Chapter 2
AVELINE
“Breathe, human witch,” a voice says, a hint of sardonic humor in each syllable. “You’re going to swoon.”
I open my eyes and suck in a breath, forcing air into my chest—which presses right up against the Elder God’s chest. Gone are the cobbles and tents.
A dense, rotting carpet of primeval loam coats the forest floor. The air practically vibrates with a green-gold current, filling the thick air with the sharp, metallic tang of copper, damp moss, and crushed pine needles.
“I don’t swoon,” I manage. “I’ve never swooned in my life. Not even once.”
Not cloak. No.
He’s bare chested, save for a strange black harness around his shoulders. Two blades hang from his back.
I have never seen a man’s chest bare, except for the one elderly stable hand who preferred to work the horses without a shirt on. The stable hand’s chest looked nothing like this man’s—not that he’s a man.
He smirks down at me with an ancient, unfathomable expression.
Well, except for the fact that he looks utterly and totally amused by me.
Which grates.
“Better?” he asks, tilting his head.
He reminds me of a cat that used to roam my keep, a long time ago, a black cat who loved to slink around corners and attack things.
The cat had the same look in its eyes that this… being does now.
I take a step back, smoothing my skirts, all too aware of the way his gaze follows the heaving line of my breasts.
“You are mine now, little witch.” He taps a long, elegant finger against his chin. “Whatever am I to do with you?”
“For starters,” I say primly, “I am not a witch. And you could tell me your name.”
“My name?” he appears affronted, staring at me with dark, endlessly black eyes.
“Indeed,” I say. “That is usually how these things go.”
“Is it?” He stares at me.
It’s unsettling. I harrumph and raise my chin, taking the moment to get my bearings.
We’re not in the tents anymore. There are no tables piled with food, no fountain for drinks, no revelers, no musicians. The colorful silks have been replaced by thick boughs, the townspeople by tree trunks and ferns.
We’re not in the Wild Oak Woods anymore, either. Old, weathered stones lay in front of us, a ruin, ivy and brambles and trees doing their best to reclaim the structure for nature.
My skin prickles, and when I glance back up, he’s closer still, examining me.
I clear my throat delicately. “Am I to call you something? I assume there is a reason you brought me… ah, to wherever this is.”
“They called me Malakai.” He’s studying me as if he’s never seen a woman before, his eyes sweeping across my face slowly, my neck, my collarbone.
“I’m Aveline of Stormspire, the last of the ducal line,” I tell him abruptly. “And I’d like to know why I am here, and where, exactly, here is.”
Yes, those two seem like good places to begin. I nod to myself in agreement.
“You are here because you are mine.” He regards me for a long time, in that silent, unsettling way of his.
“Right.” I narrow my eyes at him and smooth my dress. “What, exactly, does that mean?”
A breath passes. Another.
“Come,” he finally says. “Let me show you our home.”
Our home. His.
“Are we to marry?” I ask him, holding my skirts with both hands and attempting to keep pace behind him. The cream of my dress is beyond ruined now, the wet earth soaking into the hem in a way that I’m not sure I possess the skills to fix.
“Marry?” he repeats, stopping short.
I run into his bare back, his sheathed blades knocking against my shoulders, and lose my balance, nearly falling back onto the ground.
Something catches me round the waist, and when I glance down, a dark, writhing shadow helps me stand back upright.
Oh.
I swallow hard, my ears ringing.
“Do all humans have such trouble with their legs?” He watches me carefully, gaze slipping to where my ankle’s just exposed.
“Do you?” I ask. “Have trouble with your legs?”
“Why would I?” Another strange, predatory head tilt.
I don’t think Malakai is human.
I don’t know what he is at all. “You speak as if you’re not human,” I try. I’m not sure all my etiquette and conversational tutors prepared me for this. Not that I really listened to them, anyway.
“I’m not human. Neither are you, not really.”
I stare at him right back. Part of me is certain I should be scared, that all of this will end badly, but… well, curiosity has always gotten me into trouble.
“What am I, then?”
“You are my little witch queen, Aveline.” He says my name like a prayer, and my breath catches.
He holds out a long, elegant hand. Shadows curl around his fingers, and I look from his palm to his eyes and back again.
“Would you rather be carried? I seem to remember that was a custom.”
“Carried?” I repeat, beyond confused. “Witch queen?”
He just stares at me. It would be impudent from anyone else.
From him? It’s unsettling, but he seems genuinely… curious.
“What are you?” I ask, staring right back.
“Your mate.”
