Chapter 6
Alphard was not present for Christmas. He was called to the front lines in the Elven Lands with the remaining Bellator. Abraxas was certain the realm would fall soon.
“It’ll be swift,” said Abraxas. “He’ll be home before spring.”
Spring. Maeve hadn’t seen a spring in years.
Winter was all that remained in the Dread Lands.
Astrea sat at the piano in the corner, playing a soft melody that Grandmother Agatha hummed as she leaned back in her chair with her eyes closed.
She occasionally sat up to speak to the children, but then returned to enjoying the soft tune.
Astrea’s youngest, nearly a year old, lay cradled in Maeve’s arm.
“Where’s he been?” Maeve asked, still uneasy about the Prince’s visit weeks ago. “Why isn’t he fighting? And where did they even get Magic that could possibly stand against ours? And how does he rule if he’s gone for so long all at once?”
“That’s why he has me,” said Abraxas with a smirk and a flick of the pin gleaming proudly on his chest, signifying his place as Hand of the Prince.
Maeve sighed. “That’s only one answer.”
“Something wrong, cousin?” he asked wickedly. “Your little adventure with Mal not go as planned?”
Maeve didn’t need to answer. By the smug look on his face, she was certain he knew Mal’s only visit to her had been swift, uneventful, and hadn’t been repeated.
Abraxas laughed. “Don’t be sour, Maeve. Alphard fighting for those he loves, for his Prince, is good for him.
Just as it is all the Bellator. If Mal could waltz in and take the realm, which.
. .with this Magic would be tricky. . .I still don’t think he would.
Having an army proud to stand by your banner means something to him.
It’s not like Vaukore, the realm and the school were naturally his as our ruler.
As for the Magic, we have no idea. The Magical signature differs from Dread Magic.
And lastly, as for Mal, his absence has been in solitude, growing his strength and studying the Magic he needs to conquer in the Elven Lands.
He doesn’t want to rule a pile of rubble.
He wants a realm intact and worth ruling. ”
Maeve, though she was satisfied and grateful for his honesty, pretended not to care, waved him off. “Whatever you say.”
Lyrux appeared at Abraxas’ feet with a wrapped present in his hands.
“We’ll open presents later, love,” said Brax. “Go put it back under the tree.”
His son pouted and huffed, but returned to the Christmas tree where Arianna’s twins, Anselm and Aislin, and Astrea’s oldest, played. Maxius was the oldest of them all, but by far the most innocent in nature.
“Juliet bought him even more presents than last year,” said Abraxas. “Ridiculous.”
“Don’t act as though you weren’t counting your presents at his age as well,” replied Maeve. “Primrose used to say at age three, you only said ‘mine’ in regards to anything and everything.”
“Yes, well, she was an old bat, wasn’t she?” he replied with a smile.
Astrea’s fingers halted their tune. She looked over her shoulder towards the foyer.
Alphard stepped through the archway, and Maxius’ eyes lit up. He rushed towards him at once, leaving his cousins behind. Alphard scooped him up with one arm.
“Look at you,” remarked Alphard, his smile wide at the sweater Maxius wore. It had been his as a child, handed down to Maxius by Alphard’s mother, Irma.
But Maeve’s attention couldn’t linger on Alphard for long, for her husband was not alone. Her heart hammered against her chest as Mal lowered the hood of his cloak behind Alphard. The Prince observed Alphard and Maxius, his face calm and collected as always.
“Mal,” said Abraxas cheerfully, his head dipping into a bow. “What a surprise.”
Mal reached out his gloved hand to touch Maxius’ small face and stopped short. The gesture was so tender that Maeve’s insides fluttered.
“I figured no child should be without their father on Christmas,” he said as Maxius smiled up at Alphard.
Maxius tugged on Alphard and signed for him to come and see the desert he helped make.
Arianna rounded the corner. “Dinner is ready,” she said as Alphard passed her with Maxius in his arms. Her eyes landed on Mal. With a startled sound, she dipped into an awkward bow.
Mal didn’t seem to care.
Agatha corralled the children out of the living room, but not before passing my Mal and giving him a soft smile.
“Handsome as ever,” she noted.
Mal smiled at her, genuinely smiled. “Thank you, Agatha.”
It was no secret that Maeve’s grandmother, Ambrose’s mother, had been quite encouraging of Mal’s place on the throne long before all their lives began in the Dread Lands, both with her words and her gold.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” asked Abraxas casually. “Zim and Juliet probably prepared enough to feed an army.”
“No,” Mal answered swiftly, with little emotion in his voice. “I’d like to speak to Maeve and then I’ll take my leave.”
Abraxas rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said with a sigh.
