Page 33 of Divine Fate (Cursed Legacies #4)

32

MAVEN

Waking up alone is my first clue that something is going on. My quintet wouldn’t leave my side unless they had a damn good reason, so I quickly set out to find what that reason could be.

I shower and dress to cover all the love bites I still wear as reminders of their vicious need last night. Tucking both my favorite daggers into the pocket of my sweater, I slip out into the empty castle. I want to find Silas first. My poor, tortured necromancer had to leave last night before I got to really enjoy him, thanks to his stupid fucking curse.

But before I get far, I run into Lillian sipping coffee and looking out one of the tall, gothic arched windows.

“Did the salt help?” she asks innocently.

Too innocently.

Still, if Lillian knows something is going on and isn’t telling me, she must have a reason. Deciding not to interrogate her first thing in the morning, I nod and join her to see what she’s looking at. It’s the castle’s largest courtyard, where the large greenhouse sits solitary and frosted over. Unlike the other courtyards I’ve seen, Everett doesn’t keep anyone frozen here.

“Your grave is in there.”

I blink at her. “I have a grave?”

Lillian smiles softly, but it’s sad. “Everett put it together. He even had Asher enchant flowers around the honorary grave so they wouldn’t wilt. He spent a lot of time in there, actually. Do you want to see it?”

My eyes narrow. On the one hand, I absolutely know Lillian must be using my morbid delights to distract me for a reason.

But on the other hand…

Well, who wouldn’t want to see their own grave?

“Fine,” I decide, since this will probably be fast.

She leads me down the hall until we descend a small set of stairs to exit into the courtyard. The snow is greatly disturbed here, like there’s been some commotion. When Lillian sees me noticing it, she smiles.

“Asher often brings his hellhound here to play fetch.”

Playing fetch with a hellhound? Not bad.

She says something about hoping the wards don’t keep me out as she unlocks the greenhouse, but I’m distracted when three ravens land on the top of the greenhouse, peering down at me. The big one that I’ve started to take a liking to croaks low in its throat, tipping its head.

Finally, Lillian lets me into the greenhouse, and while I sense the wards ripple over my skin, they don’t stop me. Stepping inside, I study the simple setup.

There’s a headstone made out of dark blue nevermelt, carved with “Maven Amato” and dates showing my twenty-three years of not-life. A few random past belongings of mine sit at the foot of the headstone, like a pair of leather gloves, what’s left of the massage oil Everett gifted me, and the tiny vials of kraken ink I used to use to speed up my episodes.

The rest of the greenhouse surrounding the headstone is filled with thriving, ethereal white flowers that droop almost like they’re in mourning, too.

Snowdrops.

“Who knew he was poetic?” I grin, gently brushing one of the flowers with my finger. “I love it.”

Lillian smiles. “I thought you might. Are you hungry? I can make breakfast.”

I arch a brow knowingly. “Sure. Let’s invite my quintet. Just point the way to them.”

She knows the jig is up and sighs, glancing at my grave.

“They’re good matches for you, you know. I was worried when I met them. They were suffering so much from their curses, but I just…I’ve always hoped you would find people who loved you as much as you deserved. I can see that goes both ways,” she smiles. “It’s nice to see you so smitten.”

“Lillian. Where is my quintet?” I press, getting concerned.

She starts to answer, but a loud bark sounds outside, followed by vicious growling. Peeking out the greenhouse door, I see that Asher Douglas is fake wrestling a gigantic black hellhound that growls and snaps at him. He snaps back before tackling the infernal canine.

When Lillian looks out the door, her face brightens.

“I haven’t seen Dev for days,” she calls, slipping past me before I can stop and question her further. “I tried making dog treats for him. I’ll go get them.”

I protest, but she hurries out of the courtyard, leaving me to glower at the mercenary playing with his deadly pet. But speaking of deadly pets…

I have my own way of getting answers now.

Turning to the ravens still perched on the greenhouse, I focus on the big one. “Find out where my quintet is and report back.”

All three ravens squawk and flutter before winging off into the wintry morning sky. When a loud bark sounds much closer, I turn to see that Douglas’s hellhound is now standing in front of me. He tips his big, hound-like head, red eyes pinned on me as slobber drips from his razor-sharp bared teeth.

