Page 16 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Millicent

I. Temptation

“Entity can access the host’s imagination, attack perceptions, and infuse thoughts into their minds.

The beginning of the fall from grace.”

-The Wretched Sacrament

I TAKE MY DINNERS OUTSIDE now, seated on a worn stone bench half-consumed by moss.

The garden is quiet here, untouched by the castle’s endless movement.

The willow trees drape their limbs low, like thin fingers trailing in the cold breeze.

I prefer this part of the garden—it’s undisturbed, and the hush of the wind is my only company.

The air has sharpened with the season’s change.

It feels crisp and refreshing. I welcome the chill, it keeps me present.

Grounded. Setting down my bowl of grapes, I pull my knees to my chest, tucking them beneath the folds of my dark blue gown.

Beyond the hedges, the night thickens like a dark expanse swallowing the garden.

My thumbs graze the soft cotton stretched taut over my knees as the evening begins to breathe.

“Millicent.”

The whisper drifts through the wind.

Nightmother .

Darkness stirs in response. It seeps across the grass, twisting around the brush, and slithering up the willow trees. The garden wilts beneath its touch, dulling into a barren landscape where life is devoured by the void.

The hollowness creeps outward, until it reaches me…fills me.

Echoing the hollowness, my next heartbeat feels distant, as if my pulse is no longer mine. I inhale deeply, letting the cold air flood my lungs.

I EXHALE, WATCHING MY brEATH coil into the cold air. Another breath—haaa — the sound rolling out like a firebreather’s conjuring, as though I might summon warmth from deep within.

Snowflakes swirl around me, gathering in my cupped hands. I lift them closer, marveling at every snowflake. I try to memorize each unique shape. I wish to paint them for hours, but the moment warmth touches them, they vanish—a quiet loss. I forget within a moment what they looked like.

Suddenly—impact. A burst of cold against my coat.

Arcadia.

She grins from behind a low stone wall, her white hair blending into the snow. She’s peeking at me through snow-dusted air.

I laugh—wild, untamed—and crouch low, my hands already working to pack my own snowball. She won’t win this fight.

“Arcadia!” I laugh, rising to launch a snowball straight at her head.

She yelps, narrowly dodging as I take off after her, giggling. The snow fights back, dragging at my shins and climbing to my knees, but I push through. Arcadia’s laughter echoes ahead, so light and free, like it belongs to someone untouched by the world.

Out of all the girls our age, Arcadia is my best friend. We always said we were soulmates of a sort. Opposites in every way—her white hair, deep mahogany skin, and golden eyes are stark against my black hair, pale skin, and ice-blue eyes. Yin and yang, we call it. A balance only we understood.

Then, the crunch of footsteps behind me draws my attention.

I stop short, my breath still caught in a laugh. Turning, the cold air stills my lungs.

“Nora.”

I bow deeply, the weight of my skirts pulling snow into the folds of the fabric. The sight makes me smile—for once, the black I wear like all the other girls is marked by something else. Something uniquely mine.

I rub my cold hands together, trying to coax warmth into them. I cup them close when that fails and blow hot air over my palms.

Nora’s smile is tight, but that is just how she is. Mama used to say not to mind it, so I never do. Arcadia is long gone; I don’t blame her. The other girls avoid the elders unless summoned. They are busy. We’re not to waste their time.

Nora steps forward, reaches out, cupping my face. “You are freezing, little one.” She strokes my skin softly, so tenderly that my heart melts. I drink up every ounce of affection I can get. I miss Mama every day. Grief is a living, breathing creature inside me, a beast that never truly sleeps.

“How about you come inside?” Nora murmurs, her thumbs smoothing over my cheekbones. “Warm yourself.”

Nora says not to cry. Crying is a weakness, and it will not bring Mama back.

I still cry.

Alone, in the dark. With Ollie curled against me, or Arcadia’s hand in mine.

Nora is right. Crying does nothing.

And yet, I cannot stop.

She takes my hand. Her grip is firm—final—like she has decided something for me again. I let her lead me across the main yard, toward the building that houses her office. This time, she does not take me upstairs.

She leads me down.

A door I have never touched: red wood, forbidden to all but the elders. She opens it without hesitation, and I step inside before I can think the better of it, before I can give action to the deep tug in my gut attempting to force me to back away.

Soon, the air begins to change.

What little warmth the world had above vanishes as we descend. The stone steps spiral downward to an underground system of tunnels.

The scent of iron. Damp Stone. Still water.

