Chapter 54 #2
“Thank you,” she whispered as she laid her forehead on his.
“You’re so spoiled,” he said dryly.
Chapter 55
Christmas was within the week. And then it was New Year’s Eve, Mal’s birthday and Coronation.
Maeve was in London looking at townhouses with her father.
“It’s close to Mal,” she said, her voice echoing across the black and white marbled living room. “And it’s gorgeous. But I don’t need this. I can stay at home until Mal secures the Dread Lands and we move there.”
Ambrose shrugged. “Whatever you want, darling. I just wanted to show it to you.”
Maeve smiled. “It’s a lovely thought. Thank you. But I don’t need it.”
Ambrose took her arm as they ventured out onto the chilly street. Ambrose quickly cast an invisible shield charm around them, keeping out the harsh weather and keeping them warm.
Sinclair Estates was lavishly decorated for Christmas. As soon as Maeve stepped through the door with her father, the strong scent of pine filled her nose.
“It’s giant,” said Maeve, referring to the oversized tree in the foyer. It was decorated with blush and red-colored ornaments and silver garlands. “Much bigger than any I can remember.”
“Yes,” said Ambrose. “Your mother insisted this year. Something about the Mavrosi having one last year,” said Ambrose with a wink.
Maeve smiled, taking off her coat.
Trudy, their head Servant Elf, appeared and took Maeve’s things from Ambrose.
The holiday season at Sinclair Estates included very little quiet time around a fire opening gifts and much more chaos. Her Grandmother Agatha had already chastised Maeve and Arianna for not helping her pick out new holiday drapes for the dueling hall.
“Last year, the Mavrosi had gorgeous drapes,” huffed Granfmother Agatha. “It would be a disgrace to the Sinclair name to have the same drapes in the dueling hall that we did in October.”
Agatha turned from Maeve and Arianna and began discussing tablecloths with Trudy.
“I hate when we host this party,” muttered Arianna.
Maeve, who was often at odds with her older sister, couldn’t agree more. She managed to slip out of the hall while Agatha was preoccupied.
“No.” Maeve turned the page of her book without looking at him.
Mal spoke plainly. “I didn’t ask.”
Maeve tossed her book to the side and stood. “So I have no say?”
“I didn’t say you had to go. You are welcome to stay at home this evening. But I am going.”
Maeve’s mouth fell open. Mal crossed the room towards her.
“Why don’t you want to go? You love parties.”
“I don’t love them anymore. Besides, only my mother and Arianna are going. Father won’t even be there. Why should we go?”
“Because they are wealthy and influential. I need their support.”
“So it’s only political?”
Mal’s brows pulled together. “What else would it be, Maeve?”
She swallowed. “I don’t know.”
He reproached her with his eyes and spoke lowly. “Speak your mind, please.”
Maeve shook her head. It was too silly to say out loud. She would swallow her feelings about Ophelia and the St. Beverauxs and attend their Christmas party. “Never mind. I’ll go. But I won’t enjoy myself.”
The corners of Mal’s lips tugged up ever so slightly. “Have I come to bore you already?”
Maeve stopped. “That’s not what I meant.”
Mal stepped around her and on the sofa appeared a large flat black dress box with a cream velvet bow sprawling across its top.
“For tonight,” he said.
The gown was fully beaded, deep crimson red to the floor with matching satin gloves to her elbows and a long, flowing bow for her hair, which she used to fasten her hair neatly pulled back.
Despite the attires beauty, Maeve gripped the edge of Mal’s dressing table.
Once again, her throat was tight. Her chest ached and her mind spun fuzzy. Deep in her stomach, something strange moved, creating a quick wave of nausea.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered to herself, but Mal didn’t miss it.
“Something’s been wrong,” he said, plainly.
Maeve raised her eyebrows questioningly.
“You’ve been fatigued for weeks now. Months before that, you’ve been ill. You’re dizzy and you can’t breathe.”
She sighed. “Maybe the dress is too tight,” said Maeve. “I just think I need to lie down for a moment.”
She made her way over to the sofa and threw herself on it. Mal stood over her.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sick,” he said.
“I’m not sick!” Snapped Maeve. “Magicals don’t get sick.”
He gave her an annoyed look. She laid her head back.
“I’m sorry. I just mean. . .”
“You don’t even know what you mean, Maeve,” said Mal. “And your refusal to see Mrs. Mavros again irritates me endlessly.”
“I have seen her. Many times,” she muttered.
Her arm draped across her eyes.
“I don’t think you should go tonight.”
Maeve shot up off the sofa. There was no way she was letting him run off to Ophelia all by himself.
“I’m fine. I just need to finish getting ready.”
She pushed up off the sofa as a larger wave of pain hit her across her sternum. Mal steadied her as she became weak.
He placed her back on the sofa. Mal took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look up at him. He examined her for a moment, as if searching for what plagued her, before dropping his hand.
“You’re not going.”
Maeve pouted.
Shortly after he departed, without hesitation, which annoyed her greatly, she fell asleep on his sofa.
Something dark deepened in her stomach, forcing a moan to escape her throat.
