.”
TWENTY-NINE
Dante
Islunkthroughthehalls like a mouse underfoot, darting into shadows and hiding behind crevices when voices echoed down the walkways. Thankfully, the corridors were mostly empty in the dungeons of the castle.
No one escaped Death’s prison cells, so why bother guarding those destined for an eternity in hell? I could only imagine the most horrible of souls wound up in his keep, tortured by his own hands or perhaps their own waking nightmares.
Out of curiosity, I peered into several cells as I passed. The inhabitants didn’t even register my passing as they looked blankly at things I couldn’t see. I’d bet a full coin purse they’d been driven mad, broken beyond repair. I pitied them, but not enough to set them free.
After a time, I ducked behind a crate in what appeared to be a storage room, pulling the vial of blood from my pocket. Margit had spelled it so the blood would double as a wayfaring spell—kind of like the crystals that had led Kitarni to me several few months ago—and my entrance to the pocket realm.
The vial glowed faintly, which was a sure sign I was getting closer to the crown. One of the cells nearby must have been Sylvie’s for a time. Before she was sent to the river of souls to float, totally coherent but trapped in a form that could not touch, smell, taste … anything that made one alive in any sense.
My lips twisted. It was a punishment I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Well, okay, maybe Sylvie. She deserved everything she’d got.
I pressed the vial to my chest and straightened, listening carefully for any sounds. It was clear. The vial glimmered as I moved, spotting a stairwell descending even deeper underground. I treaded carefully, conscious of every scrape of my boots on stone.
The vial exploded with light as I made it to the bottom and I blinked a few times to adjust from the dank, dark hallway to blinding brightness.
A single cell stood at the end of the corridor and I knew in my heart that was the one. It reeked with bitterness and revenge and, perhaps it was my imagination, but I could almost smell the scent of burning flesh, as if the memory of her death followed her into the Under World.
That alone was a cruel touch. Death wasn’t without finesse.
I crept along the corridor, which was silent and still as a graveyard, but I couldn’t shake the sense that it had all been too easy. My hands twitched by my sides, itching to shed more blood with my blades. Regardless of the eerie emptiness, I had no choice but to keep moving forward.
The cell door hung ajar and I stalked into the space, checking the shadows for any assailants, not that the vial—which was now lit up like a fucking sun—left room for any. This was it. I knew it as surely as I knew the back of my hands.
A shaky breath escaped me as I uncorked the stopper, smearing its liquid upon the walls of the dingy cell and the hay-lined stone floor. After pulling out the sheaf of paper crumpled in my pocket and reciting the spell, all I had to do was wait.
For a moment I thought the spell had failed me, but then a soft hum seemed to vibrate from the wall, a shimmering vortex opening where the stone surface had been. And at the end …
A gold crown embedded with rubies and emeralds glinted from an altar at the far end of an open, unfurnished chamber. Whispers of an ancient dialect, unfamiliar to my ears, echoed through the vast space. The power that rushed out to meet me made me shiver, phantom pains skittering down my body, as well as an insatiable need to claim the crown for my own.
I took one step through the vortex, feeling the magic cling to my skin like a thin veil of snow, chilling my already dampened flesh. After shoving the vial and paper in my pocket, I stuffed my hands under my armpits and walked through the seemingly endless portal into the pocket realm.
When I emerged, my clothes and boots were fully dry, no longer sticking to me. A small mercy. My lips felt dry and cracked, my throat raw as I looked at that crown, calling to me like a damn siren right out of one of the fantasy books in my library.
Nothing stirred in the never-ending expanse of grey that surrounded me. Not a sound followed except for that haunting melody, luring me closer, closer, like a moth to a flame. My body wanted that crown more than anything, my hand already reaching for it despite knowing how badly it could burn.
My fingers curled around the rim of that crown and I gasped as power reverberated through my body, flickers of past gods who’d once worn it flashing through my mind. Benevolent beings—kind and good—twisted into sour, bitter creatures, driven mad by power and a lust to rule.
I saw glimmers of gold and light-shrouded kingdoms, turned dark and despairing as blood rained down from the skies and spilled from the throats of other gods. The breath caught in my throat and I choked, tears streaming down my face as the horror—the fucking destruction this crown had wrought ripped at my very soul.
When the memories stopped flashing, I thudded to my knees, gasping and clutching at my heart with one hand.
Even the gods had not been saved from its lure.
What kind of man would I be to bring this crown into the world of the living? It should stay buried and forgotten, lost to anyone who would abuse its power. Especially those who already had too much of it.