The tunnels stretch ahead, lined with flickering sconces that cast long shadows against the tan rock. I wonder who carved these halls, who dug through the earth to shape them, how old they are, and why they even exist.

We take the left fork, and the air grows heavier.

The passage widens into a cavern, its ceiling jagged with large amethyst crystals jutting down like fangs. Thin rivulets of liquid seep into the stone, dripping into a pool of dark water. As I stare at the water, pin-like prickles of awareness spread across my body.

Not right, not natural. My magic stirs, awakening in response.

Nora does not stop.

She leads me past the water, past the crystals, toward something…out of place. A living space?

I see a deep-red rug, circular and worn at the edges; a dilapidated stone fireplace; an old loveseat, its leather flaking like dried skin; and a low wooden table, dark and squat and thick with dust.

Still, something is wrong here; I feel it in my bones.

“Elanora…I thought we were going to get warm?” My voice is barely a whisper, my fingers tightening around hers as unease prickles up my spine.

This chamber is certainly not warm. The winter months have frozen the ground above, but here, beneath the earth, the chill feels…unnatural.

Nora’s thumb caresses the back of my hand, coaxing me to press on.

She leads me to the circular red carpet, its surface marked with strange runes, symbols I do not recognize.

This is not a place for warmth.

She sinks first, then she gently tugs my hands, guiding me to sit before her.

“I will make you warm,” she murmurs, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard. “You will never go cold again. Never go hungry. The only hunger you will know is the drive to be more, to do more, to go further than anyone else you encounter.”

“You are so rare Millie.”

Nora’s fingers glide across my cheek, tucking a loose curl behind my ear.

“I know Mama is not here and I’m so sorry.”

Her voice stirs something deep in my chest. My throat tightens. My eyes sting with tears I try not to shed.

“That mage will pay for what he did to our family. You may even be the one to make him pay one day. Who knows?”

A tear finally falls. My weakness exploited in front of my elder just as it was exploited the night the mage took everything from me.

For Mama and my sisters, I would make him pay.

“For now, we must focus on our future. You are a big part of that.”

Her tone shifts, as if this isn’t a choice but a fact.

“Only fifteen, and you are extremely strong.” Nora cups my face, “Not since your mother has our coven seen such power. And even she was not nearly what you are. What you will become.”

Her eyes gleam with intensity, locking onto mine. As she speaks, I understand the desire in her eyes. Not unkind, rather, it’s an expectation.

Purpose.

Her pride in me means everything. And in these moments, I feel worthy.

“I will help make you stronger. You trust me, yes?”

Her voice weaves through me so easily. Silken. Coaxing.

I nod before I even think.

“Of course, I love you,” I squeeze her hand trying to reassure her.

“Of course you do,” Nora smiles warmly.

She releases my hands, raising one toward the ceiling.

Beneath the amethyst crystals, the water stirs with a ripple, a shift. It rises.

A single tendril spirals up from the pool, slithering through the air like a living thing. I watch, until it coils into her palm.

It changes. The liquid solidifies, stretching its form and revealing a base, a stem, and then the cup.

It’s a chalice born from nothing. Yet, there is something awful about its surface.

I trace the engravings—a faceless creature with a mouth open wide. There are no eyes. Its arms—four of them—are clawed and jagged. The depiction is craved in jagged scribbles. The lines are too faint to form a clear image in the chaos, but a chill crawls up my spine.

The stem is bone. The base is a fragment of a human skull.

Slowly, the cup fills. The liquid is thick, black, and slick as oil. My breath tightens. My heartbeat pounds.

Everything in me screams—run. Like a ship’s horn in the fog blasting in my head.

Something in here is wrong. Deeply, irreparably wrong

The tendril retracts, sliding back into the pond. The water ripples and then stills, as if nothing had disturbed it at all.

Nora lowers the cup to my lips.

“Drink,” she murmurs. Her voice is smooth and unshakable. There’s no room for argument.

“Drink to never go hungry, to never go cold, to never let your coven die again—"

“To avenge your Mama.”

Her eyes do not waver.

I do not want to need for things.

I do not want this emptiness.

I do not want to be weak ever again.

I do not want to let Mama down.

With a shaking hand I reach out. My fingers brush the chalice stem; it’s deathly cold. A grimace twists my face as the chill bites deep, sinking into my bones. Even the snow outside—the mounds of snow gathered with my bare hands—could not compare.

“Your mama would be so proud of you.” Nora whispers.