Her eyes were still closed as panic swarmed through her body. Her cheeks flushed hot, but her body was ice cold. Long slithering trails of frozen magic pushed through her. The pain in her stomach was worse than when the Grindylow crushed her ribs.
With a ragged and sharp breath, she pulled herself upright, gripping the carved wooden arm of the sofa. The sensation moved quickly to her legs.
Maeve let out an agonizing scream.
She conjured every bit of strength she had and tried to combat the rough magic flowing through her. But she was weakened. And it was strong.
She needed help.
Her legs gave way beneath her as she attempted to stand. She fell into Mal’s dressing table and saw her own reflection.
Snaking up from the beaded neckline of her gown were thick black lines-her own veins-but they were dark as a starless night’s sky.
And they were moving.
Something in them was moving.
Her panicked and shaking hands fought with the back laces of the dress, loosening its grip on her. But the ice running through her veins constricted still. She pulled the dress up and to the side, exposing her legs and stomach.
Thick black veins ran all across her skin. As they traveled up towards her collar bone, they also dipped down, wrapping her legs.
“Fuck,” gasped Maeve as terror set in.
. . .Somewhere in a marbled ballroom miles away The Prince of Darkness looked slightly over his shoulder, as though someone had called his name.
“Mal?”
He looked down at Ophelia as they danced. Her voice was muffled.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up. His hands slipped from her body, falling to his sides. . .
Maeve’s knees buckled beneath her, slamming her to the floor. A charmed tree ornament from Abraxas was chiming across the room. It was nearly midnight. Nearly Christmas Day.
She cast out her magic once more. But the blackness swarming through her surged and depleted her own instantly. Mal’s flat was freezing, her own skin was iced to the touch.
“What the fuck,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she shivered.
She needed Mal. But he was in Paris, sucking up to Ophelia and her family.
Her father’s face flashed before her- dark magic was his specialty. He was the Premier.
The sensation was spreading quickly into her chest. Breathing was next to impossible as Maeve’s lungs felt like they were collapsing under an enormous weight. Each breath strained and tight.
She pulled herself to the brick fireplace on all fours, straining and gasping.
“Father’s office, Sinclair Estates.”
The flames turned green and engulfed her. A moment later, her knees hit the old mahogany floors in her father’s office. Ambrose flew around his desk towards her.
His face instantly drained of its color.
A wave of pain hit her, and she doubled over, unable to make a sound, gripping at her stomach and her chest.
“Maeve?” Ambrose kneeled in front of her, pushing her hair back and cupping her face. “Maeve- tell me what’s happening!”
Looking at her father was not comforting; she had never seen his face terrified.
“Tell me, Maeve, I don’t know what to do,” said Ambrose, his voice struggling to hide his fear.
His magic wrapped around her as he tried everything he knew to pull the darkness swimming through her out. Magic isn’t always perfect. If Ambrose cast the wrong spell or something too strong, she could be more weakened or more wounded in the process.
But it didn’t matter. The darkness inside her wasn’t affected.
She looked down at her trembling hands. They looked as though someone had traced all her veins in black ink. The room was becoming hazy, but her eyes found her father’s. It only took a moment for her to realize he was helpless.
The room went silent until all Maeve could hear was her own heartbeat, thumping loudly, growing slower. She couldn’t even hear her father’s agonized pleas.
It was barely a whisper, hoarse and broken, but from her lips escaped a final desperate attempt, and she called to him.
“Mal.”
The veins across her chest ran black, spreading rapidly now through her neck. Maeve gripped her throat as tears began to stream down her cheeks as she was being suffocated.
Ambrose was gripping her face, desperately screaming her name. As the whites of her eyes, too, flooded with black pigment, green flames lit the room.
Mal appeared from the fire, his eyes wild.
Ambrose stumbled backward as Mal swooped Maeve under one arm and placed his palm flat on her chest.
With a guttural noise and an ancient tongue of magic, a green jet of light shot from the tips of Mal’s fingers and hit Maeve square in the chest.
The walls of the study shook. Pictures and artifacts fell from high shelves and shattered on the floor.
Mal’s counter curse took full effect as he continued to speak in a foreign tongue. His fingers traced up towards her throat, slowing, meticulously with each word, his voice grew deadlier. Darker.
So did the room.
Maeve’s scream was bloodcurdling as Mal drew a long, black, ghostly substance from her mouth. It broke away from the tip of his finger and hovered above them ominously.
Big Ben struck Midnight outside Ambrose’s enchanted office window. Maeve was losing conciseness now. Mal’s grip around her tightened as she slipped limply.
His finger remained pointed at the dark swarm of Magic, which looked as though it was cowering from him.
“A container, Ambrose,” said Mal darkly. “Something laced with wolfsbane.”
A glass jar flew to Ambrose’s hand with a flick of wrist. Mal’s eyes narrowed and forced the ghostly bit of dark Magic down towards Ambrose’s outstretched arm.
“Keep the lid on tight, Ambrose, and I’ll seal it myself in a moment,” commanded Mal.
He returned his gaze to Maeve now, who was barely conscious. In a few strides, he laid her on the large leather tufted sofa.
“Rest, Maeve. Sleep now,” hummed Mal as he brushed her hair to the side. “You are in no danger anymore. I came when you called.”