“But if you’re after my place, cousin,” he added, turning towards Maeve, “I’ll remind you that though I never need it, I use a single finger now too.
” He pressed a kiss to her cheek, smoothly slid the sleeping baby from her arms, and left them alone.
Maeve shook her head, stretching her arm where Astrea’s youngest had been asleep for quite some time.
“A Supreme who doesn’t fight,” remarked Mal once they were alone.
The silence between her and the Dread Prince grew heavy and thick.
Voices from the dining room carried across the house.
Mal looked to the glass-paned doors that led into the atrium.
His eyes cut back to hers, and she followed the silent command.
With a gentle wave of her hand, the doors spread open for them.
Mal observed the various plants and shrubs growing in the unusually warm space.
“Between Zimsy and Agatha, there’s hardly enough room for everything they grow,” said Maeve.
“Magic keeps them alive?”
Maeve shook her head. “Agatha enchanted the room to maintain the proper temperature, but they take care of the plants themselves.” Maeve ran her fingers over a large, green leaf. “But I’m certain you aren’t here to discuss gardening.”
When she looked over at him, his gloves were gone. He stepped farther into the atrium until he stood before a large hydrangea bush her grandmother had brought from Earth. His long fingers brushed against one of the blooms. His voice was smooth as silk as he spoke, not looking at her.
“Was there anything you discovered after my last visit?”
Maeve swallowed. “I’m sorry. No.”
“No?” he asked, a brow raising as his eyes landed on her. He turned towards her fully. “This will be so much easier if you are honest with me.”
Maeve chewed the inside of her lip, suddenly nervous under his impatient eyes.
“It seems like you already know the answer you seek,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
Mal crossed towards her, each step relaxed and unhurried. Maeve held her head high.
“I seek your cooperation, not your deception.”
She held perfectly still as his fingers moved towards her chest. They curled around the fabric of her shirt gently, pulling it aside with reverence, revealing the white starburst scar that sat over her heart.
His eyes fixed on her skin. “What is this from—” he began, his cold fingers brushing over the scar.
His question halted, his voice catching in his throat as she winced.
Her vision flashed white. The image that appeared in her mind flooded her blood with an overwhelming sense of panic.
She sat on dark, silken sheets, completely naked, looking up at Mal with flushed cheeks and worship in her eyes.
He kneeled before her with a single finger pressed against her chest. His toned and exposed stomach glimmered in the darkness.
The vision melted away as quickly as it had formed. Mal stood before her in the atrium once more. She slapped a hand over her mouth as her eyes widened. She looked up at him at once, and it was clear Mal had seen the same scene she had.
“That’s not real,” whispered Maeve beneath her hand, twisting away from him. “That was my uncle’s flat in London—” she rambled.
“The Hapswitch House.”
Maeve turned back towards him and shook her head. “Why would you know anything of that place?”
“Welcome to my mind, Maeve,” he said cooly.
Maeve’s breaths were quick. The thick, humid air stung with each jagged inhale. She’d never been more desperate to down one of Astrea’s potions, to soften the thoughts all talking over one another in her mind.
“Do you not feel it?”
Maeve looked over at him. His gaze was distant.
He continued in her silence. “Do you not feel the extraordinary signature your Magic holds?
“Could that be the future? What we saw?”
“No,” he answered plainly. “There’s no scar over my eye in what we both just witnessed.”
“Then perhaps it’s not real at all,” said Maeve.
Mal looked over at her. “That’s quite a jump just to rationalize the thoughts you are having. Tell me honestly that didn’t feel real to you. And remember when you answer, that I am your sworn Prince.”
“I don’t have the luxury of believing what I see in my mind.”
“And who convinced you of that?” he challenged.
“I did,” she replied, more bite in her tone than she intended.
“So what made-up story did you concoct to explain that scar across your chest?” he asked, his cool demeanor cracking slightly.
“An accident. I was told there was an explosion from an experimental potion in Alchemy when I was at Vaukore, and—”
“You were told? You don’t remember?”
Maeve’s mouth opened and then closed.
“And those?” he continued, gesturing to her inky dark veins.
“I don’t remember,” she admitted quietly, realizing that the corners of her eyes were filling with tears.
Mal nodded, not in agreement with her, but as though she had proven him right.
“I thought,” he began, “if I could understand why you were suddenly appearing in my mind, a girl I’d barely brushed shoulders with in school, then maybe I’d understand what it will take to seal my rule over the Elven Lands.
But each time I converse with you, the one who understands memories better than any Magical alive, the less I understand anything. What a paradox you are.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t of better service to you,” she said, keeping her voice flat.
Mal shook his head. “You speak in past tense. We are only just beginning.”