Page 27 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Millicent

MY MIND REPLAYS THE IMAGES over and over long after Cage and Kalix depart, leaving Iris and I alone in her lab. Thankfully, she doesn’t pry, too absorbed in the corpse they brought her.

I hear a sickening crack as she splits its chest open with steady hands. Her goggles magnify the details as she prods the tissue with thick leather gloves.

Seeing the rabbit from my childhood had shattered my defenses, allowing Cage to break through my mental walls. In that moment, I sensed an opening in his. My response—to exploit that weakness—was a matter of pure instinct.

CAGE FINALLY TAKES THE RABBIT after I persistently shove it at him.

His intrigue is palpable, bright and sharp, popping like the bubbles in a carbonated drink.

The moment my mother calls for me, I take off, skipping toward her.

He watches, silent, his fingers curling around the rabbit as he tucks it safely in his coat. Even now, I can feel his envy.

He turns as Nora approaches, her commanding voice cutting coldly through the air. “I can sense your magic all the way to my office. It is time for your session. Come.”

His nerves spike. Adrenaline floods his system, making his skin clammy. The memory is foggy, shifting in and out of focus as he follows her. Across the coven grounds, they move toward the place we call the temple.

One moment, they are stepping into a vast room, pews stretching toward a grand altar at the head.

The next, the scene fractures, shifting to winding tunnels that coil beneath the earth.

The scent of damp soil thickens, pressing against his senses.

He shivers as the cold steals the warmth from his skin, but he keeps walking, driven by something fierce.

The images blur again.

His bare form is now chained—his wrists, ankles, and neck are bound to a circular stone altar. The air is heavy with incense. Hooded figures loom around him, their black robes pooling at their feet. Twisted skulls of antelopes and elks crown them, their horns curving like grotesque spires.

Nora stands above him. She slides on her mask. “Let us contain it.” Her voice cuts through the chamber.

The cloaked figures step forward, their daggers gleaming under the dim light, each blade etched with pulsing red runes. They hover over Cage, surrounding him; their movements are methodical, and practiced.

The first cut is precise.

Then another.

And another.

Steel kisses flesh as they carve into him, slowly and deliberately. A cruel art. His skin splits open like a latticework of fresh wounds blooming across his body. His magic seeps from the gashes, mixing with the thick rivulets of blood cascading down the altar’s surface.

The grooves beneath him drink it in, filling the carved channels that encircle his body.

The bloodletting continues. The runes carved into the stone flicker, drinking deep from the sacrifice.

The bloodletting continues. His screams shatter the air, raw and unrelenting, until his voice frays.

I feel it all. The pain shoots through me. My vision wavers from the sheer intensity that threatens to drag me under. And still, they carve. Still, they take.

Cage convulses, his body trembling under their hands.

When his strength begins to wane, they force a thick belt between his teeth, silencing the agony burning in his throat.

He does not last much longer, despite his focus on remaining conscious, on enduring.

Darkness claims him, and the last thing he sees is Nora’s sadistic grin of satisfaction at her work.

EMERGING FROM HIS MEMORY LEAVES me reeling; so many questions claw at my thoughts.

I endured bloodletting, too, but mine had a purpose.

It made me stronger. This…this was different.

Nora mentioned containment, but what was there to contain?

His reaction—his fear—was too hardened. Like this was normal for him. Had this been routine?

Great pain begets great power. That principal has been drilled into me since childhood, and I am living proof of its truth.

What if Cage’s suffering wasn’t about power at all?

I cannot help but wonder if something more was at play.

Bloodletting also weakens the host. What would they be trying to control or contain with Cage—in Cage?

I don’t have time to reach an answer. Iris’s voice shatters my thoughts. “I still get the urge to bring these things back to life. Odd, right? Even knowing how horrifying they are, even knowing they’d attack, I can’t shake the itch to reanimate them.”

She holds a long pair of tweezers, guiding a blade along the thin muscular wall of the creature’s exposed organs with expert care. Her voice is calm, almost absentminded.

