Page 26 of Divine Fate (Cursed Legacies #4)

25

MAVEN

With his spray of freckles, handsome features, and that shock of red hair, the vampire who caused my failure six months ago is unmistakable as he dashes into the room with vampiric speed, dressed in a sharp suit. He whispers something in Alaric’s ear, unaware of the nearby ghosts who lean close to hear whatever he’s saying.

This is the vampire they’re using to contact Amadeus?

Obviously, he’s one hell of a bargainer if he outlived his usefulness to the Entity long enough to set all of this up, prove his value, and therefore be kept alive. He has the survival skills of a bright red, unbelievably fucking annoying cockroach.

I stare down the bloodsucker who killed his immortal lover to save his skin until he finishes speaking quietly with Alaric and straightens. He makes direct eye contact with me and has the nerve to fucking smile.

To everyone else, it looks pleasant.

To me, it’s pure mocking.

“You must be the telum ,” he says in a light accent.

I smile back, conveying that I’ll rip his head off once I’m out of this contraption. “Bertram.”

Daphne’s brows go up as she looks between us. “I see no introductions are in order. Have you met the telum before, Bertram?”

“Not at all, madame. Pardonne-moi, ” he adds before leaving the room just as swiftly.

Godsdamn it. He’s going to run. He knows this place is compromised since I’m about to rain down hell on the assholes living here when I figure out how to escape. With survival skills that good, Bertram will disappear long before I have the chance to add him to the piled-up bodies.

When I swear under my breath, Everett leans as much as he can in his straitjacket to catch my eye.

“What is it?” he whispers.

“Later.”

Gods, I desperately miss our telepathic connection.

Alaric Frost stands, re-buttoning his expensive suit as he looks coldly down at me. “It’s a shame you couldn’t get past your pride and agree to such a mutually beneficial agreement, telum . Even more of a shame that such a potent weapon will meet its end here. What a waste.”

Everett bristles at how his father speaks about me like I’m not a person, but Daphne gives me the fakest smile in the world. It looks beautiful and classy like the rest of her, but there’s no getting past the nasty undertone.

“Yes, what a shame. No matter. I’ll be sure to have Reagan do your post-mortem makeup for your open casket viewing in a couple of days. That should please the press. But then, they’re already over the moon about this little scoop. They’re even broadcasting it outside our safe haven for anyone left out there watching.”

“Soon the entire world will see what a favor we’re doing them,” Alaric agrees, striding to the glass windows overlooking the gray city below. “Frosts have always understood how influential spectacles can be. And why not honor the gods while we’re at it? Arati will be very pleased.”

I don’t know why he’s talking about my aunt, but this entire interaction with Everett’s parents has been eye-opening. Everything my quintet has said about the Frosts is obviously true. How odd that such beautiful people can be so revolting, especially in the way they treat their son.

I wonder which is worse—growing up fending for yourself with no family at all, or growing up emotionally battered and manipulated by the people who should have been protecting you.

No wonder Everett was so standoffish and torn when I met him. No wonder he’s so fucking hard on himself. They taught him all that self-loathing. Constantly being in the public eye, continually being pressured to be perfect, his appearance picked apart, and every move he made held up in comparison to the Frost name, the verbal slights and social games…

My poor snow angel has gone through more than he’ll admit.

Not that I’m one to talk, but still. Fuck them.

I’m distracted by loathing the Frosts until Tattoo Face reemerges through the double doors and nods to Alaric Frost.

“Everything is ready, sir.”

“They’ve gathered?”

“Yes, sir.”

Alaric seems pleased before motioning at me. Tattoo Face doesn’t hesitate to throw me over his shoulder once again, and I fight back sudden nausea when his hand briefly touches the back of my bare neck. He starts walking back toward the elevator.

“Where are you taking her?” Everett demands.

He tries to rise to his feet despite the straitjacket, but he’s suddenly frozen to the sofa as Alaric waves a hand. “No, no, son. You’ll stay in here and watch the livestream of the trial with us. Gods spare us, we certainly can’t have that face of yours caught on camera until we find a way to fix it. It should be a quick proceeding anyway, but it’s better to stay out of the smoke—which is what I told the rest of my quintet, but gods help us, they wanted to have a front row seat.”

