Chapter 29
Arman’s words were true. Hellming Hall held a small portion of the Double O’s remaining militant forces. They lined the four walls on their knees.
Mal’s Bellator, new and old, made themselves comfortable on the dining tables. They stood and cheered as Mal entered the room, beating their fists over their Dread Marks. Mal smiled humbly and held up his hand.
They quieted at once. The waves of adrenaline that pumped through the room nearly lifted Maeve off the floor. Moon was already at the center of Hellming Hall. It was clear more of the Bellator had taken some jabs at him in their absence as the castle was searched and secured.
Abraxas and Arman organized gathering all the citizens and getting them home. Wherever that was. Vaukore was huge, and there were thousands and thousands of Magicals there.
There had been no close battle. The loyalty for Mal was overwhelming, and the hatred for the Double O, unbridled. Moon, Doggbind, and the Committee had grossly miscalculated their upper hand. It crumbled beneath Mal’s claim to the throne.
Still, the ease of battle made her nervous. Something lurked in the back of her mind, the whispering thought that this was just the beginning of bloodshed.
She forgot her worries soon after Mal took her hand and escorted her up the stairs.
“Mine or yours?” He had asked as they reached the landing.
“What?” She replied, her brows pulling together.
His head had tilted to the side. “Pick one.”
Maeve’s mouth fell open as he continued, closing the small gap between them and taking her chin in his hand. “My room? Or yours?” He asked coolly.
She picked his.
Mal’s voice brought her thoughts back to Hellming Hall and out of the delicious way he had devoured her in his old dorm room.
His hand was extended towards her where he stood by the disgraced Orator.
Come and claim him, Little Viper, he said into her mind.
Her chest tightened.
Come and show them all what happens when we are crossed.
Every powerful step across the floor rang through her body. The sound echoed against the three stained-glass depictions of Magic, creating tones of musical Magic.
Moon jostled weakly at her advance, as though he sensed death walking towards him.
“Mercy, mercy,” he pleaded through broken breaths.
His panic grew as Mal stepped aside, giving him a full view of his executioner.
“I beg of you, Maeve, he was never meant to die,” cried Moon.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” She asked softly.
He averted his eyes and hung his head low.
Mal’s Magic slithered under his chin and forced his face up.
“You will look at her while you die,” he said, his voice calm.
Moon’s lip trembled as he begged one final time. “Mercy.”
The word moved through her like a dagger’s tip. Mercy .
“In what world,” began Mal, “do you think that you are permitted mercy?”
His fingers brushed down Maeve’s cheek as her eyes, full of resentment, remained on Orator Moon.
Mal stepped behind Maeve. A single finger trailed down her spine, sending his own Dread Magic into her veins.
It surged through her, a glimmer of his power, begging to destroy and rip. She pointed two fingers at Moon, red electric light bouncing between the tips of her fingers.
Mal’s Magic was alive and racing through her, tripling her heartbeat.
Rage, pure and unbridled, swarmed through her as she took on Mal’s own fury coupled with her own.
They took her father. They took her life.
They took the promises of new dreams and destroyed them with one careless and evil action.
Mal’s Magic turned unbearably cold as it begged her for release. Her skin crawled with destruction as it barreled into her fingertips.
Mal was right.
Anger felt better than tears.
Wrath felt better than grief.
And rage felt better than guilt.
Mal’s fingers brushed across the serpent pin on her chest.
Do it , Mal’s voice said into her mind. For Ambrose.
There was no scream of triumph that erupted from her throat. She held bated breath as she pointed every ounce of blame and fury at the man her father once called a friend. The man who was elected as their voice of freedom.
Moon’s eyes slammed closed. Bright red light flashed through the hall as vibrant lightning shot from her fingertips and shattered through Orator Moon.
He crumpled to the floor and did not move again.
Her own Magic spiked in all directions, targeting each soldier whose loyalty lay with The Double O. They dropped to the floor as she shattered their minds all at once. Her balance faltered as every bit of her strength drained from her veins.
Mal’s arm slid around her waist, supporting her. He smiled down at her with pride.
