Page 24 of Divine Fate (Cursed Legacies #4)

23

MAVEN

My what now?

The other suited man leans as if he’s about to haul me to my feet since this straitjacket inhibits me. He smells like women’s perfume.

But the second he gets close, Baelfire snarls and makes that odd noise deep in his throat before blue flames ignite the legacy’s suit coat. The legacy shouts and flings off his coat, stomping it out and stumbling away from us.

“Try to touch her one more time, I fucking dare you,” Bael warns, breathing out smoke as he speaks.

Gone is the charm he was just lavishing me with—now he looks ready to commit all kinds of murder.

Damn. Is it always this sexy when men literally breathe smoke? Thinking of how Crypt looks when he’s smoking reverium, I decide the answer must be yes.

Then again, it’s always sexy when they’re murderous on my account.

The other suited man doesn’t bother approaching. He just nods at the desk. “Fine. Join us, Miss Oakley.”

When he starts to break into a sweat from the immovable death stare I’ve perfected, the woman tsks and walks to the bed, reaching for the bottom strap of Everett’s straitjacket.

No—her hands are going for Everett’s pants.

“Maybe this will make her compliant,” she coos, smirking over at me. “I bet the telum won’t tolerate someone else playing with her prettiest toy.”

Everett tenses on the bed, struggling uselessly as he realizes how close she’s gotten to him.

Visceral rage floods me as my vision almost goes dark. I’m off the ground in a split second, crossing the room with all the inhuman speed I still possess until the top of my head slams into her throat. The bitch collapses immediately, flailing in panic when she can’t draw in a full breath.

I glare down at her. “Get close to any of them again, and I will split your skull open, scoop out what little brain matter exists in there, and shove it in your mouth so you can taste how stupid you are for trying to fuck with me.”

One of the suits shouts in alarm. He rushes over to help the idiot to her feet as she wheezes. I don’t miss how handsy he is with her, but he's not the same guy who smelled like the perfume I just noticed on her.

They don’t seem like quintet members, and these men seem extremely uninterested in each other, so they're probably not a throuple. An open relationship, maybe? Kenzie told me about those before. They happen sometimes with unbound legacies, and now and then among humans.

“Gods above, how I’ve missed your beautiful threats, darling,” Crypt sighs from his bronze confinement.

The man guides the photographer away from me quickly. When he looks over his shoulder, I’m satisfied to see the fear I should evoke in these assholes written all over his blanched face.

“J—just sit down, now,” he insists, pretending to still be in control. “We need to complete this interview, and then you can meet with the council executives before the official trial.”

Trial? He’s joking.

They’re pretending the legacies who live here are civil and follow political procedures, but I know how the world of legacies works. They cull off the weak. They destroy their competition. They kill.

This so-called trial is nothing more than entertainment for the top-tier, spoiled legacies living in this secret “safe haven.”

“If you don’t do this interview with us, we’ll kill the redhead,” the other suit finally says, folding his arms.

Douglas?

Damn it. If they’re not bluffing about him still being alive…

I arch a brow. “Show me proof of life first.”

One of the suits pulls out a device I don't recognize. It’s not a phone, and it plays static whenever he’s not talking into it. Someone replies affirmatively before a big fae man throws open the door, dragging a brutally beaten Douglas into the room.

He’s tossed aside, half-unconscious and bleeding, but he’s still breathing. As much as I still don’t fully trust him with my quintet, especially Crypt, there’s something annoyingly likable about this unpolished mercenary. Letting him get killed by these idiots over a superfluous, fake interview would be a waste, especially since we'll need him to transport us back to Everbound.

Glaring at the suits, I finally move to sit across from them. The woman still looks shell-shocked, and her throat is already bruising nicely, but she sniffles and takes another picture of me sitting across from them before she moves to sit in the free chair beside me, scooting away slightly.

I blink away the spots left behind from the bright flash, ignoring when heat suffuses my chest again.

The suit on the left pulls documents and a little black box out of the desk. Clearing his throat, he pushes a button and the little device begins to blink with a light that is as sapped of color as everything else in this place.

“This is a recorder, Miss Oakley. You see, we would like to keep a perfect record of this pre-trial interview for future forensic psychiatrists to study, since you're quite the specimen. The information we’re about to gather from you, the defendant, will help the court decide your fate.”

“What a motherfucking joke,” Bael mutters from the floor behind us.

The legacy shoots him a dirty look before continuing professionally as he regards me. “My name is Nathan Thatcher, and this is my associate, Mr. Grant. Miss Bailey will be taking a few pictures to be published in our fantastic safe haven, which is, of course, buzzing with the news of your return.”

As if on cue, the bitch snaps another shot of me. When I look at her, she scoots her chair further away, rubbing her throat.

“Please state your name for our record,” Grant says.

When I roll my eyes, the big brute kicks Douglas hard in the stomach. Douglas wheezes in pain, curling in on himself.

Godsdamn it.

They want answers from me? Fine.

“Maven Oakley,” I lie, letting my poker face slip on.

“Miss Oakley, where were you for the last six months?”

“Paradise.”

Nathan Thatcher glances a bit too long at the photographer before giving me a chiding look. “Respectfully, I ask that you don’t blaspheme during this interview and take it seriously.”

“Respectfully, I ask that you eyeball Miss Bailey’s cleavage later. You're getting drool on my straitjacket.”