With that, he twirls his hands, and shadows—shadows!—twist around me, floating me into his arms.
“I can walk,” I squeak. His mate? Witch queen?
“No, I think you might faint after all.” He doesn’t put me down, just steadily trots on, closer to the ruined stones all around us. The thick, green boughs weave a dark, claustrophobic canopy overhead. They block out all light, the air soaked in a heavy gloom.
I should try to get away, probably.
Except, a little voice says, I volunteered for this. Because it felt right.
I suck in a breath as a strange sensation tugs at my skin, an icy prickling the likes of which I’ve never felt.
“There,” Malakai says, a note of triumph in the word. “Welcome to Shadow Keep, Aveline of the Day. Your castle.”
“My castle—” I cut the question off abruptly as my eyes go round.
The ruins aren’t there anymore. Where once was an idea of a wall, mangled by time and the forest, a castle rises from the ground, larger and lovelier than any I’ve ever seen.
The heavy double doors creak open as Malakai carries me closer, his grip on me tight as can be.
The rich, enveloping scent of old parchment, dried lavender, and crackling woodsmoke replaces the sharp rot of the woods.
Finally, he sets me down, and I just stare. “This isn’t possible.”
“Then what is it?” he asks.
Now that we’re inside, he’s staring at me hungrily. We’ve stepped straight into an impossibly grand, high-ceilinged foyer that feels shockingly alive, the thick indoor air immediately wrapping around my shivering frame like a heavy blanket.
Shifting my weight, I wring my hands. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“I expect you don’t, Aveline. Shall we mate now?”
I blink. “I beg your pardon?”
I’ve been propositioned before, but never in so few words.
There’s no doubt in my mind that this being, this Malakai—I’m supposed to be here with him.It’s the only explanation for why my stepfather never foisted me off into a political marriage for Stormspire. All this time, he meant me for Malakai.
It only makes me more furious.
It certainly doesn’t mean that I’m ready to, well, whatever it is he thinks “mate” is with him.
“Why not?” he asks, staring at me, unblinking. Dark shadows begin to swirl around his ankles, on the tips of his fingers, turning near black with a—
“You agreed to be here,” he adds. “You took my hand. You volunteered. You’re mine.”
My lips twist to the side as I try to explain, but I’m not going to be doing any so-called mating with him. “Right,” I say slowly. “When was the last time you were around humans?”
“You are not a human,” Malakai says slowly, enunciating each word carefully. “Why is it that you refuse to admit that?”
“Let’s say that I am human, for the sake of argument,” I tell him conversationally, gesturing with my hands.
“Why would we want to argue about the fact that you are a witch queen and not human at all?”
I make a slight sound of frustration, pinching my brow when something pushes against my knees, causing me to fall back. I half expect Malakai to catch me with his shadows again like he did before, but instead I sink into the soft, fabric-covered down of a large armchair.
“Where did this come from?” I say, feeling less and less attached to reality as the day goes on.
“Answer my question,” Malakai insists, and it’s the first time I’ve seen something from him bordering on emotion, something that’s more than just detached curiosity.
The shadows around him intensify, and the muscle twitches in his forehead as he stares down at me.
It discomforts me, and I glare up at him, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Why? Why should I?” I ask.
“You are here to fulfill a promise your people made centuries ago,” he says, and the words are a growl. “You will mate with me, like it or not.”
“I don’t think so,” I tell him, settling back against the armchair. A table appears next to me, a silver pitcher full of water sitting on top of it, a crystal goblet next to it. I stare, trying not to show how discomforted I am.
The pitcher rises up, and clear water pours into the crystal goblet.
“Thank you,” I tell the pitcher, and take the goblet. First time I’ve thanked an object, but I was raised with good etiquette and apparently will lose my mind with good etiquette as well.
“I might be here to fulfill a promise,” I finally respond, then take a long drink.
I keep drinking, unsure how to finish whatever I was about to say.
Malakai continues to watch me, unblinking, distinctively inhuman. Shadows curl across my foot, and I kick at them until they dissipate.
“Don’t do that,” I tell him. “Let me finish.” I hold up a finger as he starts to open his mouth, and then I take another sip of water because I am, frankly, parched after my long trip here and still don’t know what I want to say.
“Were you planning on finishing this century?” he asks, finally snapping the silence between us.
I raise my eyebrows. I was trained on power plays, and if that’s what he wants this conversation to be, then I am more than happy to reciprocate.
I take another long drink, tempted to smack my lips for effect.
That, however, would be uncouth.