The War of Love and Ruin (The Blood Witch Chronicles #3)

Prologue

The warmth of the day cuts through the stone cottage, heating her brow as sweat beads from her upper lip. Wiping her forehead, she drops a few more herbs—lavender, hibiscus, moonvale lily and a few extra ingredients into the large pot—before holding the tarnished stem of a Noire Rose.

It’s not a typical rose that grows in the sun. This one grows in thorny patches of darkness, it’s black leaves and stem drawing from the shadows. It’s also not readily available in this provenance. Luckily for her, she had one before she left her home.

The potion bubbles and she gently dips the edges in. The blood red color of the liquid highlights the tips before slowly absorbing into the veins. The lines turn crimson, a frightening look, something only found in the Underworld.

Softly, she smiles as joy explodes from her chest.

“He’ll love me today.”

“What is that Gods-awful stench?” her brother asks, dipping into the small opening. The cottage, built for those not as tall or wide as their kind, is low for him, but he never complains.

How could he? It’s more than they could ask for after everything that happened.

She turns, black hair fanning along her shoulders, shielding the rose behind her back. She shrugs. “I don’t smell anything.”

Baris straightens, the top of his similarly dark head dusting the thatch roof. “Do not lie to me, little one. It’s magic—strong magic. I can smell it.” His nose twitches as if to sneeze. “What are you up to?”

Swallowing, she steps away from the hearth, the pot now empty. “Nothing.”

Quick as lightning, he grabs her elbow, wrenching the rose from her grasp. Blast! She always forgets how fast her brother is. It’s a stupid trait that she does not possess.

“Then, what’s this?”

She sighs and folds her arms, her wings giving a faint flutter. Bright flashes of orange, yellow, and white cut through the dullness of the cottage.

He looks at them with disdain. She’s not sure why. He has wings too—large, Gothically black wings, translucent and rich, that remind her of their home—of their parents. But he hides them, and ignores their existence.

Effy is not like him. She will not hide something that only she and her brother have in this world.

“If you must know,” she begins sullenly, “it is a simple attraction spell.”

He sniffs it and winces. “It’s more than a simple attraction spell. This is dark magic. This is changing someone’s will.”

Effy rolls her eyes. “You are much too careful, Baris.” She waves him away, reaching for the rose. “I’m merely giving him the direction he needs.”

He holds it above his head, the petal rustling the reeds. She pouts. “I assume this is for the prince?”

“And if it is?”

He shakes his head sadly. “Little one, magic is a dangerous road. It corrupts, and it changes you. If you use this on a prince, a man destined to rule, you are changing Fate.”

“And what of my fate?” she asks, voice cracking.

“Was it Fate that allowed our parents to be taken? Was it Fate to take your throne? Was it Fate that forced us here, in this wretched sunlight-filled land of strange foods and people, forced to live like peasants?” she spits, eyes flickering with flames.

“Fate has been cruel. It has taken more than it has given us. I am merely taking what I want—for the first time in my life.”

Baris’ shoulders sag. Tall, strong, like the mountains of their homeland, he is a force of nature in their tiny hobble and yet, he crumbles so easily.

“The Gods do not want us to meddle.” He tilts his head, hearing the whispers of a God that will not talk to anyone but him. An honor, they say, but her brother was never destined to be a simple mouthpiece for the world.

He was meant to lead; he was meant to be a mighty king. Not some traveling nomad, giving last rites to only those who are deemed worthy. Effy scoffs. A waste.

“Is it your God that tells you that?” She rolls her eyes. “I do not listen to the words of a God that condemned us here.”

Baris narrows his eyes. “Seti did no such thing—”

“He never saved Mama and Papa,” she snarls. “He never stopped the plague. He took everything from us. Ask your God why we are to suffer, whereas others do not?”

Her brother stills, jaw moving as if he is trying to put his thoughts into words. She takes the moment and steals back the rose.

“This is my chance at a better life,” she whispers. “This is my chance of True Love.”

“This is your downfall,” he says quietly. “This will be your doom.”

Smiling, Effy wipes one lone tear away. “Maybe. But it will be my choice.”

Carefully, she grabs her satchel, slipping the rose into the frayed edges. A bag that has been hers since she was a princess in a distant land, it’s now torn and repaired. A bag for a commoner, like her.

She doesn’t say anything more to her brother. He doesn’t understand. He has taken to this life better than a crowned prince should. He was a warrior, a steadfast royal who would have ruled their kingdom with kindness and fairness.

Now, he hunches over a hearth to make a simple stew of rabbit meat and carrots, and spends his days meditating, so as to listen better to the God in his ear. His hands are stained with dirt, nails cracked, wearing clothes unfit for his stature.

