Page 31 of Malicent
Ollie stiffens, his tiny claws twitching against her arms. Apparently disappointed, he crossed his stubby arms tightly over his stomach, pressing them into that round belly of his.
I tighten my lips, suppressing a chuckle as he louts out a long, dramatic huff.
The feral little thing actually wants to maul me.
“Leave now. I will see you later,” Millicent says softly, pressing a kiss to the ugly thing’s cheek.
I watch, making a note of it in case she ever decides to risk anyone’s life or harm anyone.
The Le Strange has a weakness.
A rather blatant one to say the least. She’s not so different from the others.
They all grow up the same way, replicas of one another, molded in their coven’s fucked up belief system.
I know what she is.
Intimately.
A small plume of smoke poofs in the air as Oliver vanishes, leaving us alone.
“You know, I’ve heard familiars are like their witches in some ways.” I muse, tilting my head as I watch Millicent closely. “Is he also a little bitey?”
I’m not really asking. I just want to get a rise out of her. If I have to suffer her presence, then she won’t be at peace either.
Millicent doesn’t hesitate. “I will make sure he gets you next time and you can find out.” Her voice mimics mine, down to the same inflection.
I arch a brow.
Little witch.
Still, knowing we actually have to make it to dinner without attempting to kill each other, I decide to be the mature one.
I step out, assuming she will follow. And sure enough, the heavy thud of her boots trail behind me. Even in silence, I can feel her distaste clinging to me, pressing against me like acid on the back of my tongue.
We walk for the longest ten minutes of my life.
Then the royal dining hall looms before us.
Gold. Everywhere.
The sheer sight of it’s blinding as light reflects off the dinnerware, statues, and even the intricate carvings on the massive dining table.
Servants weave around the space setting out platters of rich meats, steaming breads, and fruits so vibrant they almost don’t look real.
The room is designed to be a spectacle, the elongated table capable of seating twenty guests. Tonight, though, it is reserved for only a select few.
Guards stand rigidly in the corners of the hall, their gold-plated armor gleaming under the chandelier’s glow.
Everything about this room demands attention.
Felix is already seated at the head of the table, his infamous golden curls catching the candlelight.
“Ah! Welcome! Come, sit, Millicent,” he says warmly, rising from his seat and pulling out the chair beside him.
I nearly laugh at the look on Millicent’s face as she approaches. One would think manners insult her.
Felix, of course, doesn’t bat an eye.
