Page 10 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Cage

I MARCH DOWN THE HALL, my jaw is locked, and my patience wears thin.

I tug at the cuff of my sleeve, fixing, fidgeting—giving my anger something to do.

“So,” the younger guard beside me starts, “D’you think she’ll be ugly?”

A quiet snicker follows.

Some fools still believe witches are hags, withered things covered in warts and wrinkles, the magic in them rotting them from the inside out.

In truth, it’s the opposite.

“Witches are exceptionally beautiful,” I say flatly. “Their beauty is a deadly trap, a lure for men who are too ignorant to recognize the danger.”

The guard’s smirk fades slightly. I catch the tensing of shoulders in my periphery.

Better they be uneasy than snickering when a Le Strange witch is being brought onto castle grounds.

The guard’s hand moves to the hilt of his sword. “What…what are they, then? If not human?”

I allow the silence to stretch a moment, letting the weighted question settle.

“Half hellion,” I say at last. “Demon, some claim. Others argue something else entirely.”

I glance at them, smirking at their growing discomfort.

“All the stories agree on one thing: they’re also half Estrella.”

The guard swallows hard.

“The tale says a world ender raped an Estrella, forcing her to conceive seven daughters. Each one became something…new, variations of the same terrible thing. Some favor their Estrella blood. Others?” I exhale sharply. “They take after their father.”

The guard’s thoughts are almost entertaining, a brief distraction from the murderous urges plaguing the edges of my mind.

What if Nora is here?

Or worse, she’s the one escorting the witch?

I don’t know how I’ll react if I come face to face with her. Hell, if it’s any of the elders, I don’t know if I can do this.

I don’t want a new witch here.

I don’t want a Le Strange here.

My mind races, sifting through a catalog of witches’ faces—the ones I knew, the ones I killed, the ones that might still remain.

That’s the problem.

I’ve slaughtered too many to know who even survived.

Anyone I once knew could be a memory now. The witchlings from back then would be grown now, but I never met them.

Maybe it’s one of them.

We breach the entrance to the castle, descending the stone steps toward the carriage waiting below. Guards stand in stiff parallel formations, lining either side of the vehicle. One steps forward, gripping the handle, and pulls the door open.

The moment she steps out, magic slams into me, rivaling my own in intensity. The force is strong, potent. It scrapes against my senses.

Dark magic user. For sure.

The dark knows its own, and mine writhes, awakening beneath my skin in recognition.

Then I see her.

Black hair drinks in the sunlight, swallowing its warmth. Pale skin glows in contrast. It’s almost…ethereal.

And then, her eyes.

Wide. Oceanic. Drowning me in an instant.

I sink.

I descend, a willing victim to the blue depths, as a ghost from my past stares back at me.

I DON’T THINK I’VE EVER seen eyes that blue.

She’s staring up at me, small but unafraid. She has been dragging a stuffed bunny by its arms all over the coven. The thing’s a mess, missing a button eye and covered in a hefty number of frayed patches. It’s probably been dragged through enough dirt to have lived a dozen lifetimes.

Her dress isn’t much better, hanging loose off one shoulder and streaked in grime.

And her hair…

Dark and wild, it sucks in the sunlight without giving an inch of its color back.

I glance down, finding her bare feet pressed into the grass.

“Where are your shoes?” I ask curiously.

She plants her hands on her hips, her bunny being thrashed in the process.

Sassy.

“I like the feeling of grass on my feet,” she declares. Then she taps her foot against the ground as if she’s testing it, debating something.

I wait.

She caves.

I can’t help but smile as she gives in. She’s the most animated person I’ve ever met here. The only other one who actually speaks to me.

“Why are your marks already in?” she blurts, pouting as she glares at her own arms. “It is not fair!”

I glance at the dark ink swirling in intricate patterns down my arms. “Uh…” I hesitate, my voice quieter than I intend. “Elanora says I’m very strong. It might have something to do with my magic or…my bloodline.”

I’m still not familiar with talking to people. The words feel strange to me.

She does not look impressed.

Millicent jabs a finger at me. “Mama says I’m strong, too! And I’ll have big marks! Bigger than yours! ” The fire in her eyes alight with the hottest blue flame.

I blink, caught off guard.

I pause briefly before replying, “Yeah, I’m sure they will be,” I offer, trying for politeness.

“They will,” she insists, cocking her head in another sassy dramatic flourish. Then, with absolutely no hesitation, she asks, “Where’s your mama and papa?”

The words stabs like a blade slipped between my ribs.

How do I explain this? How do I tell a child, a five- or six-year-old girl, that I killed all of them, that Nora found me and took me in because I slaughtered an entire village?

I can’t.

“I lost them.”

She gasps, eyes wide. “I can help you find them! I’m real good at the ‘finding things’ game!” she announces proudly.

I shake my head. “I lost them permanently.”

Her small brows furrow. She doesn’t quite understand, but she frowns anyway.

“…Is that why you have no friends?” she asks, tilting her head. “No one is allowed by you.”

Smart girl. And too damn forward .

Her words are innocent even if they carve deep.

She doesn’t know—couldn’t know—that my power isn’t something I can control, that I can’t have people close because being near me means dying.

I tighten my fist, gripping the emotions she has stirred within me before they take over.

“Well, I’m Millicent Le Strange!” she declares proudly, holding out her tiny hand like she’s offering me something far more important than an introduction.

I stare for a second, then shake it.

“Cage Black.”

She snickers.

“My name’s cooler.”

I smile again.

Her words are playful, innocent. She doesn’t mean to insult my name. She’s just a child, certain hers is better. I have a feeling Millicent thinks a lot of things she has or does are better than others’.

“It is very pretty.”

She beams, glowing from the compliment.

“Call me Millie! My friends do.”

I blink.

Friends?

“I’m sorry you lost your mama and papa and have no friends,” she says simply, like this isn’t the most obvious, tragic thing in the world. Then, with absolute certainty , she adds, “We are friends now.”

She thrusts her bunny toward me. I stare, realization dawning on me. She’s giving it to me.

When I don’t immediately take it, her little brows scrunch in frustration, and she starts shoving it toward my chest.

“Millie, this is very kind, but he seems important to you. I can’t take him.”

She shakes her head, her curls bouncing wildly. “We can share! ”

A voice calls from the courtyard.

“Little star! Come!”

Millie turns her head at the sound, her mother waving to her from beside the well.

Her smile drops when she sees me.

Nothing new.

I sigh, relenting. I take the rabbit from Millie’s hands, if only to stop her ramming it into my chest.

Satisfied, she grins one last time before skipping off, her curls bouncing as she runs to her mother.

I watch.

I watch as her mother takes her hand without hesitation, swinging arms, making Millicent laugh.

My chest tightens.

My fingers curl around the rabbit’s worn fabric, gripping it like something fragile. Something I shouldn’t be allowed to hold.

Footsteps.

The distinct clicks of heels echo in the air. Measured. Cold. Familiar.

Nora.

I barely have time to shove the rabbit down my coat before her voice reaches me.

“I can sense your magic up in my office.”

She stops in front of me. I don’t lift my head.

“It is time for your session. Come.”

A cold sweat breaks out at the base of my neck.

I go.

I always go.

Because it is necessary.

As I scream, I repeat it.

It is necessary.

As I pass out from the pain, I repeat it.

It is necessary.