He doesn’t understand how this affects her. How she longs for a home that is no longer there. How she wants normalcy—how she wants to soar over the land, and be in the sky on her wings, but can’t. Because her will to do so is gone.

Flying used to be her freedom. It is nothing but a horrible memory of better times and she refuses to think of it.

Getting through the lush forest, she stumbles over blacken roots and gnarled branches. The green gives way to red desert sand that glistens like rubies and there, she sees on the edge, a large, black rock. It’s jagged and pointed, but it doesn’t bother the person on top. The prince.

Her heart pounds in her chest like a herd of Coal Stallions, and she exhales to calm her nerves.

He’s a handsome prince—long black locks, bright amber eyes like the balls of fire his people revere, with pale skin Sola would love to mark.

He’s tall, solid, with a square jaw and pouty lips, that make such a handsome smile.

He was the first to show her kindness when they arrived in this in-between world, camping in the abandoned cottage on the outskirts. Not claimed by any kingdom, it’s been left to her world, and it’s where they’ve found solace from so much ruin.

She had fallen, not used to walking, and cut her knee.

When he found her, scouting the area as he does on his days, he bandaged and carried her to that rock.

He shared his poetry with her, to soothe her frustrations and she fell for his voice.

He was a poet of words, speaking so beautifully, she became entranced.

She showed him her wings—things she loved dearly—and he touched them.

An intimacy only done between partners, his fingers had caressed and tickled her. She never told Baris that.

Kyrin lifts his head and she smiles wide, chest heaving. Then, another beauty walks around his back, clasping hands around his shoulders.

Beatrice. Her heart bruises slightly.

She is a female Fae with fire magic like some of this land possess. She’s tall, lean, with rich dark brown locks and big wide black eyes. A noble’s daughter, Effy has seen her before, enjoying the shadowed trees and the parrot tulips that bloom in the coarse sand.

Most people would ignore her—her beauty is too plain. Too simple. Nothing like her wings, or her eyes. But not Kyrin.

He grins at her and Effy jerks in confusion. The prince who stole her heart smiles brightly, his dimple appearing, and those burning embers ignite. Yet, it’s not she who gets to experience it.

Magic stirs the air and he pulls Beatrice to his lap, both giggling like school children.

Effy’s heart falls, completely broken.

A soul-bond. He’s been gone for a few days, but never mentioned why. She assumed royal business like her brother would often do. Yet, she feels it—in the air, the pull, the way their scents mingle. It’s a dagger to her fragile heart.

They’ve bonded. They’re two halves of one whole, sharing one soul for all eternity.

Carefully, she takes out the rose, a tear dripping off her chin, defeat and loneliness submerging her into a black pit of despair. A simple love spell has no chance against the force of a soul-bond. They are created by Dey, a way for beings to find True Love.

Her magic is useless against Gods’ Will. Dropping the rose to the ground, she crushes the petals under her heel, hiding into the shadows.

She should leave, but she doesn’t. She watches them.

They kiss and touch. Soon, their clothes are gone and Beatrice is where Effy always wanted to be.

She forces herself to watch as Kyrin worships Beatrice, until they’re shaking and shouting, and the color fades from their cheeks.

Effy stays rooted until they fall into a deep slumber, still wrapped in each other’s embrace.

She lets the heat of their love burn hers away, until it’s nothing but a soot-covered hole in her chest.

As numbness tries to take her away, sudden ire clouds her mind. Kyrin might have chosen Beatrice—but he chose wrong.

She bypasses the front, sneaking to the back oak tree and uses the sharp stone to dig a hole.

Under the brush, dirt, and leaves, hides her most precious possession—a spell book.

Her spell book. It cost too much coin to comfortably ask Baris for—he’s a simple fieldhand—so, she used what females were given in this world.

This world is so vile to put a price on such things, like what is between her legs, but she doesn’t care. It’s only a means to an end.

The leather is new, black, with an etched rose along the front, done by expert hands. She spelled it so only she can touch it—or Baris, as it is blood magic. Something forbidden in her world. But forbidden never stopped her before.

Flipping through the pages, she takes out her ink and quill from the hole and begins. Everything ugly and torn, everything painful, flows through her hand. Her quill marks the paper in harsh strokes, spilling those awful emotions.

Only when the stars are high does she pull back, eyes glassy.

The curse lays there, bare and stark, simple yet powerful.

One that will transform Kyrin into everything she feels.

A curse that will take Beatrice’s beloved from her.

A curse that will finally make others feel how she feels—lost, gone, buried, trapped.

It will be near unbreakable, too. For his foolishness to choose another, she will force him to choose her. For that is the only way the curse will end.

And if he doesn’t? Then, neither Beatrice nor Kyrin, will be happy. Seems like a fair trade.

She adds a drop of her blood to the page and seals it with a kiss.

Tomorrow, she’ll begin.