We’re being separated.

Shit.

Everett’s shouts of furious protest cut off as the doors of the elevator close. I can tell we’re descending, but my vision has blurred slightly. Even though Tattoo Face isn’t touching my neck anymore, my body is still breaking out into sweat as I steady my breathing.

My view is an upside-down shot of this jerk’s pants, but then the blue-haired ghost squats to smile and wave at me. She followed me into this elevator, along with a couple of other ghosts.

She tries communicating something to me with her hands, motioning from me to her and back, but I’m too dizzy and exhausted to piece it together before the elevator doors chime open.

The burly legacy carries me down a long hall before I’m suddenly set upright, facing revolving glass doors that lead outside. I squint through the glass, uneasiness running down my spine when I see all the people.

Two or three hundred well-dressed elite legacies and a few dozen humans wait on either side of the street, with a path cleared down the middle that lets me see something constructed in front of the steps leading up to Arati’s temple. They almost look like?—

Oh, shit.

Stakes. As in, the kind witches are burned at.

They clearly plan to burn me alive, but who is the other stake for?

The elite legacies and humans waiting outside watch the door eagerly, waiting for my emergence. The Frosts have obviously taken time to prepare this spectacle in the grayscale streets of Manhattan, because at the end of this aisle of onlookers in front of Arati’s temple is a full jury box, a robed judge at a podium, and a place for me to stand with cameras aimed at it.

There are also photographers waiting outside the revolving door, prepping their cameras. One of them is Miss Bailey from the fake pre-trial interview, who still looks pissy as she taps her foot and glowers at the door.

Oh, great. More pictures.

I’m starting to understand why Everett hates being on camera.

“It’s time for the world to get their due from you, telum ,” Tattoo Face grunts.

He grips my shoulder too tightly and walks through the revolving doors, shoving me into the stormy daylight for my fake trial. The ghosts follow.

I’m immediately blinded by the flashes of cameras. They’re so intense and so frequent that I turn my face away. They don’t like that, though.

“Over here! Look over here, telum!”

“Maven Oakley! Eyes open, sweetheart! Look here!”

“Smile, Maven!”

Smile? At a fake trial? Whoever suggested that is fucking delusional. And whoever just called me sweetheart is about to have a broken nose.

Tattoo Face gets annoyed that I’m turning my face away from the photographers. He takes my chin in his hand, forcing my head to face the blinding flashes.

Immediately, my lungs deflate, and I can’t pull in air. The rough, bare skin of his fingers drags across my jaw, squeezing and raw and absolutely fucking unbearable . Sweat beads on my forehead as my limbs lock. Panic pounds through my skull, reminding me of the countless times my body reacted this way in the citadel during my conditioning.

The scent of moldering corpses. Half-rotted Undead clawing at my skin.

Maggots.

So many maggots, trying to burrow under my skin as I screamed and clawed at the doors.

Gods, I’m starting to hyperventilate. I’m about to vomit in front of twenty cameras.

The camera flashes have slowed as they complain about me freezing up like this. Amid my haphephobic breakdown, the same blue-haired female ghost appears beside us. She glares at the legacy touching me, passes directly through me, and?—

Tattoo Face screams, staggering back and finally fucking releasing me.

The crowds of onlookers gasp.

Someone shouts, “What was that? Did you see that?”

The photographers step away, but they’re already snapping more pictures. I glance over my shoulder to see that the asshole who just had his hand on my face is now gripping his neck, choking and spasming on the ground until his eyes roll back into his head and foam drips from his mouth. He goes still.

“Get a healer!” someone shouts.

The photographers are still having a heyday as he’s carried away. Two more legacy security members are immediately at my sides, gripping my straitjacketed arms and shoving me forward so I’ll have to walk through the gawking elites. Most of them, including the judge and jury, are now watching me in disgusted terror as if I did that.

Did I?

