Chapter 50
The floor was icy against Maeve’s bare feet, growing colder with each step she took towards Mal’s study. The Dread Ring on her finger felt heavy.
“You must wake him, Maeve,” said Abraxas in a frazzled voice. “We are going to Hiems tonight and he must be in perfect form. The announcements are too important and too special to reschedule because he’s unconscious.”
“I know, Brax,” she said weakly.
“It’s just so important we solidify Kier’s position on Heims and the deals I’ve made–”
Maeve stopped and turned towards him. “I know.”
Abraxas surveyed her for the first time since he’d pulled her from bed. Her Dread Mark burned with ice for long, ticking minutes, and she did not move to find Mal until Abraxas burst into her room.
“You’re not sleeping, are you?” He asked quietly.
She didn’t reply and continued towards Mal’s study. She dreaded walking through those double doors and seeing what version of him was waiting on the other side.
He was no longer conscious. That much she could feel.
But when his eyes opened, would they be a calming shade of darkness, or filled with threatening flecks of green?
She was sure to hear from Roswyn that she was the last one to arrive at his side.
But there was no fear in her mind of him. Only fear for Mal.
Maeve sighed as Astrea poured a thick green substance down his arms while he remained in a deep trace, not stirring or moving. Astrea struggled to heal him. The deep purple and red marks across his body were now more than just blood sacrifices or barters of Magic.
Maeve’s heart sunk.
They were Vexkari.
Maeve strolled over to him.
“Don’t,” snapped Astrea. “I can do this.”
“I know,” said Maeve coolly as she took Mal’s chin. His head rolled limply in her hand. “But you are not accustomed to expelling such Dark Magic. This is different.”
“Yes,” muttered Astrea through a clenched jaw. “It is.”
“Let me assist you where the darkness is concerned.”
Astrea’s hands halted. “How are you able to feel the darkness lingering that way?” She asked.
“Like calls to like,” Maeve answered without looking at her. “Clear the room.”
“He called us here. You don’t dismiss us,” said Roswyn.
“I won’t be waking him until you’re gone,” said Maeve.
She couldn’t let them see the state he could be in this time. Roswyn and his power hungry father were loyal to only one thing: strength.
And Mal was vulnerable.
Roswyn’s jaw was tightly clenched when Maeve looked up at him.
“Come on,” said Mumford without looking at her. Abraxas and Astrea were already gone.
When the door clicked behind them, Maeve reached out and touched Mal’s face, entering his mind. Darkness enveloped her at once as her skin prickled with a chill.
The blurred and hazy image of an altar appeared once more. She’d seen it before in Mal’s mind, but the image was sharper now.
Blood dripped from the dark, glowing stones.
It is not enough.
Mal’s pained voice slipped across her mind.
“What is not enough?” She asked him in reply.
A soft laugh of pity echoed across the space. Maeve’s spine straightened. It was not Mal’s.
Blood , it said.
Maeve stepped closer to the carnage of Mal’s sacrifice. Her fingertips burned with desire for release. The Dread Ring on her finger hissed with warning against her skin.
“Who are you?” She asked.
No reply came.
It is not enough , Mal’s voice returned.
Maeve pushed further into his mind, but the memory before her swiftly began collapsing. Icy needles pressed into her throat.
With a gasp and a quickening pulse, she pulled herself from Mal’s mind.
Her back was pressed against the floor of his study. Mal hovered over her with a deadly grip on her throat and a wild expression. Fear poured from his Magic. His eyes swarmed with tiny flecks of green energy.
Wrong. They were so wrong. His eyes were a beautiful shade of chocolate in the dark. And a hazel dream in the light.
Maeve relaxed against him, taking in what breath she could.
“Mal,” she said.
His grip tightened and more Magic slipped from all five fingers and his palm.
“Listen to my voice,” she said as calmly as she could manage to fake. “It’s me.”
Mal’s eyes scanned her face in rapid distress. He shook his head.
“Mal,” she said smoothly with her last bit of air.
His eyes squeezed shut. His teeth slid together in agony.
Mal, my Prince. She pressed into his mind as her lips turned numb and her vision faded.
