Page 37 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Cage

I SIT IN THE MEETING room, a sparse space with a small oak table, a few chairs, and little else.

The walls are lined with tapestries and old maps of the continent, their colors worn and edges curled.

Above us, a deep-gold chandelier casts a soft, warm glow.

It lends a false sense of comfort to the serious business at hand.

Kalix lounges next to me, rocking back on two legs of his chair, boots kicked up onto the table.

Iris stands beside Tyran, leaning a collection of yellowed texts spread across the surface.

The texts are too far, and I don’t feel like squinting to try and make them out, nor do I need to.

I know Iris will tell me everything I need to know.

“Inside of that sad excuse for a girl's body, I found a curse marking I’ve never seen before,” Iris explains, pointing to a sketch of the sigil she replicated. “I can’t find it in any texts. What interests me more is how it was carved inside her to begin with.

“How would we figure that out if you can’t?” Kalix asks, lacing his fingers behind his head.

Iris glances at Tyran, a small smile playing on her lips. “You happen to be clever with words and very resourceful. I’m hoping you could petition a meeting with one of the covens dealing in curses.”

“Absolutely not. That’s far too high of a safety risk,” I cut in, protective instincts flaring. The last thing I want is more witches here, especially a curse user. One look, one stray thought, and they could hex Tyran into oblivion. That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.

Iris looks at me, still smiling. She expected this and has a deeper plan. Always a step ahead.

“Exactly,” she replies smoothly. “That’s why you will be Tyran. He’ll stay outside the coven, safely guarded by Kalix and a few men, while you form a mental link. He can feed you what to say—make you sound like him and charm the pants off the coven.”

“Only one problem with your ingenious plan,” I say dryly, clasping my hands on the table. “Do I look like Tyran?”

She rolls her eyes. “No, jackass, you don’t, but Kalix can transfigure you.”

Kalix's chair thuds back onto four legs. Kalix blinks between us. “You want me to morph him into Tyran?”

I understand why I’m the one selected for the task and not Kalix, Iris, or even one of my best mages.

I want to be the one handling such a delicate situation, ensuring we get everything we possibly can from this lead.

Still, wearing the skin of Tyran feels wrong, a step far over the line of a simple disguise.

“You’re our potion expert,” Iris snaps, eyes narrowing. “Be a damn expert.”

Kalix grins and turns to me, “Oh, you’ll be so handsome with golden hair.”

Tyran claps his hands like a delighted child. “I love this plan. Just the right amount of flash!”

“Cage, you’ll take Millicent with you,” Iris says. “They should respond positively to her, especially with that last name. We’re essentially pulling rank.”

If anyone understands the internal politics of covens, it’s Iris.

I nod once, acknowledging the decision. I’ll take our fiery little witch with us…though I can’t help but wonder if it’ll come back to bite me.

“When do we leave?” I ask, watching as Tyran removes his crown and sets it on the table.

“Today, of course,” he answers. “This business with the North can’t wait. It’s our first lead; we follow it while it’s fresh.”

“What about petitioning the coven for a meeting?” I turn to Iris.

“A messenger was already sent,” she replies. “We could wait, but there’s no guarantee we’d get a response. Curse users are the most rational type. I think it’s safe if you approach nonthreateningly and with a witch beside you.”

She shrugs. “If we get denied, we get denied.”

Then she adds, more firmly, “I can’t stress enough how important the Le Strange name is. And Millicent’s strength. That alone will likely open the door.”

“Millicent isn’t here because you don’t want her knowing I’ll be posing as Felix?” I ask, her absence finally making sense.

Felix tugs at one of his curls. “We need her cooperative and sharp. Even if curse users are more stable than other witches, they’re still lethal. Millicent likes me; she’ll be more agreeable if she thinks I’m there.”

I stare at him, stunned. “Be serious. She considers humans vermin.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “I am human…and less bothered by that than you are. The rich in this city call the poor sewer rats. I don’t see much difference.”

