Page 2 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

I can’t help but entertain my little familiar. “Ah, shall I become an imp then? Maybe I’ll rest.” I offer him a smile, one I’ve shared with no one but Arcadia. Yet even then, my love for Ollie is something entirely different. He’s a part of me both figuratively and literally.

Ollie flashes me a toothy grin. I swear it reminds me of a feral, elderly dog. “Me Misses is perfect! She just needs wine!” His small, chubby three-fingered clawed hand pats my leg in what he must think is reassurance.

I raise a brow, teasing, as I point out the flaw in his solution that came far too often. “You’ll make a drunkard of me.”

He looks at me, completely confused as to why this would even be an issue. I can’t help but chuckle, amused by my imp’s silent judgement of my lack of enthusiasm.

I yawn, and instantly, Ollie responds. The confusion on his face disappears, replaced by a determined focus.

He’s ready to help me recover from my nightmare.

Ollie rises, pushing up on his knees, and motions for me to turn my back to him.

Our bedtime routine takes hold like a well-worn habit.

I lie on my side, facing away from him, and out of thin air, he conjures a brush.

He begins combing through my tangled hair, humming a soft tune, the same one I often hum to myself. Each stroke of the brush is gentle, soothing, as if he is trying to brush away more than just the knots in my hair.

My gaze wanders across my room, settling on the aged bookshelves lining the walls. The books are a disarray of frayed pages and worn spines telling stories of their own.

I’m half tempted to read until I grow drowsy again, but Ollie’s ongoing war with my tangles assures me I won’t be leaving this bed anytime soon.

My gaze drifts to the large window at the center of my wall. The moon hangs high, its silver light spilling across the room. It feels as though she’s watching— always watching.

A prickle runs down the back of my neck, an awareness that makes me inhale sharply. Then, it comes, a hauntingly familiar voice that I know better than my own.

Her words slip into my mind, a sensual whisper that seems to echo with an impossible duality. How can one speak so softly and sweetly yet so hoarsely and deep at once?

“Sleep, my star,” she sings, her voice a chilling caress that sends shivers down my spine.

It’s only now that I notice the tremor in my hand and the pause in Ollie’s brushing. She releases me, her laughter trailing behind. It is as much a mockery as the name she calls me.

I swallow the pain that the affectionate nickname stirs deep inside me. My star. A name once filled with warmth, a name that my mother used for me. Now, it is a reminder of what I’ve lost.

I’ve read that some animals must consume rocks to digest their food. Bearing that weight is what allows them to survive. Pain has become my stones. I consume it in gluttonous amounts to help me stomach this world from the ache it brings, to let me survive.

As Oliver resumes brushing, each stroke of the bristles glide over my scalp, soothing me deeply. The tension drains from my body, muscles loosening with every gentle pass. My eyes grow heavier until, at last, they slide shut.

GROANING, I PULL A PILLOW over my head to block the offensive sunlight streaming through the oversized window.

The window feels far too large for this small room.

I hate early mornings. The sun’s rays are relentless in its pursuit, ensuring I don’t get another minute of rest. Today is a sleep-in day, I decide, as the exhaustion in my body agrees after yet another restless night.

A knock at the door ruins my great plan.

The sweet, singsong voice of Arcadia floats in as the door creaks open. “Good morning, sunshine! Rise on up! Elanora wishes to see you,” she chirps, clearly for no other reason than to piss me off.

It is working.

“Lovely. I can’t wait,” I say, sarcastically rolling onto my back and finally sitting up.

Cadia smirks, leaning casually against my doorway. “Oh, yes, my queen. Duty calls.”

The teasing nickname pulls a reluctant smile to my lips and warmth to my chest, the kind only she can manage.

There was little that could dampen her mood.

She’s sunshine personified, with her tight white curls—thick, wild, and untamed—contrasting with the deep, rich tone of her skin.

It reminded me of the soil in the gardens after fresh rain, dark and full of life.

Golden witch marks shimmer on her chest, climbing from beneath her breasts, swirling up her sternum and across her cleavage in intricate swirls and dips.

If the sun could be melted into paint, then it was used to draw every mark on her skin.

Her almond-shaped eyes hold the same brilliance, the golden hues swirling with vibrant life.