“Devil won’t hurt you,” Asher Douglas assures me without need. He brushes dirt and snow off his winter clothes and moves to stand near me, reaching up to rub behind the creature’s ear. “He only kills whatever we’re hunting on a job.”

I examine the massive canine. Hellhounds are known for their single-minded focus, their near-perfect ability to track prey for miles, their unwavering loyalty to whoever they imprinted on, and their unmatched savagery even compared to other creatures from the Nether.

As far as pets go, I consider these ones an obvious choice.

But I’m not about to pet this thing when it was once hunting me across North America.

Glancing sideways at Douglas, I arch a brow. “My quintet and I almost got you killed in Manhattan. I expected you to quit. Why are you still working for Everett?”

“Money.”

“There are less deadly positions out there for a caster of your talents,” I point out.

“I like a challenge. Especially one with a fat paycheck.”

I roll my eyes. “After Manhattan, you could have demanded an early paycheck, cut your losses, and been on your merry way by now. Which means there’s another reason you’re sticking around.”

The redhead glances at me briefly before turning back to watch his hellhound chase his tail. “Okay, yeah. Maybe I thought about jumping ship after Manhattan, but I stayed because of Pietro.”

I do a double-take. “Explain.”

“I knew your dad,” Douglas admits quietly. “More than knew him. He was like a father to me when mine was nothing but a dick. Pietro tried to save my mother and I from a fucked-up situation.”

Oh.

Gods, who didn’t my father know? A more sentimental person might see my paths crossing with so many lives he touched as fate, but to me, I’m starting to think my extroverted birth father needed to get a hobby or something.

Asher Douglas goes on. “Your dad and my mom were old friends, grew up in the same neighborhood and everything. She turned out to be an atypical caster but got knocked up with me as a teen and married my asshole father way too fucking young—before she was ever old enough to attend a Seeking.” He shrugs. “The really early years were okay, not that I remember them much. But I do remember Pietro coming around to help my parents a lot. He took care of me whenever my mom was working and my dad was binge drinking. He’d do his med school homework at our kitchen table and tell me about how important it was to help people who were hurt. Taught me a lot about healing before I ever manifested a hint of magic.”

I arch a brow. “I wouldn’t have guessed you’re an asscaster and a saint.”

“Again, I’m not a saint, but that’s another story. Anyway, the good days didn’t last long, and my dad got a lot worse. He started taking out his problems on my mom and me. The next time Pietro came around, he saw the bruises and was furious. He got in a huge fight with my dad, who pretty much beat your dad to a fucking pulp and left him in a bathtub to die.”

Douglas’s face darkens as he watches his hellhound snap at a raven that flutters to perch nearby. “I honestly thought Pietro was a goner. My dad packed up my mom and me, and we moved in the middle of the night to a new shitty apartment in a new state with an even emptier pantry for his idea of a fresh start. I never saw Pietro again—until he was in the news years later for being executed by the Legacy Council.” His green gaze flicks to me and away. “I had no idea he had a daughter, but honestly, I’m pretty fucking jealous. I would’ve given anything for him to be my dad instead of the asshole I got saddled with.”

We’re quiet as we watch Devil sniff and pace in the courtyard, massive tail wagging as he looks for another raven to target.

“This is the part where a normal person would express sympathy,” Douglas deadpans.

I glance at him. “If it’s any consolation, I missed out on having Amato as a father, too. I got Amadeus.”

He grunts, rubbing his tattooed neck. “That does help, actually. Explains a lot about your freaky half-god ass, too. Zombie see, zombie do.”

Angry whispering nearby draws my attention, and I realize the disheveled ghost of Daphne Frost is nearby, leering at me. Alaric’s ghost is standing beside her, his nose wrinkled in disgust at the hellhound.

I wonder how Everett would feel if he knew his parents were literally haunting us.

Not to mention, the spirit of the blue-haired young woman who killed Daphne. She passes through the courtyard with a small wave at me, swaying like she’s dancing to music in her ghostly head before she disappears through another wall.