It was the ghost, but it took passing through me for her to interact with the living. She targeted him for what he was doing to me. Are my demigoddess abilities more ghost-oriented than I realized?

Still reeling from the lingering horror of that touch, I’m forced to walk forward. Someone is wheeling a red-blinking camera several feet in front of me, showing all of this to anyone still out there.

I wonder if Kenzie is watching. Or Lillian.

The elite legacies I pass leer and gawk at me. Some take pictures on their phones, laughing and whispering to each other. Others chatter at full volume, wide-eyed as they see the telum reduced to this fucking morose parade. Many more of them flip me off, spit on me when they get the chance, and shout over the clamor of the crows.

“Serves you right!”

“Suck my dick, you fucking demon!” another shouts.

“Go back to the Beyond where you belong!”

Usually, rubbing people the wrong way is its own kind of fun. This time, it’s paired with the realization that I’m an object to these people—someone to be exploited for their entertainment.

I expect the staring. The smirks. Their abject fascination as they see the telum in the flesh for the first time, chained and straitjacketed in the picture of defeat.

What I’m not expecting? That strange rush of peaceful magic that starts to course over my skin. It’s similar to what I experience while reaping, and it begins to soothe the unpleasant burning sensation within my chest.

With all these eyes on me, it takes a second for me to remember Galene’s words.

You see, we gods derive our power from worship.

I study the audience more closely as I pass. It’s grown in number, but only because of all the ghosts gathering to watch.

Even when screaming out insults or taking videos on their phones, these legacies watch my every move with a strange sort of awe in their eyes. It’s the same expression I saw on people fascinated by Everett in the past—people who thought of him as a celebrity.

Whether they like me or not, this qualifies as some form of worship. And wherever the big camera in my face is streaming to, the building rush of magic in my veins only grows until there is no pain in my chest. My pulse picks up, strong and furious.

Intriguing.

Finally, the assholes shove me to stand on the little pedestal in front of the fake jury and judge. They step away quickly, leaving me the center of attention. More cameras flash, but the ominous croaking of a raven draws my attention to the gray buildings surrounding this audience.

Everywhere I look, ravens are perched on the tops of buildings, watching.

The ghosts interspersed throughout the crowd are watching, too. Many of them look mad—but not at me.

I’ve just started formulating a plan when the revolving door I was pushed through opens again, and Crypt, Baelfire, and Silas are paraded outside.

My stomach lurches at the sight of them.

Crypt’s face transforms to relief when he sees me, but he’s gagged now. He’s still mostly encased in bronze as they wheel him out, and that syringe is still in his neck. His markings light up constantly, proof that he’s in pain that he won’t show. Someone shouts that it’s the Nightmare Prince, which induces more frenzied picture-taking and angry screaming. Plenty of the onlookers spit on him, too.

Baelfire is still in silver restraints, dragged by his leash as he snarls and snaps at everything. His irises are once again draconic slits that tell me he’s not himself. The audience points and laughs, finding his cursed condition hysterical as someone in the jury loudly declares that he’s Brigid Decimus’s feral son.

And Silas—he’s being dragged out by iron chains connected to iron shackles around his legs, arms, neck, and waist . My anger spikes to a dangerous level when I see that he’s in a straitjacket covered in blood, struggling and shouting nonsense. He’s fully descended into insanity again as he stumbles, collapsing to the street in crazed, panicked gibberish while everyone continues to laugh.

That’s his own blood, covering him.

They were hurting my fae.

My empty chest clenches as hot moisture tries to rise into my eyes, seeing my ruby-eyed blood fae in this state. They must have confiscated his blood amulet.

Daphne was right. This is pure public humiliation for my quintet.

Obviously Not-Baelfire doesn’t know that yet, but my stomach dips as I imagine how the real Baelfire will look when he realizes that everone saw him collared and tied down like a feral fucking animal. My shifter is tied down near the steps of Arati’s temple. Crypt is also left propped at the foot of the steps, facing me.

I realize it’s so they’ll get a front row seat to me burning alive.

If I wasn’t seething to my very core and devising a plan to kill all these assholes, I would almost admire their barbarically sadistic appetite.

