Page 30 of Malicent
Chapter 9
Cage
WHEN THE DOOR SWINGS OPEN, I expect the witch who nearly bit my fingers off earlier to be standing there.
Instead, for the second time today, I’m surprised by who or what stands before me.
I blink, scanning the doorway before finally looking down. And I find myself face to face with a creature both ridiculous and bizarre.
A chunky, blue-skinned thing—an imp. His plump belly protrudes so far forward that it completely swallows his toes. His arms are stubby and expressive, one black-tipped claw resting on his hip, the other drumming impatiently against his thigh. A long, rounded nose dominates his face, sitting low between two enormous, beady black eyes void of any apparent intelligence. Behind him, a thin blue tail sways, ending in a fine-pointed tip.
“Me misses thinks it’s dinner time,” he declares, his tone carrying a distinct nasal whine.
I arch a brow, placing my hands on my hips. “It is, in fact, dinner time. Who are you, exactly?”
The imp sniffs the air dramatically. His grimy claws twitch, and his expression twists to disgust, as if my scent is terrible and insulting to his senses.
“Oliverto you,” he says, his voice tight and snooty, as if his name is a sacred privilege bestowed upon me.
I crouch down, entertained despite myself. I have never encountered an imp before, only read about them. Familiars are created from their witch’s soul, a reflection of their witch. Of course, Millicent’s familiar is stuck up, sassy, and dislikes me.
“Hello, Oliver,” I offer, cocking my head to mirror his posture and observe his reaction. “I am Cage.”
A flash of sharp yellowed fangs, some chipped, others missing, gleams back at me as his lips curl into a toothy grin.
Oral hygiene, it seems, is not high on an imp’s to do list.
His actions and words come off as almost playful, his exact mood is hard to pin. His body language is tense, his wings spread in defense, and he hasn’t allowed me into the room. However, he is smiling at me and still offered his name, and the door hasn’t been slammed in my face.
Then, from within the room, a softer version of Millicent’s voice—something I did not think possible—floats to the hall.
“Ollie, don’t talk to strange men.”
Oliver huffs, crossing his arms.
“This onestinksof magic, Misses!BADbusiness!” His tiny nostrils flare as if confirming this assessment. “I will keep him at bay! Noboysallowed!”
A spark of wild magic whirls in the air around him, erratically zigzagging toward the door in a frenzied streak of blue lightning. The wooden slab slams shut, or at least tries to.
My hand shoots out, stopping it with a sharp thud. My fingers brace against the wood.
Oliver scowls, his features scrunching into what I assume is an attempted glare. But with his misshapen features, it looks more like a confused pout.
Then he pounces for my gut.
I don’t bother moving. What damage could something this small possibly do?
Before I can find out, Millicent scoops him up, catching him mid-air with ease.
She pulls him flush against her chest, her arms banding tightly around his waist to keep him in place.
Oliver writhes, snarling, pouting, and kicking like a feral beast or an upset toddler.
“Lemme at him, Misses!” he howls, wings flapping in protest.
It’s clearly doing nothing, but I’ll give him this: the little guy’s got heart.
“No, you are too strong for him, and I need him alive,” Millicent murmurs, her lips brushing against the imps’ large, floppy ear.
