Page 25 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Millicent

I HAVE NEVER BEEN INSIDE Iris’s lab, but as a Necromancer, I expected some grim space filled with carcasses.

I’d heard tales of Necromancer covens—how their god-like egos made them insufferable, their creations prowling the grounds like extensions of their will.

Their buildings were rumored to have towering steel rods spiraling into the sky, calling lightning to fuel their twisted experiments.

I imagined blood-streaked floors, air thick with decay, and instruments with purposes I couldn’t even begin to name.

The wooden door slams open with a resounding thud as Kalix kicks it with enough force to send it crashing into the stone wall.

“Classy as always,” Cage remarks, shoving his hands in his pockets. He strolls past Kalix like someone who has been here many times before.

Kalix lets out a disgruntled huff. “I carried a rotting corpse through half the damn castle. I’ll kick open whatever door I damn well please.” He stomps inside, the bundled body still slung over his shoulder.

I take a step back, observing the ease with which he carries the thing. Kalix is a large man, all strength and brutal efficiency, but his endurance is what impresses me most. He’s carried that weight all the way from the horses, through the winding halls, and up the stairs without breaking a sweat.

The lab is nothing like I imagined. Instead of the dim, blood-soaked dungeon I expected, light floods the space, casting warm hues of yellow, green, and red across the atrium.

The ceiling is formed by massive, circular windowpanes with colored glass that filters the sunlight into dancing patterns along the stone floor.

Shelves line the vast, circular room, stacked with glass bottles in every shade imaginable.

Between them, potted plants spill their vines toward the ground, weaving through the space like living decoration.

The air hums with energy that feels alive.

It’s warm. Bright. Full of vitality. The air is fresh despite the corpses around—almost sterile with hints of herbal notes from the multitude of plants.

It’s the complete opposite of what I had prepared myself for.

At the center, Iris stands hunched over a steel table, sawing into a carcass. She doesn’t seem the least bit disturbed. A record spins in a wooden player beside her, its golden flower-shaped speaker pouring out a gentle, rhythmic melody that feels utterly out of place.

Hearing us enter, she pauses mid-cut and lifts her head.

Her peculiar goggles—bulky and strange—are fitted with at least ten rotating lenses.

She tugs them up onto her forehead, revealing sharp green eyes that glint with curiosity.

It’s almost absurd, the way she butchers a carcass in a room bathed in colored light and the scent of fresh plants.

She’s dressed in deep-moss green overalls, the fabric speckled with dried stains; whether they’re from blood or something else, I can’t tell. Her fiery hair is pulled back into a loose half-up style, allowing a few wild strands to tumble freely down her back.

“Back already? And you brought a gift?” Her eyes lock onto Kalix as he makes his way to an empty steel table.

“A whole mutated corpse—your favorite,” he grunts, hauling the bundle off his shoulder. The body lands with a dull, wet thud on the metal surface.

Iris wipes her hands clean on a rag, then pushes her goggles up, placing them on her forehead, tucking them just above her bangs. “Oh, goodie!” She beams, her excitement almost childlike. She might be an oddity among Necromancers, but her fascination with the dead is on brand.

Cage drags a stool closer and plops onto it, leaning back against the table behind him. He motions to the corpse, “We brought samples too—another specimen. Millicent killed both, so she can give you the details.”

Iris claps her hands together. “Ah, the first day out, and you’re already handling it all!

How exciting.” Her voice is warm, strangely delighted given the circumstances.

“I’ll need a full report, but be warned, I’ll write down everything you say.

” She hums as she reaches impatiently for the cloak covering the body, her fingers curling around the fabric, ready to peel it back.

Before she can, Kalix’s hand shoots out, catching her wrist.

“Slow down, Iris.” He says firmly with no room for argument. “Millicent said there’s something wrong with this one when you touch it. I’ll do it.” His thumb brushes over her wrist before releasing her, and she hesitates only for a moment before pulling her hand back. Her gaze flicks to me.

“What happens when you touch it?” Her curiosity sharpens along with her tone.

Kalix begins unwrapping the body, his hands are ironically careful despite his brute strength.

I step forward, finally moving deeper into the lab.

My eyes adjust to the way the daylight hits the corpse.

Under the warm glow, it looks more unsettling than in the cave.

“A Crepitus Vox was present.” I say steadily, but my mind is still reeling.

“No one can break into my mind—yet when my foot touched this girl, or whatever she was, it just…let it in.” I stare down at the corpse, still puzzled, replaying the event in my mind.

Now fully exposed under the daylight, it’s even clearer that this had once been a girl—somehow reanimated, twisted into something terribly inhuman.

Iris absorbs my words in silence, her eyes flicking between mine and the body.

Then, as if I had just handed her the most exciting puzzle of her life, she grins.

“I am most intrigued.” She pivots on her heels, her boots clattering from all the buckles strapped across them.

“I’ll get to slicing and dicing right away. ”

She strides toward a workbench, retrieving an array of tools.

The room is lined with metal tables, each holding something different—glass beakers, swirling vials, distillation equipment, and stacks of surgical instruments.

Others, like the bone saw, are far more…

intense. There are other devices I don’t recognize, ones covered in barbs and coils that I don’t want to recognize.

“How hard is your mind to break into?” Iris calls over her shoulder, lifting a spiraling drill with a wooden handle. Kalix moves to her side, extending his hands as she starts stacking tools into them. He watches her with an amused smirk.

