Page 23 of Demon Heart: The Complete Series

I chewed over Xavier’s story.

The stakes were higher than I’d anticipated, and Xavier was an arachnid demon. An actual bloody spider of many colors.

It wasn’t more tea I needed, but a long holiday to contemplate my life and choices.

Done with his movie, Darcy watched the news from his cage. The riot remained a talking point, along with footage of the birthday memorial and old royal family videos of King Lawrence in happier times with his wife and two children.

I worked on an actually challenging crossword, drinking tea, trepidation building as time crawled toward tonight’s potential shit storm.

What was I going to do if there was a video and it got out? Piper couldn’t fix things, and the queen would have me killed. No question. A quiet death, my life rubbed out of existence for my betrayal. Because that’s exactly what I’d become—a traitor.

Dirty, demon-helping traitor. For Her Majesty, there would be zero nuance. Demons were demons, witches were witches. Shadows were Shadows.

I tried not to think of the worst, my nerves at breaking point already.

Everything will be okay.

Grandma told me that from her hospital bed often, even before she fell into her dying hours, when she could speak, when she held onto that twinkle in her eyes.

“Listen to me, darling,” she’d said, lightly squeezing my hand. “Everything will be okay. You’ll be okay because you’re my grandson. You’re from good stock.”

She’d winked, smiling behind her oxygen mask.

At that point, I’d still believed she would recover.

Things would change, sure. I’d started the process of having her moved into sheltered accommodation here in London.

Living in my flat with those entry stairs wouldn’t do her any good.

There was a nice place about two miles away with a large communal garden, and plenty for her to do with the other residents.

She’d probably need a wheelchair, and certainly a lot more help.

Being a stubbornly proud woman, it would’ve taken some getting used to.

But she would’ve adjusted. She always did.

She was one of the strongest women I’d ever known.

We’d keep up our regular shopping trips, our coffee mornings, our regular chats about everything. Nothing had to change to the point where she couldn’t enjoy her life.

But everything hadn’t turned out okay. She’d left me. She’d gone and left me when she shouldn’t have. And I stayed mad about it, furious at the helplessness that’d overwhelmed me on that terrible day.

A tsunami of grief hit me, ripping me out of my silent state. I got up, hurrying out of the living room, practically crashing onto my bed as a second wave struck.

Sorrow leaked from my eyes, a series of sobs swallowed into the duvet, my face pressed against it to muffle the sound.

I wanted her back. I wanted to rewind time and try again, find someone to help me save her.

What good was it living in a world full of magic when it failed to stop death?

Why hadn’t us witches harnessed Synth to make the world a better, death-free place?

Why hadn’t we found cures for terminal illnesses and all the shit that stole love from our lives?

I languished in my grief, letting the waves take me, understanding the pointlessness of fighting against it. Allowed myself to return to those final moments of her life, to feel every stab of pain in my heart, remember every single tear.

I miss you so much…

Part of me had died with her.

As it always did, the tidal surge released me. I rolled onto my back with labored breaths, shaking and sweating. My eyes were raw, my body temporarily exhausted. I’d shake it off, I’d be back on my feet soon, functioning properly again.

Man, I was coming apart piece by piece.

No. This would pass. This grief must have a better side to it.

Seriously?

A knock on the door got me sitting up.

“Xavier?” I said to my bedroom.

Rubbing at my eyes, willing them not to be red when they clearly were, I hurried to the door, checking the peephole.

My stomach dropped.

It wasn’t Xavier.

It was Queen Margarite.