Chapter 53
Maeve’s eyes opened as Mal entered the candlelit bathroom. He leaned against the doorframe. She rolled her head along the edge of the bathtub. No crown or glowing flecks of green eyes present.
“If you came to lecture me for going near Mount Morte,” she began hoarsely, “can you postpone until the morning?”
He crossed towards her and pulled his long sleeve shirt over his head, followed by his pants. He draped his clothes across the tufted stool and bent over the edge of the tub. Maeve’s head inclined to him.
His eyes were dark. Her chest quaked with relief.
Her eyes traveled down his toned stomach, accented by the shadows in the darkened space. Scars ran down his arms and across his chest, little starbursts of scarred Magic. Dark Magic lingered across his pale skin.
“No lecture, Little Viper,” he hummed. “Just let me hold you.”
Maeve shifted in the warm water as he slid behind her. He wrapped his long arms around her front and pulled her against his chest.
Her throat constricted. Mal’s lips pressed against her temple. “Let it out, Maeve,” he hummed.
“I didn’t want to run,” she cried. “I wanted to fight.”
Mal’s hand cupped the back of her head as he spoke quietly. “Knowing when to retreat is a valuable quality.”
“I could have saved him,” she argued. “If Roswyn hadn’t forced me to leave–”
“You could not have, Maeve. The blow he took for you was fatal.”
Maeve pressed her face against his shoulder. “Is this what I am fated to endure? I cannot die, and yet those around me must suffer my failures.” Mal’s free hand moved up and down her back as she continued. “My power is greater than ever now, and yet I am no match for what lies out in that darkness. Arianna’s hatred for me is solidified.”
Mal took a glass bottle from the ledge of the tub and poured its contents into his hands. His slender fingers pressed against her scalp, lathering the floral scented shampoo into her hair. Maeve’s eyes slid to a close as he worked his way through her hair, massaging gently.
“What were those things?” She asked quietly.
Mal’s chest rose and fell. “They have been called many things across time. The Dreaded Dead. The Dead Walkers.”
Maeve melted closer to him. “Des Inferius.” She quoted. “From below.”
Mal hugged her a little tighter.
“That is why we could not kill them so easily,” she said. “They are already dead.”
Mal rinsed her hair silently. Maeve continued.
“But they attacked us-”
“They came for you,” said Mal. “Roswyn made it clear. They did not try to take him or Arman. They wanted you.”
She shifted and looked up at him, her brows pulled together.
“You are being targeted,” said Mal.
“Why?”
His hand moved to her face. His knuckles brushed along her jaw. “Because you are more mine than any facade of desire can conquer.”
His eyes were sad. Conflicted.
“The darkness wants to hurt you?” She asked, her gaze darting between his eyes.
“It wants me to submit,” he said. And then quietly, “It wants me alone.”
Mal pulled her back down, her head resting on his chest as the water turned cold. Maeve slipped her arms snugly around him beneath the water.
“Children of Magic are never alone,” she said softly.
Arman was buried with the highest honors in The Dread Lands. The first to die in their new world, Mal himself carved his tombstone with Magic. A new graveyard of Bellator began with him.
Arianna held Aislin and Anselm close, one in each arm. Their blonde hair stood stark against their black clothes of mourning.
Children so young shouldn’t be mourning.
Grandmother Agatha sat in a new, elaborate chair with wheels. She placed one hand on Arianna’s arm as Abraxas, and then Arman’s father, spoke. Arman’s father shook Abraxas hand as they exchanged places.
Maeve heard little of either speech. How could she when her mind only replayed his bleeding body and deadening eyes? She only heard Ariann’s cry. The heartbroken sobs that ripped from her sister were, once again, her fault.
Maxius slipped from Zimsy’s arms, pushing away from her with his eyes on Mal. Zimsy’s eyes met Mal’s silently. He gave her a soft nod, and she slid Maxius to the ground. He toddled towards them, reaching up for Mal with expectant arms and drooping eyes.
Mal’s slender fingers brushed over the boy’s hair. Maxius signed, ‘ u p’.
Mal bent forward and slipped an arm beneath his legs, hoisting him up against his chest. Maxius laid his head down, his eyes quickly closing.
Mal’s cold and green-flecked eyes did not meet Maeve’s gaze.
Arman’s father’s voice drifted into her thoughts, pulling her attention back to him where he stood looking down at his son’s grave.
He was silent for a long moment, and then his light eyes met Maeve’s.
“If my son had to die defending one of his own,” he said, “I am glad it was Ambrose Sinclair’s daughter.”