“The difference is, she kills humans. The poor don’t,” I snap.

Kalix chimes in casually, worsening my mood. “Actually, some have. Mental illness, starvation, desperation—it happens.”

Before I can fire back, Iris cuts in smoothly. “Her coven hasn’t practiced human sacrifice in some time. If she ever did, it would’ve been when she was much younger.”

I tense. “And how exactly do you know that?”

I don’t mean for it to come out so tight-lipped, but it does.

“I like Millicent, and I talk to her. That is all I will say.” Her face hardens, daring me to prod further.

I remain silent. I’ve already lost this argument.

How are they all warming up to her?

She is probably manipulating them—has to be. Nora’s favorite is surely taking after her. I saw her with Tyran a few nights ago laughing, relaxing, and having a good time. I still can't wrap my head around it.

I walked her to her room afterward. I nearly made a mistake.

Whatever lives in my chest has started to stir in her presence. It wants her. Craves her. And I don’t understand why.

The only theory I have is this: the darkness in her mirrors my own. And that recognition is rousing the thing I’ve kept chained for years.

Even drunk, she noticed my eyes going black as I began to slip. She saw it and I felt it: the urge to take her, mark her, leave her trembling and suffocating with the sound of my name, and then finally extract the power from her veins. It was nearly overwhelming.

I barely held myself back.

I need to be more careful. I cannot be alone with her until I understand why this is happening and how to stop it.

This part of me…I used to let it run wild when I was younger. On the battlefield, in blood and pain, I fed it power and let it guide me like a monster. I fought it for years. I trained until my control became instinct—until I could breathe without fearing what lived beneath.

Millicent is the first thing in years that’s tested my control.

We spend another hour finalizing the logistics: where the coven is located, where Tyran will be stationed with his guards, and how Millicent and I will carry out our roles.

When we finally leave the meeting chamber, I follow Kalix down a rarely used hall to his apothecary. A large, rusted padlock clicks open, and he swings the wooden door open.

The interior is like a hoarder's dream: cluttered shelves of herbs, vials of powders and liquids, and rows of labeled bottles packed tight.

The L-shaped workbench groans under the weight of stacked instruments, and a single table in the center holds a leather box with drawers pulled halfway out.

Each one reveals more vials and tucked-away tools—and even more storage.

Mortars, pestles, beakers, pipettes, and wide glass wicks lie scattered across every surface, set up for boiling, blending, and brewing.

Among them are rings designed to conceal poisons.

Hanging from copper hooks are long gold and silver chains with hidden compartments: lockets, pendants, and hollow cores.

Kalix might look like a brute, but the man has a rare talent for alchemy.

He grew up in the village of Caldwell. The local apothecary took him in at a young age and gave him work so he could help feed his family.

Kalix stuck with it: learning, experimenting, and refining his skill.

When he hit a wall in Caldwell, he left, eventually landing at Tyran’s court.

Within two years, his loyalty and strength earned him a captain’s title.

He never lost his love of potion-making. Felix saw value in that and gave him this space. Encouraged him. Felix carries Kalix’s brews everywhere—for protection, sure, but I suspect a few are for hangovers too.

Kalix strolls to a nearby shelf, trailing his fingers across rows of corked bottles. He selects one, turns to me, and holds out his hand.

I take the vial, within which a small amount of shimmering green liquid swirls.

“Drink it. It’ll taste awful, and you’ll feel weird. The effects will last eight hours—no longer—so I’ll give you a backup just in case. When you take it, focus hard on Felix. The potion responds to desire,” Kalix explains.

I uncork the vial and throw it back in one swallow. I wince with instant regret. The taste is sour and dry, like licking a copper coin dipped in vinegar. My throat tightens, my tongue shrivels, and I cough hard, choking on the afterburn.

I slap my chest, trying to clear the tightness, and then freeze.

My hand is no longer my own. The skin is softer, paler.

The broad lines of my fingers are replaced by Felix’s long, elegant ones.