“There she is,” he said, his eyes glistening darkly.
He took her hand, still pulsing with Magic, and ran his tongue from her elbow to her wrist. He looked over the hall of bodies as her vision faltered. Her head rolled back against his chest, exhaustion settling into her bones.
The hall erupted in one synchronized agreement:
“For Ambrose.”
It was late when they arrived back at Castle Morana, despite the endless, hazy twilight. But Abraxas insisted on a small celebration. He ensured the drinks flowed and indulged in his other favorite pastimes. There was nothing “small” about it.
Maeve lingered for longer than she would have liked, watching as everyone drank themselves unconscious in the late hour. Her mind slipped to what her father had said one evening. She couldn’t remember the party, but he said he’d be worried if his Magical Militia didn’t engage in celebratory revelry now and again.
Those were now her fighters.
The ones who came by the thousands to his funeral. Who called his name out as she killed one of the many responsible for his deaths. Who now toasted goblets full of his favorite brandy late into the morning.
Save for Mal.
He sat on a large throne-like chair in the lounge, which suited him, as he was the victor. Maeve watched him smirking at something Roswyn said, and she wished they were alone.
His eyes met hers as ice swept down her spine. She’d wanted him to hear the thought. She stood and broke their gaze.
“I’m going to bed, Brax,” said Maeve to Abraxas, who sat next to her playing a game of cards which he had placed a rather high bet on. The smoke from their cigars made her brain fuzzy.
“Goodnight, cousin,” he replied.
Without looking away from the game, he blew her a quick kiss.
Maeve walked into the foyer and paused, knowing Mal would be on her heels. She reached the foot of the spiraling, oversized stairs as she heard his voice behind her.
“Turning in so early?”
“I believe it is so late that it has become early,” said Maeve, turning towards him. The large clock in the atrium read close to six in the morning. “I’m tired. And,” she reached for the locket around her neck, “still adjusting to this new power.”
Mal nodded. They stood in the silence together with nothing to say, but neither wanting to part ways. Mal stood only a few feet from her as what little moonlight could cascade through the window shadowed his face.
Maeve stepped in closer until she could see him properly.
“Thank you,” said Maeve softly.
“I hope you truly understand now that, next to me, you can have anything you want, Maeve.” He reached out and touched the side of her face. “You should fear nothing.”
His eyes held her captive as she leaned into his touch. Swirling dark orbs of power she couldn’t bring herself to look away from.
“Did you look inside?” He asked quietly, with a nod towards the locket around her neck.
She hadn’t even thought to.
Feeling foolish, Maeve reached down and pulled open the clasp. The slim locket slid open. Inside was a small portrait of Ambrose, leaned against the balcony railing, smoking a cigar. On the other side was the picture of Mary Gagner that had been in Mal’s uncle’s house. Mal’s mother was merely a child in the photo.
Maeve’s breathing hitched and her eyes quickly became watery.
Relief and grief were too similar of words. Moon and Doggbind may have been dead, and The Committee not far behind them, but he was still dead. He was still gone.
As satisfying as it was to topple the entire Double O and stage an entire mutiny, she was still lost inside her mind. Desperate to find a way back to him.
Mal wiped a small tear that escaped from the corner of her eye.
“We will make them proud, Maeve.”
She swallowed the groaning cry that pressed against the walls of her throat. His hand lingered on her face, despite the fact that Mumford rounded the corner and came to a quick halt upon seeing them.
Mal’s eyes remained on Maeve as he spoke calmly. “Did you need something, Mumford?”
“Yes, My Prince,” stammered Mumford. “A private word, please.”
Mal’s eyes traveled down to Maeve’s lips, his thumb following. She breathed deeply, inhaling the Magic pushing towards her, not caring that they weren’t alone.
Sleep in my chambers, he spoke into her mind.
A smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
Don’t make me wait long , she replied.
His hand fell and he walked towards Mumford, motioning him to follow. Maeve placed the back of her cool hands against her hot cheeks and turned towards the staircase and headed for the North Tower.