Page 6 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen
Once more, the crackle of the radio pierces the air, followed by muffled voices, urgent and clipped.
I use a zap of magic to unlock the car that’s closest to the road and ease my way inside the abandoned sedan. Slipping into the seat without a sound, I take great care not to slam the door. The leather creaks under my weight as I grip the steering wheeland twist the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life, and shouts resonate behind me, but I’m already on my way.
I drive straight from the fringes of the countryside to the heart of the city and ditch the car a mile from my house, walking the rest of the way. The unusual storm clouds are almost blood-red now. My eyes flick to the sky every few seconds, searching for the shadows I know are bound to rain down on my head. The faint sound of wings flapping in the distance sends a glacial chill through me.
Bloody hells. They found me.That didn’t take long. Then again, I wasn’t being very discreet.
As Mabel has warned me many times, I’m playing with fire. Refusing to heed my fate as a no future, has-been queen. Freya couldn’t takeallmy magic away, but she made it deadly to use it. I’ve fucked up this time. Used too much, too far away from the protection of rowan wood. I bled, making it easier for the cupids to track me.
Cupids are sneaky little beasts, originally created by my grandsire to play tricks on mortals by briefly sparking their passions. They feed on the chaos they create, and when cupids come flying by, they’re not here to help anyone find true love.
But I’ve got my own special brand of cupids chasing me. Every time I use my powers, they come, and those little bastards are vicious.
I flatten myself against the brick wall, pulling two obsidian crystal knives from the inner pockets of my jacket. I don’t know much about my monsters, except that their assault is mostly proportional to the power I used, and that my magic, whether it’s forged as a whip, a dagger, or a bow and arrows, is useless against them. They are born from it and immune to its influence.
My jacket scratches against the brick wall as I rush from corner to corner toward the entrance of my shop, keeping close to the wall to avoid an attack from behind. The rowan wood andspells I used to ward my home will protect me, but first, I need to get there alive.
A flock of one-foot-tall cupids descends from the sky, their wings beating the air in rapid flutters. Shadows made flesh, born of a curse that’s haunted me for decades, and they won’t stop until they rip me apart.
Their bodies are grotesque, with oily, tar-like skin stretched tight over round buttocks. They resemble overly muscled, creepy toddlers—if toddlers had long, sharp claws designed to carve out a heart.
And people wonder why I stay away from children.
The cupids’ sole purpose is to hunt me down, shred me to pieces, and take my heart back to their mistress. But it’s their wings that get me every time, their black feathers so similar to my own.
They move too fast and form blurry projectiles streaking toward me. I barely have time to react before the first one slashes my arm with its long claws. The pain is sharp—a burst of fire in my muscles, and the gash is no doubt deep enough to join the flurry of old scars marring my skin, if it’s ever allowed to heal.
I don't have the luxury of screaming as another cupid flies at my left side, teeth bared. I twist away just in time to avoid the bite, but its claws catch the hem of my jacket, tearing the fabric as it spins off behind me. I swing one of my knives at it, but it dodges my attack at the last second.
Another one sinks its teeth into my leg, and a sickening jolt shoots through me. I strike it down with a hiss, gritting my teeth together. The cupid shatters, breaking apart into dark, opaque pieces of glass that skitter across the paved alley. Each time I take one down, another appears.
Evading them is the only viable option, but it soothes my raw nerves to feel the crunch of their monstrous bodies undermy feet. I stagger forward, blood gushing down the side of my leg, my body screaming in pain. They feed on it. They’re getting stronger, more frenzied, more rabid.
The shop is visible now. ThePat’s Pottery, Pots, and Potionssign swings on its hinges as a chaotic burst of wings blurs my vision. The cupids move together—coordinated, fast, relentless. One needles my arm, while another slices my stomach, in the exact spot where the Mark of the Gods stands. Its nail gouges the flesh of my abdomen as if it means to peel off the tattoo in one sharp swipe. The mark brands me as Eros’ true heir, and I won’t surrender the last remnants of my crown so easily.
They aim for my heart next, for that ultimate trophy.
Twisted laughter fills the air, and I push myself forward, determined to escape, barely staying on my feet as I press a hand to the torn flap of skin and muscle hanging from my belly. It’s too much. Blood soaks through my clothes, and I know—I know—they’re hungry for it.
Almost there.
I won’t let them win. Not when it means Freya will inherit what’s left of my God-given magic, the part that sank deep into my bones, a power so rooted in me that even she couldn’t grasp it. I’d suffer a thousand deaths before legitimizing her claim to the throne, allowing her to become the rightful Spring Queen instead of the usurper she is.
The door to the shop opens, my faithful Percy hovering in the air, sensing my arrival. The sight of his round, purple melon hat fills my eyes with tears.
With every ounce of strength I have left, I run. I only need one more second.
One more step forward.
I stagger over the rowan threshold, my breath coming in painful rasps. The cupids that dare to cross with me immediately shatter into a cascade of polished glass beads, which scatter in acacophony oftinksacross the floor, rolling deeper into the shop, carried by their own momentum.
I made it.
Molten heat engulfs me as I fall to my knees on the varnished wood. My antique shop doubles as a tea and divination parlor, and the familiar warmth of the hearth feels eerie. The gentle glow of the fire is meant to soothe the chill of early morning, not to heal the brutal treatment I suffered at the hands of the monsters who butchered me in the streets.
I’m on all fours, shaking and retching from the stench of my own blood, but the shallow drizzle of red in my wake is nothing compared to the pool forming beneath me. Sweat clings to my skin, mingling with the sweet-dill fragrance of the tea I brewed late last night.
There’s no place to die but home, right?