But this?

I’ve understood the magnitude of taking lives for a long time. I have a rule against harming or killing innocents—so I guess it’s good that none of the elite legacies here fall under that umbrella.

Along with the holy magic, anger grows steadily in my veins, pulsing quicker and hotter as I turn to glower at the observers who are using my cursed quintet for entertainment. Everett isn’t here. My elemental is probably still frozen to that sofa in the penthouse, also being forced to watch this.

Cameras flash as the so-called judge opens the trial, introducing me with dramatic flair before he calls up the two men who interviewed me earlier. They posture and preen as they talk at the jury and cameras, making a spectacle as they list everything I’ve been accused of. They present the “evidence” that I’m a demon, dramatically and incorrectly describe the ways I assassinated the Immortal Quintet, and generally make an ass of themselves for their rapt audience.

But I’m not listening to any of it, because the ghosts have gotten angrier.

There’s nearly an equal amount of restless spirits here as there are living people. Finally, the same blue-haired ghost girl who attacked Tattoo Face leaves the crowd and drifts up to me, pointing at the skyscraper where the Frosts are watching before drawing a line across her neck.

I focus on her, speaking quietly. “You want revenge?”

She nods eagerly. So do many of the other nearby ghost spectators of this so-called trial.

“Good. I’ll need my scythe.”

“Silence, demon!” the judge snaps. “These two gentlemen are explaining your case to the court.”

I ignore him and the additional stares his outburst has sent my way. The ghost girl nods, passing through me one more time. I don’t feel any different, but she floats quickly toward the Frost tower, disappearing through one of the many windowed walls to search for my dagger.

At least, I hope that’s what she’s doing.

Crypt witnessed me talking to nothing. He catches my eye and tips his head curiously, still ignoring his swirling markings as they light up repeatedly.

I mouth, Wait for it.

This fake trial starts to wind to a close, with the live feed camera wheeling annoyingly close to get a shot of my face and everyone laughing when Not-Baelfire begins gnawing on his leash. I’m scanning the sky for the blue-haired ghost when a large raven flutters to perch on my shoulder.

I recognize this one. It’s the same raven that helped Everett find me when Baelfire’s dragon had me in the woods.

I study it before muttering, “When I make my move, peck out their eyes.”

These imbeciles will lose much more than their eyes for this, but since all these laughing elite legacies are enjoying the sight of my quintet in this condition so much, I’m going to start by taking that sight away.

The raven croaks in agreement before fluttering off to perch on a building, squawking at the other ravens. No one present seems to notice all the ravens that have gathered to fixate on the eyeballs in the crowd, eager for their treats.

I know jack shit about legacy or human courtroom proceedings, but I’m not surprised when the jury votes and the judge rules without ever calling on me for a testimony.

“The jury is unanimous!” the judge booms, banging a shiny gavel on the table as more pictures are taken. “Maven Oakley, the Entity’s demonic telum who murdered our beloved Immortal Quintet and brought about the end of our world, is hereby found guilty on all charges and sentenced to immediate death prior to Sachar’s final judgment in the Beyond!”

The jury members and all the watching legacies applaud. One of the security members approaches me again. I hiss in surprised pain when he twists his hand near my scalp, dragging me by my hair to one of the towering, flammable stakes at the foot of Arati’s temple.

Crypt sees that and shouts in helpless rage. Silas starts screaming again nearby, and as the asshole releases my hair, I realize my blood fae is being tied to the stake beside me. Not- Baelfire is still a laughingstock, and somewhere high above, Everett is being forced to watch all of this.

More holy power pumps through my veins, screaming at me to harness my fury and do something.

I will.

I’m just waiting for the right moment.

The fake judge bangs his gavel again to be heard over the excited legacies.

“Furthermore, as is our duty as legacies, and according to the landmark Sacredness of Life Act of 1742, the former blood fae known as Silas Crane is hereby found guilty of successful necromantic metamorphosis. To cleanse the world of his vile death magic, this necromancer shall also be exterminated expeditiously through traditional means.”