“Odd indeed, but it is in your nature. There’s no shame in that,” I say casually, watching her work with precise delicate movements.

“I agree. I like who I am—when I am not reanimating everything in sight,” She smirks, lifting a thinly sliced sheet of tissue with her tweezers and placing it into a dish. “The rumors about the god complex? All very true. I get a little…out of touch. Very preachy.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “I know the feeling.”

Her gaze flicks to mine; she’s curious.

“When I fall into bloodlust, I black out completely. I don’t even recall what happens or what I am like.

It’s rare that I let it happen, but when I do, my sisters are usually there to stop me.

” I pause, smirking. “Apparently, I get a little preachy and a bit insane. Allegedly, I try to eat everything in sight.”

The memory of Arcadia telling me a theatrical story comes back to me—her frustration, her dramatics. She hadn’t been overly pleased about facing me, but I found the story…amusing. Let them all bear witness to my power.

Iris smiles widely. “When you say sisters, I assume you mean coven. Do you have any blood sisters?” She switches out her tools for a syringe, focusing on larger arteries, testing multiple entry points to see if any viable fluids remain.

“No sisters,” I say. “I had my mother. She was my only blood relation.” The words settle heavily in my chest. My heart clenches at the mention of her.

Iris notices, her movements stilling over her work.

When she looks up at me, she gives me her full, undivided attention.

“I am sorry for your loss.” Her voice is quieter now.

“I had a blood sister, too. I lost her.” A shadow flickers through her expression.

“She was the other half of my soul. I miss her every day. Grief never really goes away—you just learn to live with it. It lingers, like a presence in the room. A memory that haunts us, but in a sad, loving way.”

Her smile softens, her eyes grow distant. “The grief reminds me she was real and I loved her—it is beautiful in that way.” She shakes herself out of whatever thought threatens to pull her under and returns to her task.

I stare at my hands. “Haunting feels too tame a word for what it is,” I murmur, the words flowing out before I can think.

Iris tilts her head slightly, listening.

“Not just haunting—watching. Waiting. Longing to devour me until there is nothing left.” My fingers tighten around the edge of the table. “That’s what it feels like. A curse I cannot rid myself of. If the price of relief is to erase her from memory, to carve her from my soul, I don’t want it.”

I lift my gaze. Iris’s expression is unreadable, but her sadness lingers in the set of her jaw, in the way she exhales slowly through her nose.

“I will bear this,” I say. “And I will long to see her in my dreams. Better to have had and lost than never to have had at all. That is what Arcadia always says.” I sigh, forcing the thoughts away from my mother and from Cage, chained and screaming.

“She is like a sister to me. The only one I’m truly close with from my coven. ”

I lean back slightly, letting the shift in topic settle. “I think she’d love the castle. Arcadia has a taste for luxury.”

Iris perks up. “Maybe she can visit! Tyran loves playing host.” She resumes her work, securing the final vial into its holder before grabbing a leather book and quill.

I smile at the thought of Arcadia here, surrounded by gold and finery. “Maybe. She doesn’t stay in one place for long. As soon as she was old enough to leave the coven, she did.”

Iris settles onto the stool beside a wooden table that is nearly empty save for scattered stacks of papers and unfurled scrolls. She pats the seat next to her. “Come sit. I want to start the record of the events from the field.”

I push away from the table where the creature’s remains still lie and take the seat beside her. She flips open a leather-bound book, dating the page with a careful stroke of ink. “Did you ever venture out?” she asks lightly.

I shake my head. “I’m not permitted to. My elder has strict rules for me. I remain on coven grounds, and my training schedule is more demanding compared to the others.”

Iris purses her lips. “Well that doesn’t seem very fair. Awfully boring, really.” She leans forward slightly, green eyes glinting with thought. “The world is massive, and our covens are so small. Did you ever wish to explore?”

I consider the question, tilting my head slightly.

“Yes,” I admit. “Especially when Arcadia began traveling, returning home with tales and trinkets. You don’t defy the elders, as you know.

” I shrug, not overly bothered by my arrangement.

“I also came to understand my role in the coven and why the rules exist.”