Crypt snorts in amusement, but otherwise, my matches listen quietly to this circus.

Thatcher’s face reddens, and the woman shuffles uncomfortably. Her body language screams guilty. Mr. Grant glances between them and makes a face before adjusting the documents in front of him.

“Miss Oakley, is it true that you were raised in what was previously known as the Nether?” Grant asks.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it true that you were also brought up by the Entity with the intention of your becoming the prophesied telum?”

“Obviously.”

Thatcher takes over again, studying me. “And isn’t it true that you assassinated every member of the Immortal Quintet to aid the Entity?”

“Sure, why not?”

It’s not like my answers matter here, anyway.

My flippant reply ruffles Thatcher’s feathers. “Is there something you disagree with in that statement, Miss Oakley? Please explain.”

“You want me to pretend this is a real trial? All right. I was raised as Amadeus’s scourge. I killed Somnus DeLune, Iker Del Mar, and Natalya Genovese. Go ahead and charge me with performing necromantic rituals, helping the Reformists, destroying the Divide, starting the Upheaval—you name it, I did it.” I lean forward, fixing them with an earnest stare. “But never to aid Amadeus. Everything I did, I did to free the Nether humans.”

They exchange glances. The idiot with the camera takes a picture of my profile.

Grant clears his throat. “So to be clear, you’re pleading…?”

“Guilty as the hell I was raised in.” I lean back, trying to adjust my arms in this unforgiving straitjacket. “Unless you want me contracting gangrene before the trial from blood loss to my arms, you should really loosen this.”

“Without touching her,” Everett adds in warning.

Nathan Thatcher folds his arms. “Not so fast, Miss Oakley. One last question before we take you to meet the new chief executives of the Legacy Council. Isn’t it also true that you are one of the infernal beings known to this world as a demon?”

It’s such an unexpected question that I blink. “What?”

“We know the truth. You can’t fool us. You respawned after your death—the fact that you’re sitting here in front of us is pure evidence of that!” Grant says as if this is an aha, gotcha moment. “Admit it. You are a demon, Maven Oakley.”

Everett, Crypt, and Baelfire burst into laughter.

I start cracking up, too, but clear my throat to compose myself, shoving down the urge. Even though my guys haven’t stopped laughing, I’m still not comfortable displaying strong emotions in front of strangers, let alone ones this clueless.

“Demon? With what horns?” I point out, smothering my laughter.

“Not all demons have horns,” Thatcher replies confidently and completely incorrectly.

“Gods, you’re both trying so hard and getting it so backwards,” I sigh. “If you’re this off the mark in your jobs, I pity anyone you lure into bed. Or whoever lures you both into theirs,” I add, tossing a knowing look at Miss Bailey. “Between these two ass-scratching baboons, you must be accustomed to finishing the job yourself.”

Her face goes red. Mr. Grant’s head whips to look at her before he glowers at Nathan Thatcher, who pretends to be so busy scribbling on documents that he didn’t hear me.

Baelfire whistles. “My mate is so damn observant.”

Crypt hums in agreement even as his markings light up again. “Deliciously keen.”

“Literally divine, ” Everett hints pointedly, still chuckling.

“Enough of this,” Mr. Grant scowls, standing to look down his nose at me. “We got the answers to everything we had doubts about. Your denial of your true nature will hold no water with the court. Rest assured that their final decision will be carefully weighed and just.”

“Just a crock of shit,” Crypt corrects.

“Prepare yourself to face the executives, telum ,” the incensed legacy snaps. “Anton, give the Frost heir another dose for good measure.”

The big fae guard by Douglas makes a face. “It's supposed to be a daily debilitant. I gave him some less than two hours ago?—”

“Have you heard what that maniac’s been doing on the front lines? Do you feel how cold it is in this fucking hotel? If this is what happens when he's not trying, we’re not taking chances, you braindead dope. Just dose him again, and double it.”

“Yes, sir,” the fae grumbles.

Everett, being called a maniac? Interesting.

Nathan Thatcher quickly gathers up the documents before rushing out of the room. The flustered photographer takes another picture of me and hurries out with Mr. Grant right behind her. He’s already starting a predictable argument before the door closes behind them.

Asher Douglas still isn’t fully conscious, but Anton kicks the bounty hunter again before walking to a small kitchenette off to one side of the room to mix the concoction.

Fuck, Crypt was right. It smells like concentrated grass, gasoline, and sage blended with some other unpleasant herb. It’s so awful for my regular sense of smell that I’m not surprised when Baelfire starts gagging loudly where he sits on the floor.

Moving to the bed, the fae shoves the cloth bag up Everett’s face just enough to force my elemental to drink. Everett chokes on the overpowering concoction, unable to fight it. I grit my teeth when the fae roughly pinch Everett’s nose until he’s forced to swallow to breathe again.

He’s still coughing when the fae replaces the bag, hauls him upright, and drags him off the bed and out of the room despite my shouted protests. Before the door closes behind him, another gruff-looking legacy with several intense facial tattoos strolls into the room, heading toward me.

My body tenses as instinct and training try to kick in. Restrained this intensely, it would be difficult to kill this guy, but I could still do some serious fucking damage.

But Tattoo Face is probably here to take me to wherever Everett was just dragged off to.

So for once, I force myself not to fight as he tosses me over his shoulder, carrying me out of our grayscale prison as Baelfire and Crypt spew impressive threats and more blue flames behind us.