His eyes flew open. Their green color faded into darkness as his hands loosened and his face relaxed.
He lifted from her at once. She sucked in a sharp breath and pushed up on her elbows.
“It’s alright,” she said quietly.
His eyes darted around the room, as though he was unsure of where her voice was coming from
“Maeve?” He asked.
She nodded and took his face tenderly in her hands without fear or reservation.
He flinched as her skin made contact with his. His eyes locked to hers like a magnet. Maeve tucked her legs beneath her. They kneeled before one another silently. She rubbed her fingers across his cheeks, through his raven hair and down his arms until his Magic was completely at rest and his eyes closed.
“That’s it,” she encouraged.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, the words pouring from him in a quiet embarrassment.
“It’s not you,” she said serenely.
Mal looked up at her with defeat in his eyes.
She shook her head. “The deeper you go, the harder it becomes for me to pull you out,” said Maeve. “The deeper you go, Mal, the more of yourself you are losing.”
Maeve’s hair reached her lower back, despite Grandmother Agatha’s desire for her to cut it. Her silver hairbrush snagged on a tangle as she distractedly combed through the long locks.
She stared at the gown Mal had sent to her chamber for the evening in the reflection of the vanity mirror. It was stunning. Fit for a Queen.
But Maeve felt far from celebration. And far from comfortable wearing such a piece when its coloring looked so much like Mal’s eyes as he lost control of himself.
It’s not enough blood.
The voice from his mind whispered across her own.
The vanity mirror shifted. Black tendrils of Magic slithered along the edges and across her reflection. Her room darkened and Maeve felt the dark presence of her at once.
The albino gaunt woman was barely a shadow in the mirror, lingering behind her.
Maeve’s legs turned heavy as she slipped onto the vanity stool, dropping the brush in her hand. It clattered silently into the vanishing floor.
It’s not enough blood.
With shaking fingers, she reached towards the haunting reflection. Her fingers brushed the glass and it shattered into dozens of spiked, bloody, dripping shards.
Magic traced her darkened veins, sliding from her fingertips to her temple.
It’s not enough blood.
Her eyes closed as the Magic overtook her mind in a haze of rest.
It’s not enough blood it’s not enough blood it’s not enough–
Pain ripped down her finger, slicing across the skin.
“Maeve!” A delicate and distant muffled voice brought her eyes open with a pop.
Maeve started at Zimsy in the reflection of the unbroken vanity mirror.
Zimsy’s eyes dropped to Maeve’s bloodied finger.
The Dread Ring sat on the vanity.
Maeve held up her wounded ring finger. Multiple long cuts traveled down its length. Maeve looked back up at the mirror. No bloody cracks or slithering Magic. No apparition loomed over her.
“You swore not to take it off,” Zimsy reminded her with a soft voice and her eyes on The Dread Ring.
“I can’t stand the weight of it. I can’t stand the things I see while wearing it. I can’t stand that he’s so easily in my head, despite being so far from me in every way imaginable.”
Together they stared at the tiny bit of ancient Magic. Vexkari. Mal’s and who knows who else’s before him. The ring she’d once craved the feeling of, she now dreaded its cool band on her skin.
Blood dripped carelessly onto her lap, staining her clothes.
Her attention was on The Dread Ring where it sat, perfectly normal. No hidden barbs or spikes protruded from it. There was no damage to the elegant stone or smooth band.
Magic alone had ripped open the skin on her finger. Punishment for breaking her vow to never take it off.
She ran her free hand over the cuts, pushing healing Magic In them.
They didn’t heal.
She inhaled slowly and released a shaking sigh.
The Dread Magic that wounded her ring finger would not heal. It would have to heal naturally.
Another scar.
She turned her hand over, palm up. Blood dripped down her finger and over the worn scar, sliced perfectly across her palm. Her blackened veins weaved seamlessly across the raised tissue.
Another mark of darkness forever on her skin.
“You need to get dressed for tonight,” said Zimsy, her round eyes never leaving The Dread Ring where it lay untouched on Maeve’s vanity. “And you’ll have to put that back on.”