Page 19 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Millicent

I CHANGE, SO I DON’T have my skin rotted or burned off. As if I’d ever fight in a dress. The very notion is idiotic, and his presumption just pissed me off more than I care to admit.

Sometimes, my memories pull me under. They washed over me not as passing thoughts but as living, breathing moments. I feel them, see them, and hear them as if I never left. I had been drowning in them, lost in the storm of a day that reshaped my life.

The first necessary step to power.

I never heard Cage call my name or noticed his presence. I recall only the sharp snapping of his fingers in my face, dragging me back. The vulnerability of it—the thought of him watching me, observing my mind fracture in real-time—makes me want to puke.

His hands on me evoked a mix of nausea and feelings too shameful to name. It’s not that my darker sexual appetites shame me. It’s that he baited them out. I don’t want to feel any lust when he is around.

Shoving the feelings down, I slip into my usual combat attire: my trusty black bodysuit, form-fitting and practical, paired with a harness for my sickle blades. My fingers work through the motions, tightening straps and fastening buckles. My hair is pulled into two tight braids.

I follow the unmistakable sound of Iris’s shrill, high-pitched giggle.

It leads me to a room that feels more like a lavish sitting area than a meeting room: plush red couches, a golden bar gleaming under warm light, and a grand fireplace.

Kalix sits at the bar, his posture impatient as he swirls whiskey around in his glass.

Iris, ever excitable, hops off the couch and bounds toward me the moment she spots me.

“There you are! I’ve been waiting to explain some things to you,” Iris exclaims, her green eyes sparkling with excitement.

She swings the satchel off her shoulder, delicately pulling out an array of tools: a vial, a syringe, a shallow dish, surgical blades, and some other implements I don’t recognize.

“Use the syringes to collect any gooey or bloody samples—drool, slime, I don’t care!

” She holds up the vial next and a dish.

“Vial for liquids, dish for solids. You can use the blades to scrape off anything useful. The more samples, the better, since we’re still figuring out what matters most.” Her eyes flick to my hands.

“I’d advise wearing gloves. If you don’t have any, I brought extras; they’re on the table. ”

She shoves everything back into the satchel and hands it to me. Adjusting the strap so it won’t hinder my movements, I nod my head toward the table. “Gross. Will do…and thanks for the gloves.”

As I glance to the side, I notice Kalix is completely absorbed in his whiskey. A question rises unbidden, pressing at my lips before I can stop it.

“Why are you here?”

Iris stills for half a second before offering me a small, knowing smile.

“It’s honestly a long and boring story. I wasn’t brought here against my will.

I chose to find my own happiness.” Her tone is genuine and sincere, but something unspoken flickers in her eyes—a sadness buried beneath her practiced ease.

She keeps her voice low, as if reluctant to invite the weight of the conversation in the room. I appreciate it.

“You are a witch? Your coven? And these are all humans?” I ask in disbelief. The very idea of leaving one’s sisters—to live among vermin—is unfathomable.

Iris meets my eyes and doesn’t hesitate.

“I am a witch,” she says steadily. “And a proud one at that, but I choose my family. My coven, they’re not my family.

” Her tone hardens like iron beneath silk.

“Cage, Felix, Kalix—they’re my family. You may not understand, but I hope, for your sake, that one day you do.

Our covens are not all there is. What they do is cruel.

We can choose our lives. We can choose our family…

shit, who we love even!” Emotion thickens her voice, threatening to spill over.

“And, for once, Millicent, I get to decide what I wear, where I go. And no elders control me here.”

I fold my arms, and my tone is colder than I intend. “I could never betray my family like that.”

The words are a reflex, ingrained through years of devotion. A coven is sacred. You live and die for your sisters. You give everything for them.

Iris’s expression hardens, but there’s still something flickering behind her eyes, raw and unguarded.

“I wish they felt the same about us.” Then she excuses herself, sighing.

Her exit is heavy. She’s frustrated. At the doorway, she pauses just for a second.

When she glances back at me, there’s something in her gaze.

Pity.

I don’t understand it. The thought burrows under my skin. I refuse to acknowledge it. Instead, I walk to the table, slipping on a pair of gloves. The silence lingers a little too long before Kalix’s voice, rougher than Cage’s smoother cadence, cuts through the air.