I shove my sleeve up; my tan skin is gone, taking my mage markings with it.

My show of power and strength is simply absent.

I quickly call on the magic so readily available to me, and the cold replaces any previous warmth in my body as it awakens, filling my tissues.

My next breath is looser, and my power, even if I can’t see it, is confirmed.

Kalix claps for himself, grinning like a madman. “Goddamn, I’m good.”

He points toward a circular mirror mounted beside the door, the glass covered in a thin film of dust. I stare into the mirror.

No tousled raven hair. No grey eyes. No mage marks. I’ve been erased.

And in my place…stands Felix.

“I look exactly like him,” I mutter, the words slipping out in a tone that’s not mine: softer and lighter. My eyes widen. Even my voice sounds like his. This is messing with my head.

“You sound exactly like him too,” Kalix says, circling the workbench to look me over. “Damn, this is good. You need to change—too much black. Felix is much more in style. Fancy outfits—gold everywhere.”

He grins, fully aware that the thought of dressing like a gilded peacock grates on me.

Still, I nod and leave his workshop.

The walk to Felix’s room takes ten minutes.

The palace feels different like this. Guards and servants bow—not stiff or cautious but warm, even yearning.

I forget I’m not myself until their reactions remind me I am their king.

The submission and desire awaken the sleeping hunger.

I shut them down quickly, preventing any delusional whispers of conquest and power in my mind.

For all intents and purposes, I’m Felix.

When I reach his chambers, I don’t bother knocking. I push open the golden double doors to find him already waiting, grinning by his wardrobe.

“Damn, I look that good?” he beams.

“Stop admiring yourself. It’s unsettling. You look like you might kiss me—or yourself, I guess. Either way, it’s disturbing.”

I cringe inwardly at the thought.

“My dashing good looks can be overwhelming like that.” He shrugs, turning back to his wardrobe. He waves me over, and together we dig through his gaudy collection until he picks the outfit; then he demands I wear it.

I let him dress me in tight leather trousers, black boots with jeweled straps, a fitted white tunic embroidered with gold swirls, and a long golden robe that trails behind me like some dramatic curtain.

Then, the final touch: he lifts the crown from his head and sets it on mine.

“This thing actually has some weight to it,” I mutter, adjusting the crown. “I see why you whine after wearing it all day.”

“Heavy is the crown,” Felix says with a wink. “Literal and metaphorical.”

He leans back against his bedpost and starts walking me through his typical behavior. I let him talk, but I already know. I’ve been with him since he was younger. I could recognize him in darkness by the sound of his breathing alone.

What does surprise me is when he brings up Millicent.

“I like her,” he says. “I’ve spent some time with her. I enjoy her company. I keep it playful. I don’t pry, Cage,” he adds pointedly. “And, yeah, I flirt. Sue me. She’s a beauty wrapped in black hair and devastating eyes.”

“I’m not going to flirt with her,” I say flatly.

“If flirting gets us answers about this curse, you’ll flirt. Hell, you’ll walk on all fours and bark if that’s what it takes. We need this.”

I know he doesn’t mean it literally, but he’s not wrong.

This is our first real lead. And the mutations are spreading.

More disappearances. More bodies. If we don’t figure this out soon, it’ll get worse.

On top of that, we’ll be entering a coven of curse users who can hex us through thought alone.

Add to that an unpredictable witch who can’t be trusted, and this simple questioning can turn dangerous extremely fast.

I listen as he explains other quirks I’ll need to mimic. When he finishes, I speak.

“The link will feel just like this,” I say. “You’ll hear me in your mind, same as always. The only difference is, you won’t see me for a few hours.”

We use mental speech often: during court meetings, public appearances, and anytime we need to speak privately. He listens like a child on Winter Solstice Eve, giddy with the anticipation of gifts.

When we're done, I head off alone, beginning the long walk back to the solitary hall that houses both my room and Millicent’s. The air grows heavier with each step closer to her door.