Page 71 of Heavy is the Crown
Astrea
(“California Dreamin’” – Sia)
Stepping into Hell is like walking into a disjointed time capsule. Horse-drawn carriages roll next to motorcycles. Cobblestones line the streets while electric lights buzz overhead. Signs flash, attempting to draw people into the casinos and clubs that line the streets. Individuals stand on balconies beckoning others into pleasure houses next to steampunk-style buildings. I can barely take everything in.
While Gothic Grove abstains from any color, it seems Hell is bursting with it. The sky overhead is a deep shade of red split with light hues of orange. Dusk is upon us, the time of day right before the sky transitions into a burgundy star-freckled oasis. The streets of Hell are abuzz with people and beastly creaturesbeing walked by demons, witches, and cacodemons. All manner of individuals are busy in preparation for the upcoming nuptials.
I have to give it to Jackson, he dressed us well. We each have our part to play to blend in. Unfortunately, my part is the most uncomfortable.
Shadow and Drago wear matching black linen pants that are tight to their bodies. On top, each has a white button-down shirt with a dark button-down vest over it. Both their faces are covered by plague-doctor masks. Power rolls off them in waves, uncontained. It's intoxicating to be around. It also keeps people out of our bubble—citizens skirt around us the moment they hit that wall of power.
Glancing at Ciaran, I see him swipe his hand down the black shirt he has on before rolling up the sleeves. He doesn’t wear a plague mask but instead has his face painted, black makeup streaked over his eyes and dripping downward. His blond hair is pulled back in a braid, those runes shining bright. He is unrecognizable from his usual self, but looks the most comfortable out of all of us.
He would have been a good ruler,Onyx whispers.
Yes. He would have. But we have our own kingdom to worry about,I reply quickly.
I grumble as I pull a sheer black veil over my face, longer panels of it flowing down my back. The bodice is rippled leather that molds to my supple frame and has two thick straps holding it up. The skirt is multi-layered sheer black material that flows out long, covering the twin blades always strapped to my thighs. Onyx remains hidden under the skirts.
“I hate that I’m in a dress,” I whine as Ciaran drags me into his body.
“You look good,kamerat,” he whispers, sending shivers down my spine and straight to my core. “Remind me to have you dress in this when we are home.”
He plants a kiss on my temple before backing off and taking his place at my side, as a guard would.
“Let’s get a move on,” Drago grumbles, his muscular body pushing forward.
FORTY-ONE
I worry for us. The Order is coming, and they will not allow us to run.
– Priestess Codex
Drago
The room at the safe house we arrived at is tiny, the four of us barely fitting into it but unwilling to separate.
“Could they be any fucking louder?” Astrea grumbles with her arms crossed over her chest. She’s changed into one of Ciaran’s sweatshirts and a pair of black leggings. Her hair is now a mixture of black, red, and white, thrown into two messy space buns, one on either side of her head. It’s a style Ava would wear.Fuck.Even thinking about her sends a bolt of pain through my chest, like a lance of fire burning into my heart. I rub at the spot, aware of Shadow tracking the movement.
Ciaran nuzzles Astrea’s neck. “Jealous,kamerat?”She blushes a deep burgundy, and he only huffs out a laugh. Astrea is a walking contradiction. At times, you can see that destructive magic rolling under her skin in thick waves, her eyes glazing over to the power, and at others, she is like this. Quiet, almost shy.More sounds echo upstairs from Jackson and Dios, making her roll her eyes.
“Do we have a plan?” Shadow asks the room, his voice attempting to cover up the sounds of Dios and Jackson next door. That had come as a shock, to realize the king of Hell and Dios were fucking. An odd pairing, but judging from the noises, one that seems to work well. “Or are we just winging it?”
Ciaran snorts. “I think we need to talk to Jackson and Dios; they are going to be a huge part of this. It seems pointless to plan without them.”
I watch Astrea chew on her nail before her head tilts to the side, as if she's listening to something. Her eyes widen before she suddenly sucks in air as if she hadn’t been breathing at all.
“Astrea?” Ciaran looks at her in alarm. She quickly fumbles with her sweatshirt, ripping it off to reveal her scarred body—along with not one but two snake tattoos.
“Buttercup,” she murmurs, worry lacing her voice and fear decorating her face. “Ava sent Buttercup back.”
Shadow surges forward. “What?!” Ciaran puts his body between the two out of pure instinct. I have to bite down my own rising panic as I clutch Shadow, pulling his body into mine.
“Is she okay?” I ask.
Astrea tilts her head toward some invisible voice again. “Ava went of her own accord, to prevent a future she saw. Jackson helped coordinate it. But . . .” She pauses again, listening. “Oisin was able to obtain a spell from the grimoire. He has placed a collar on her. When holding the leash, he has full control over her body and magic; he’s draining her and is looking for something called the Well. She worried Buttercup would be controlled as well and didn’t want to risk that.”
My body is vibrating with rage. Her eyes look far off as she continues to listen to whatever that dark magic whispers to her. “Ava asked Buttercup to return while she knew she still hadthe ability to. She knew we would need her help.” Astrea’s face pales. “She believes he has other collars that he plans to use, but she has been unable to locate them, given she is now under his control.”