That explains the wooden stakes.

The security asshole releases my hair and pulls out a key that finally drops the chains before loosening the arms of my straitjacket just enough to lift them high above my head. He starts tying my wrists to the stake using the ends of the straitjacket arms.

I don’t fight it. Instead, I breathe at a measured pace, preparing for the right moment to unleash hell. Still, my stomach dips and twists with each minor brush of his skin against mine.

I’m fighting like hell to disassociate through this, but it catches me by surprise when cold gasoline crashes over my head, dousing me immediately. It starts to burn my skin, the pungent chemical scent searing my nose and throat. I sputter, spitting out the turpentine flavor. My eyes burn.

They must have doused Silas at the same time, because his nonsensical screams worsen. When I look over, he’s thrashing despite his bound wrists, his blood-red eyes unseeing as his fangs descend. His blackened fingertips are on display, his hands tied over his head just like mine.

“Silas,” I cough, desperate to comfort him even as the audience claps and cheers. Cameras are flashing again, but the jackasses who just tied us up like this have finally stepped back.

“ Ei’thu leamsah head devil! Thu occidere a’sai!” he shrieks, choking on gasoline.

Most of that makes no sense, except the part where he might’ve called me a head devil.

“I’ll fix this,” I reassure him. Whether he can understand me or not, I can’t take his panicked, paranoid screaming anymore. It hurts me more than the acrid gasoline burn in my throat. “I’m real. This is real, and it’s about to be over. I promise. Tha galeath.”

He stops fighting so hard for a brief second, rolling his head from side to side as his screaming turns into a prayer. It’s the first time I’ve heard Silas pray, and I don’t miss that he’s praying to Arati.

It’s fitting. We’re in front of her temple. She’s the goddess of fury, revenge, love, combat…pretty much everything we’re about to need.

I glance at the sky, deciding it’s not a bad idea. “From what I remember, you were a bitch. But so am I. Maybe we parted on good terms, so feel free to make yourself useful.”

Nothing changes, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t need her when vengeance continues to rage inside me.

By the time a fire elemental moves to stand in front of the stakes, holy power is pumping so vigorously in my veins that I’m nearly shaking. Ravens look on. Ghosts are restless, drifting ever closer until the furious dead hover behind me, waiting.

Finally—fucking finally —the blue haired ghost appears nearby with my etherium dagger in her hands. Only a couple of people in the audience notice the dagger floating toward me, and their eyes round in confusion.

“Maven Oakley,” the judge booms, calling everyone to attention as cameras pan to me. “At the foot of Arati’s temple, we now end your infernal existence as an offering to the gods. Say your final prayers to Syntyche, for the Reaper is known to be merciless and?—”

I don’t mean to burst into laughter.

Really, I don’t.

It just bubbles up uncontrollably as everyone else falls quiet, uncomfortable with my humor. The jury and judge look annoyed. Photographers snap more pictures of my accidental bout of amusement as the fire elemental waiting to execute us looks around, unsure of what to do.

Crypt starts to smile as he watches me spook the audience. Not-Baelfire has stopped chewing on his leash. Even Silas has stopped screaming, leaving this colorless, crowded street quiet except for my laughter.

I was a fool, trying to keep my identity a secret until I was ready for the world to know. I thought it would give me time to adjust, but now?

Everyone watching needs to know exactly who they crossed.

“If you think Death is merciless, you haven’t officially met her daughter,” I warn the frightened onlookers as my laughter tapers off. I toss gasoline-soaked hair out of my face and smile as dark, murderous anticipation hums in the cold air around me. “Let’s change that, shall we?”

The blue-haired ghost swipes my etherium blade through the straitjacket arms tying me to this stake in one fluid motion. The knife promptly falls out of her no-longer-solid grasp—and just like that, I’m free as my weapon transforms into a scythe in my hand, as ready as I am to reap.

Ghosts pour through me in a deluge, turning tangible as they flood into the mortal realm. Ravens descend as holy magic swirls around my fingertips, unleashed with my lost temper.

I smile as the beautiful screaming begins.