Page 13 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Cage

WHEN THE DOOR SWINGS OPEN, I expect the witch who nearly bit my fingers off earlier to be standing there.

Instead, for the second time today, I’m surprised by who or what stands before me.

I blink, scanning the doorway before finally looking down. And I find myself face to face with a creature both ridiculous and bizarre.

A chunky, blue-skinned thing—an imp. His plump belly protrudes so far forward that it completely swallows his toes.

His arms are stubby and expressive, one black-tipped claw resting on his hip, the other drumming impatiently against his thigh.

A long, rounded nose dominates his face, sitting low between two enormous, beady black eyes void of any apparent intelligence.

Behind him, a thin blue tail sways, ending in a fine-pointed tip.

“Me misses thinks it’s dinner time,” he declares, his tone carrying a distinct nasal whine.

I arch a brow, placing my hands on my hips. “It is, in fact, dinner time. Who are you, exactly?”

The imp sniffs the air dramatically. His grimy claws twitch, and his expression twists to disgust, as if my scent is terrible and insulting to his senses.

“ Oliver to you,” he says, his voice tight and snooty, as if his name is a sacred privilege bestowed upon me.

I crouch down, entertained despite myself. I have never encountered an imp before, only read about them. Familiars are created from their witch’s soul, a reflection of their witch. Of course, Millicent’s familiar is stuck up, sassy, and dislikes me.

“Hello, Oliver,” I offer, cocking my head to mirror his posture and observe his reaction. “I am Cage.”

A flash of sharp yellowed fangs, some chipped, others missing, gleams back at me as his lips curl into a toothy grin.

Oral hygiene, it seems, is not high on an imp’s to do list.

His actions and words come off as almost playful, his exact mood is hard to pin. His body language is tense, his wings spread in defense, and he hasn’t allowed me into the room. However, he is smiling at me and still offered his name, and the door hasn’t been slammed in my face.

Then, from within the room, a softer version of Millicent’s voice—something I did not think possible—floats to the hall.

“Ollie, don’t talk to strange men.”

Oliver huffs, crossing his arms.

“This one stinks of magic, Misses! BAD business!” His tiny nostrils flare as if confirming this assessment. “I will keep him at bay! No boys allowed!”

A spark of wild magic whirls in the air around him, erratically zigzagging toward the door in a frenzied streak of blue lightning. The wooden slab slams shut, or at least tries to.

My hand shoots out, stopping it with a sharp thud. My fingers brace against the wood.

Oliver scowls, his features scrunching into what I assume is an attempted glare. But with his misshapen features, it looks more like a confused pout.

Then he pounces for my gut.

I don’t bother moving. What damage could something this small possibly do?

Before I can find out, Millicent scoops him up, catching him mid-air with ease.

She pulls him flush against her chest, her arms banding tightly around his waist to keep him in place.

Oliver writhes, snarling, pouting, and kicking like a feral beast or an upset toddler.

“Lemme at him, Misses!” he howls, wings flapping in protest.

It’s clearly doing nothing, but I’ll give him this: the little guy’s got heart.

“No, you are too strong for him, and I need him alive,” Millicent murmurs, her lips brushing against the imps’ large, floppy ear.

Ollie stiffens, his tiny claws twitching against her arms. Apparently disappointed, he crossed his stubby arms tightly over his stomach, pressing them into that round belly of his.

I tighten my lips, suppressing a chuckle as he louts out a long, dramatic huff.

The feral little thing actually wants to maul me.

“Leave now. I will see you later,” Millicent says softly, pressing a kiss to the ugly thing’s cheek.

I watch, making a note of it in case she ever decides to risk anyone’s life or harm anyone.

The Le Strange has a weakness.

A rather blatant one to say the least. She’s not so different from the others.

They all grow up the same way, replicas of one another, molded in their coven’s fucked up belief system.

I know what she is.

Intimately.

A small plume of smoke poofs in the air as Oliver vanishes, leaving us alone.

“You know, I’ve heard familiars are like their witches in some ways.” I muse, tilting my head as I watch Millicent closely. “Is he also a little bitey?”

I’m not really asking. I just want to get a rise out of her. If I have to suffer her presence, then she won’t be at peace either.

Millicent doesn’t hesitate. “I will make sure he gets you next time and you can find out.” Her voice mimics mine, down to the same inflection.

I arch a brow.

Little witch.