Kalix pauses, running a hand through his hair as he swirls his whiskey.

“Iris does not need me to protect her, but my baby is a crier. If you make her cry, it won’t end well for any of us.

” His voice is gruff but carries an air of affection.

“You don’t know her story, and she doesn’t know yours.

She wasn’t always like this. She had dark days; her coven life was hard. ”

He swirls the amber liquid in his glass before downing it in one swift motion. Setting the empty glass onto the bar, he rolls his shoulders, relaxing his muscles.

“I don’t hate witches, Millicent. Hell, not even the Le Strange ones.

” His gaze flicks toward me. “I’ve seen girls like you.

Hardened into weapons, until there’s nothing left.

I’m not saying I know your story, but I will say, I don’t hate you for it.

Because we have all been in dark places and done even darker things. ”

My eyebrows pinch together, not understanding why we were still on this topic.

“I haven’t been in any dark places,” I state, as a matter of fact. “Not outside of what others have inflicted. I don’t know about other covens, but mine’s the best. The strongest.” Pride settles deep in my chest. I turn to face him.

Kalix huffs a quiet laugh and shifts on his stool, crossing one ankle over his knee.

Leaning back against the bar, he props his elbow up.

His posture is loose, but his smirk is sharp.

“Okay, denial, we don’t have to talk about it.

” He speaks smoothly, but there’s something teasing in it—like he knows something I don’t.

Then, without missing a beat, ”Now tell me, have you really fucked a guy and eaten his liver to have a baby?”

I choke on nothing. His tone takes me off guard. “What the hell? Do I give that kind of aura off?”

Kalix snickers, his grin widening. “I’ve heard that witches do it. Gotta make sure we’re safe. It’s just a general screening question.”

He lifts an imaginary notepad and pretends to write something down. “Next one. Do you turn into a pig on a full moon?”

I snort at the foolishness of his question, “Yeah, totally. I grow wings, too,” I mumble sarcastically.

“Uh-huh. I see.” Kalix pretends to scribble more notes. “Terrible news—you’re delusional. I’m afraid you suffer from pig-related hallucinations. When did this desire to be a pig first start? Is it a fetish? This is a safe place.” He nods solemnly, like a concerned doctor.

I can’t help the laugh that escapes me, masking it with a cough as I smooth my expression back into its usual blank canvas. Kalix catches it anyway, his smug smile widening just as Cage strides into the room, looking ready for a fight.

His presence shifts the mood entirely.

My eyes flick to his armor, and I’m curious whether his attire is made from the onyx scales of his dragon.

The plating covers his torso and legs, bound together at the seams with thick leather.

The same dark material extends up his neck and down his arms, clinging tightly to his frame and leaving little of his skin exposed.

His sword, ever present at his hip, gleams under the lamplight.

“Let’s head out,” he commands, turning on his heel without waiting for acknowledgement.

I grip the leather strap of my satchel, falling into step behind him with Kalix close behind.

Outside, three horses await us, each a varying shade of brown.

I step up to the smallest one, judging it to be the fastest and, more importantly, the easiest to mount.

Slipping my foot into the stirrup, I swing my leg over the saddle in one fluid motion.

I shift my position with a firm grip on the horn.

Beside me, Kalix and Cage mount their steeds with practiced grace. Without a word, Cage urges his horse forward, and we follow. The heavy gates groan as they rise, and, trading glances, we ride into the night.

Exiting the castle under cover of darkness is bleak.

The plains stretch out before us, dotted with sparse trees swaying in the breeze.

We cross a small bridge and the landscape changes; scattered houses soon give way to a dense cluster of towering apartment-style homes.

Even at this hour, the city is alive. Tavern music spills into the streets, mingling with the laughter of drunks and the distant clatter of hooves on cobblestone.

As we ride deeper, the houses become smaller, the spaces between them widening. The noise fades. The air thickens with the scent of damp earth, hay, and livestock. My horse snorts. A sharp, acrid scent—fertilizer—makes my nose wrinkle just as my mount rears. It stomps its hooves in protest.

Cage reins in his own agitated steed. “We go on foot from here. The animals won’t get any closer. They know something isn’t right.”

I glance at him, then at Kalix’s horse. Both are equally unsettled.