“Pretty damn hard,” I reply, crossing my arms. “I’ve been trained to shield since I was young, and I am two hundred years old.

” I don’t often dwell on my age, but right now, I feel it.

The reminder gnaws at me; today, something managed to breach my mind.

A space I had guarded viciously. A feat no one had ever accomplished, but one.

Kalix snorts, “Shit, you are old.”

I hear him yelp before I even look up. Iris has pinched him, hard, mumbling under her breath, “I’m one hundred and twenty . What does that make me, little mortal?”

Kalix grins, flexing his arms as he clutches her tools tighter to his chest like a prize. “A cradle snatcher. A cougar mama, if you will. Little mama . ” He leans obnoxiously close trying to nip at her cheek.

Iris swats at him but with a smile tugging at her lips. “Down!” She corrects, smacking him lightly on the nose as if he is an unruly pup. Kalix’s laughter fills the room, a deep, rich sound, warm as aged wine, reverberating through the bright space.

Cage watches them with a bemused smile of his own. “I am two hundred and six. I suppose that makes me the ancient one here.”

Kalix, still following Iris like an obedient pup, nods without looking back. She carries nothing but a simple rag, while he is loaded down with her supplies. The contrast is almost comical—his burly frame towering over her as he hauls her tools like a dutiful pack mule.

“It’s true,” Kalix muses, placing the instruments down with exaggerated care. “Which is why I kick your ass when we spar. Your old blood just isn’t up to par.” His grin is full of smug confidence.

Cage rolls his eyes. “Right. That’s definitely why you occasionally win. Has nothing to do with other reasons.”

A silent exchange passes between them, one of those wordless conversations built from years of familiarity. Cage’s silver gaze narrows ever so slightly, assessing. Kalix’s smirk deepens, his posture relaxed but knowing.

Iris, either uninterested in their silent game or deliberately ignoring it, turns her attention to me.

“It’s not that I doubt you’re skilled,” she says lightly, but there’s a thread of calculation in her tone.

“For measurement and documentation purposes, I just need to understand the extent of your defenses …” She trails off as her gaze flicks between us, hopeful, her bright grin an attempt at reassurance.

“Would you be open to letting Cage attempt to break into your mind? It would help me gauge where the strength lies. Ultimately, the hope is that it will help us understand how this girl let the Crep in. Certain magics and curses have their own weaknesses. If I can identify what it is, I might be able to counteract it.”

I revolt at the very thought. Letting him in—even attempting it—is unthinkable. There is too much in my mind he is not allowed to see. It would leave me vulnerable, leave an exposed nerve ready for him to exploit. I would be a fool to allow that so willingly.

“No.” My voice is curt, final. My muscles tense at the suggestion, the finality of my answer resonating down to my bones.

I place my hands on the steel table, forcing my attention to the corpse.

A distraction. I study the body as if it holds answers, as if I haven’t already looked it over a dozen times.

I feel Cage’s stare before I even glance up. He’s dissecting me without even reaching into my mind, his focus pressing against my skin like a blade. I lift my eyes, locking onto his.

“If your ability to keep others out is so strong,” he muses, his voice carrying a dangerous undercurrent, “why are you worried? Maybe you’re not as powerful as you claim, little witch.”

A challenge. A taunt, a dare. My fingers drum against the table, slow, measured. I won’t bend under the pressure of a mere mage—especially not him. I scoff, tilting my chin up in defiance. “Give it your best shot then, little mage.”

His satisfaction is instant. He leans back against the table behind him, utterly relaxed. His smug expressions sets a spark against my temper. His silver eyes darken, churning with flecks of white as his power begins to unfurl.

The air shifts.

A cold pressure seeps into my mind, like water suddenly flooding into a sealed space. My awareness sharpens as the sensation ripples against my defenses—like waves lapping at the edges, testing me. Like a shark, his magic circles around me, hunting for a weakness.

He hasn’t attacked yet, but I feel the strength of him.

The water churns, swirling more chaotically as he ventures closer.

I push back, fortifying my defenses. The walls in my mind rise—tall, reinforced, and unbreakable.

Jagged spikes grow from them, forcing him to keep his distance. Still, his magic lingers just beyond.

Then, the water shifts again. Something moves.

Tentacles, massive and slick, unfurl from the depths. They slide along my walls, tightening their hold, to anchor them in place. More rise, coiling through the water like serpents, ignoring the spikes that dig into their flesh.

The first strike comes—not a brute-force attack but something more patient and calculated. The fine tips of the tentacles begin to twirl, drilling into the wall at multiple points. I feel the pressure building against me and push back. Hard.

Iris’s voice rings through the space like a distant warning. “Remember, he is simply trying to break your wall. Do not attack him. Cage, do not attack her. If you do break the wall, come out immediately.”

Restraint, the hardest lesson of all. I seal up the cracks as quickly as they form, reinforcing my defenses, refusing to give an inch.

The water ripples again, and this time, something floats toward me. Alone, in the dark abyss of my mind, it drifts.

A stuffed bunny.

Its fur is matted, one button eye missing. Its body is stitched with a dozen mismatched patches from earth-toned fabric sewn together by unsteady hands.

A child’s toy. A relic from a past I refuse to acknowledge, a ghost from a life that was stolen from me. And Cage is too close to it.