Still, knowing we actually have to make it to dinner without attempting to kill each other, I decide to be the mature one.

I step out, assuming she will follow. And sure enough, the heavy thud of her boots trail behind me. Even in silence, I can feel her distaste clinging to me, pressing against me like acid on the back of my tongue.

We walk for the longest ten minutes of my life.

Then the royal dining hall looms before us.

Gold. Everywhere.

The sheer sight of it’s blinding as light reflects off the dinnerware, statues, and even the intricate carvings on the massive dining table.

Servants weave around the space setting out platters of rich meats, steaming breads, and fruits so vibrant they almost don’t look real.

The room is designed to be a spectacle, the elongated table capable of seating twenty guests. Tonight, though, it is reserved for only a select few.

Guards stand rigidly in the corners of the hall, their gold-plated armor gleaming under the chandelier’s glow.

Everything about this room demands attention.

Felix is already seated at the head of the table, his infamous golden curls catching the candlelight.

“Ah! Welcome! Come, sit, Millicent,” he says warmly, rising from his seat and pulling out the chair beside him.

I nearly laugh at the look on Millicent’s face as she approaches. One would think manners insult her.

Felix, of course, doesn’t bat an eye.

That’s the thing about him. He’s the type that doesn’t need to be mirrored or returned. He’s a rare type of man—a rare type of king—even he was forced into the role at such a young age.

Felix was my first true friend here—before Kalix, before anyone else. I would dare say my best friend.

I was young when his father welcomed me into the castle. Back then, I didn’t care about my position.

I only cared about two things: food and stability.

After the Le strange incident, I was always moving, always going somewhere new. Vyraxis was my only constant.

Those years were easier with her. She protected me. Our bond transcends the material world. Our souls intertwined the day she was created.

Felix is different.

He isn’t bound to me like Vyraxis. He isn’t a creature of magic or some part of me made whole. He was simply there. A tangible force. A tether to something real.

The sun illuminates the darker parts of us and brings them to light.

Felix did that for me.

He was my first ray of sun after so many years in the dark. He saved me from the self-isolation, from the loneliness that gnawed at me, from the addiction to power that threatened to consume me whole.

Yet, the hunger is still there—still stirring, still whispering, still wanting for more.

The “more” that I chase now is different.

More laughter. More time together. More training to protect them .

I don’t think Millicent has ever felt this.

I glance at her, the little hellion sitting stiffly beside Tyran.

She wouldn’t understand.

“Please, it’s Felix while we have dinner. I insist!”

Felix settles back into his seat, preening over Millicent, ensuring she finds everything to her liking.

The familiar weight of Kalix’s footsteps resounds from the entryway.

I turn to greet him, but before I can, something flickers in my periphery. A flash of red, vivid and striking, cutting through the room’s golden glow.

Iris.

Her fiery curls bouncing as she overtakes Kalix’s presence although he dwarfs her, so much so that it is almost comical.

Kalix may be the captain of the guard, a commander used to leading entire battalions, but it doesn’t matter.

Because Iris bosses us all around.

Eyes locked on Millicent like she’s never seen another woman before, Iris boldly slides into the seat beside her.

Kalix, as usual, plops into the chair with all the grace of a collapsing wall. His weight slams into the seat so hard the wooden legs groan under the impact.

Felix, who has been in the middle of one of his long-winded rambles, pauses long enough to extend a warm hand toward Iris.

“Millicent, this is Iris. Iris, this is Millicent Le Strange,” he announces, his tone as inviting as ever.

Iris turns to Millicent, her full attention fixed on her, her eyes alight with curiosity and amusement. “A Le Strange witch! I am shocked one of you even came out here.”

Millicent remains composed. “Strange times,” she replies smoothly. Then her eyes sweep over Iris, assessing, searching. “You have magic, yet I see no markings? Are you a mage?”

Her gaze flicks over the slivers of exposed skin, visible from where Iris’s dark green overalls dip at the ribs and shoulders. If Iris were marked like witches, Millicent would have already seen the evidence.

Iris throws her head back and laughs, her body shaking with amusement. Her laughter lightens the room. It always does.

“Goddess above, no!” She exclaims, pulling her hair forward and twisting, sliding her straps down to reveal her back.

I already know what Millicent will see.

Across Iris’s back, an intricate tree, its sage-green swirls shimmer like winding patterns of living energy. It coils from the center of her spine before branches extend toward her shoulders.

The sight of it snags my chest.

An urge.