To showcase her marks, Arcadia had to dress rather exposed, choosing gowns designed specifically for her.

The necklines of her custom coven attire plunged into deep, daring V-cuts that reached her navel, orchestrated deliberately to flaunt the intricate beauty of her markings.

Despite her warm and inviting presence, her power was anything but.

Arcadia was a curse user, a rarity in our coven.

Her mother had fled her own coven and sought sanctuary here, an extraordinary request that Nora only allowed because of the devastating power her mother possessed.

That same power now lived on in Arcadia.

I slide from bed, unsurprised that Ollie is already gone. The little imp is always somewhere, doing something, and never sticks around for very long.

Grabbing a casual black gown from my wardrobe, I quickly slip out of my nightgown, tossing it aside, and shimmy the gown over my hips and bust. The coven gowns were all identical, for it is customary in many covens to match or at least follow a shared theme.

Ours were made from lightweight and comfortable fabrics that draped loosely on our hips down to our ankles.

Each gown had a built-in bodice to keep our chests secure and waists cinched and, of course, short sleeves to display our witch marks.

I catch sight of mine shimmering in the mirror, silver networks of intricate lines that stretch from my shoulders to my wrists. The number of markings reflected one’s power, a fact Nora insisted we highlight. To outsiders, they served as a show of force within the coven. They established rank.

When I was younger, it was exciting to watch my marks come in. Power develops slowly, and it isn’t until one’s first bleed that the true strength begins to fill us. My journey into power was even more complicated.

I was told since I was little that I was rare, not just in the loving way my mother would say it but in the harsh, exacting way Nora would remind me.

If I played too much with the others, if I stepped out of line or didn’t study as long as she deemed necessary, I’d hear it.

As I grew older, I learned what they meant by “rare.”

I possess blood magic and dark magic, a potent combination not seen in centuries. I am the only witch to possess two forms of magic. Such power comes at a cost.

Ancient texts speak of power in cryptic whispers, their pages worn and their words faded. They all ask the same question: What would you give for power?

Anything. I have given everything, and they have taken it.

“Going to stare at yourself all day?” Arcadia snickers from the door, pulling me from my thoughts.

I roll my eyes as I cross the room toward her. Her jab about my vanity is almost laughable coming from the most vain woman I know. “Well, when my marks and tits look this good, how can I not?”

The comment transforms us both into simple giggling girls. As soon as I realize I’m laughing, I stop myself, wiping the feeling away and replacing my smile with the emotionless mask I always wear.

Arcadia’s laughter fades, understanding softening her expression as she offers me a gentle smile. She doesn’t press me, doesn’t need to.

Arcadia got to play with others as a child, free to laugh and love. She was ignored by Nora, cherished by her mother, and once she reached the age to leave the coven, she took the opportunity without hesitation. Now she’s always on the move, tasting and touching everything the world has to offer.

I wasn’t so lucky. I lost my mother, was taught isolation, the rules stacked high against me. My life is defined by limits. The simplest one of many: I cannot leave the coven walls without Nora’s instruction.

I was Nora’s fixation, her project. We were so different. I knew I couldn’t let myself be seen laughing or bonding, especially by the elders. It would violate one of the most important rules she taught me—isolation.

My magic is volatile, tied tightly to emotions.

When they rise, my power endangers everyone around me, friend or foe.

For everyone’s safety, including my own, Nora has drilled isolation into me since I was young.

Her lessons were clear: if I wasn’t close to anyone, they couldn’t hurt me, and my meltdowns could be avoided.

Still, I hid my relationship with Arcadia. The shameful truth is that I longed to be close to others, to feel more than the numbness Nora demanded of me. Nothing is more shameful to me than my own desires.

We part ways, and I make my way toward the tall, spiraling tower to the east side of an academic wing, where Nora’s office resides. The cool air of the hallway is a welcome reprieve from the morning sun.

Guided by memory, I walk down the hall, turning left and climbing the winding, dark steps lit only by slivers of sunlight slipping through small windows.

At the top, I stop before the wooden door.

Anxious nerves bundle up low in my stomach, the knot forming there solidifying.

I knock and wait for permission to enter.

“Enter,” a cold voice calls out, snuffing out any traces of warmth Arcadia had left behind.