I haven’t been reaping the ghosts I come across, because I’m conducting a twofold experiment. If I don’t reap them, I want to see if they will eventually leave me alone and go looking for Syntyche. I also want to see if I can repeatedly bring them into the mortal realm as I did at the Frost stronghold.

But when Daphne Frost’s restless spirit continues glaring at me, I decide I don’t need the Frosts for that experiment.

Pulling my etherium knife out, I watch as it extends into a full scythe. Douglas’s hand immediately goes for where his rifle typically hangs on his back, and he takes a wary step away.

“The fuck are you doing?” he demands like he thinks I’m about to attack him. His wariness means he doesn’t trust me still, which means we can’t possibly be categorized as friends.

What a relief.

I don’t bother answering him as I approach the whispering, discontented ghosts. Hoping Sachar assigns them a particularly shitty afterlife, I reap the souls of Everett’s parents. No sooner has my scythe stopped glowing than I’m abruptly jerked into another memory.

“Very well,” Arati’s voice echoes again. “I will tell you how the divine may permanently return to mortality.”

We’re back in that strange, heavenly room again as her fierce temper abruptly cools. And now I remember why she was so pissed at me.

It’s because for nearly three weeks, I did everything in my power to annoy the hell out of the gods so Arati would tell me how I could permanently return to the mortal realm. I stole the queen’s golden armor and hid it in Pheli’s never-ending wine cellar. I reorganized Koa’s library based on how boring the titles sounded. I followed everything on the Make Them Hate Me list that I originally wrote for my own quintet—only with the gods, I had far more success stirring up drama.

I involved Paradisians, too. I convinced Pheli that his lover, Raan, was having an affair with one of the angels. I set fire to one of the forests, and everyone suspected the fire sprites. I even managed to track down some heavenly species of spider and filled Koa’s pillows with its eggs.

I was an absolute bitch to make my point clear, and apparently, it worked.

Mostly.

Again, I find myself lifting my chin in this recollection. “Great. Then tell me.”

“I will, on one condition. If you really want to return to your fate-given matches so desperately, it will come at a price you already well know. You must first exchange a blood oath with me.”

Surprise courses through me.

The last time I made a blood oath, it was to tie my fate to the humans in the Nether and give them hope. It was done of my own accord, a brutal measure to ensure I kept my promise to free them. That oath is something I don’t regret, but it did put my quintet in danger.

This would be an oath to get back to them.

The difference? Exchanging a blood oath means it goes both ways. I would promise something of great significance to the queen of the gods, and she would do the same in return.

Memory Me weighs her options before, to my absolute horror, she nods.

“I accept.”

Arati smiles. “I knew you would. As much a menace as you’ve been, my dear niece, your passion and depth of love have earned my respect. There’s fire in you where fear should be. Let’s hope you don’t regret that later.”

This memory shifts abruptly, billowing and changing until I find myself once again at the edge of a sea of clouds. Only this time, I’m looking down below with a hollow ache in my chest as the dark silhouette of something circles far below.

Round and round it goes.

In this memory, I sit up and pull out a knife. And when I cut my hand, instead of crimson, golden blood seeps from my broken skin as I let it drip onto something I can’t see.

It reminds me of another vague memory. My golden blood—no, ichor —swirling into a bowl along with the golden blood of Arati as words I know too well slip from my lips.

"I swear this oath in my own blood, that should I survive my fall to mortality…”

I jolt back to myself with a gasp, my pulse racing despite my empty, burning chest.

“Fuck,” I mutter, my grip tight on the scythe still in my hands.

“What was that about?” Douglas asks, sounding disturbed.

I don’t have time for questions. I need to track down my guys and tell them that once again, I have royally fucked up.

Because I made another oath.

I exchanged a fucking blood oath with the queen of the gods, and I have no fucking clue what I swore to do or not to do. Breaking a blood oath means your essence is wiped from every plane of existence for all time, and yet I agreed to it—and now…

“Where are they?” I blurt.

Asher Douglas grunts. “For the record, I told them not to piss you off by going.”

“Going where?”

“No fucking clue. They said something about getting something from a Dagon. Pretty sure someone mentioned your heart, which makes no fucking sense.”

Oh, my gods.

If they survive Dagon, I’m going to fucking kill them.