Page 6 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Magic, though powerful, always demands payments.

Witches can only feed it for so long before exhaustion sets in.

When the energy runs out, magic turns on the body, devouring organs to sustain itself.

Internal bleeding inevitably follows, forcing us into a period of stasis, a deep healing sleep that lasts anywhere from three to five days depending on how much damage was done.

Blood magic, however, gives me an edge. It lets me have fun.

By feeding during a fight, I can recharge, keeping my magic from targeting my organs.

That strength, however, comes with a cost. Once the bloodlust takes over, my magic takes control.

Friend or foe, it makes no distinction. I’ve been told I transform though I remember none of it.

I only know that I wake up days later disoriented and confused as hell.

It’s a vicious cycle—feeding, losing control, collapsing, stasis. Always the same.

The carriage jolts over uneven terrain, the motion pulling me from my thoughts.

Outside the window, the bright green trees of the countryside sway in the wind, a stark contrast to the darkness of the Twisted Hollows.

I let my senses stretch outward, brushing against the faint auras of any magical creatures lurking nearby.

Even without sight, I can feel their presence.

The stronger your magic, the more you can sense.

Everything with even the faintest magic leaves a trace, an aura, if you look closely, a distant presence within range, and sometimes even a scent.

Mortals, despite their lack of power, have an instinctual ability to detect strong magic disrupting an area.

It’s a survival mechanism, but it is useless against weaker forms.

I catch the guard’s nervous glances as his eyes flit between me and the window.

His fidgeting is almost endearing, though.

I can feel his unease prickling at the edge of my awareness.

He has been working up the nerve to say something.

I call it a fun little game: Will he grow the balls to ask or not?

Finally, he clears his throat and clasps his hands, his knuckles white from tension. “You…you don’t look like a demon,” he blurts, his voice quivering. “Forgive me if that’s rude. I’ve read books on witches.”

I let my eyes settle on him, taking my time as I look him over.

He’s young, perhaps twenty-two, with sandy hair in an unruly mess and sun-kissed skin.

His honey-brown eyes hold a certain warmth, but his nerves make them dart nervously.

Judging by his unscarred face and the slight hesitation in his movements, he must be new to the command and unlucky enough to be put on witch duty .

I tilt my head, studying him like one might examine an insect pinned to a board. “These books sound like tales,” I say, my tone dripping with disinterest, “but they may not be wrong. It depends on the witch.”

“The Le Strange coven is documented in historical texts,” he begins, his voice faltering as he fidgets with his fingers. “Maybe not the inner workings, but…its actions—and what resides there.”

“And what do the historical texts say?” I ask invitingly, just enough to encourage him.

He swallows hard. “That the Le Strange coven is the closest to demonic in nature. That you’re the ones who partake in human sacrifices the most. Th-that you…

regularly travel to the underworld and…and repopulate it with devils,” he stammers, his words tumbling over one another in his rush to get them out.

A chuckle escapes me, low and sharp, as I lean back against my seat. “We are the closest,” I admit, letting my words hang in the air before adding, “Shall I show you?”

Before he can react, I release a thread of my magic, letting it coil through the carriage.

The air thickens instantly, an inky black cloud seeping into every corner, blotting out the light.

The temperature plummets, and the faint warmth of the sun is replaced by an icy chill.

The guard stiffens, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he presses himself against the far wall.

“No, please!” he shouts, his voice cracking, filled with panic.

I laugh—a full, delighted sound that echoes through the suffocating darkness.

With a flick of my wrist, I reel the magic back into myself, the inky cloud dissipating as quickly as it appeared.

The sunlight floods the carriage once more, and the warmth returns.

The guard remains frozen, his wide eyes staring at me with pure terror.

I smile, savoring the delicious fear radiating off him. A simple lamb, like all the others . I hope he pissed himself.

He doesn’t speak again, nor does he meet my gaze. I keep my eyes locked on him, my grin growing wider as I relish in his discomfort.

The Le Strange coven is indeed the most demonic in nature, though not in the way mortals imagine. Our magic doesn’t come from portaling to Hell or mating with devils. If the ancient texts and stories passed down are to be believed, our origins stretch back countless millennia to the Estrela.

The Estrela, beings of cosmic beauty and life.

One Estrela in particular was said to have unparalleled beauty and stars woven into her hair, but she fell into something forbidden.

They say it was a devil who ensnared her, but he was no ordinary devil.

He was a world ender, created to balance the fabric of the realms, where creation must coexist with destruction.

Captivated by her radiant power and ethereal kindness, this world ender tempted her, drawing her from her path.

From their union, seven daughters were born—a fusion of creation and destruction unlike anything the world had seen.

The Estrela raised her daughters alone, but it wasn’t long before their powers became apparent. Each daughter embodied a unique branch of magic, creating the foundations for what witches are today: blood magic, necromancy, summoning, curses, dream walking, manipulation, and black magic.

Blood magic is both a blessing and a curse.

Witches who wield it can feed on life to restore their power, their strength, and triple their speed in battle.

Their bodies heal almost instantly, making them nearly impossible to kill.

But this power comes at a cost. Once lost in bloodlust, they can no longer distinguish friend from foe.

Their bodies become self-sufficient killing machines, sparing nothing with a pulse, not even those they love.

Necromancers are reclusive and obsessed with creation. They taxidermy creatures into grotesque forms, bringing them to life as tireless servants. Forever toiling in their labs, they often fall into maddening obsession crafting abominations that nature never intended.

Summoners excel in commanding entities from hell with natural ease.

Whereas most magic users fail—or find themselves devoured by cunning hellions—summoners thrive, creating packs and bonds to fuel themselves with power.

Hellions instinctively submit to summoners, their power sensing an inescapable dominance.

Curse users are dangerous even in their youth, often causing harm before they understand their abilities.

A curse requires no incantation or study, only intent.

A word, a touch, or even a thought can unleash devastating effects, regardless of distance.

Until they learn control, the amount of accidental destruction they can cause is staggering.

Dream walkers are the reasons the mortals hang dreamcatchers and bells around their beds— as if that would work.

These witches can slip into dreams with ease, manifesting nightmares that bleed into waking life.

They prey on the emotions that lie between consciousness and sleep, feeding on fear and despair as they twist reality into something horrifyingly surreal.

Manipulators don’t read minds. They don’t need to.

A glance is enough to ensnare their victims, a white haze glazing over their eyes as they become prisoners of compulsion.

Manipulators take what they desire, leaving their covens filled with servants who cater to their every whim, from feeding them to bathing them.

They wield power effortlessly, preferring to let others do the labor.

Black magic , the rarest and most destructive, allows its wielders to command shadows and shape them into tangible forms. Beasts born of darkness obey their creators while mental attacks and shadow flames devastate enemies.

At its strongest, black magic can summon black lightning, repel attacks, or create impenetrable shields.

The Estrela’s daughters became legends, their powers leaving chaos in their wake.

As they grew stronger, so too did the death toll.

They destroyed mortals other Estrela cherished, sparking a war between creation and destruction.

To counter the witches, the Estrela joined with mortals, creating the first mages, warriors imbued with magical power to protect humanity and eventually bring the witches to extinction.

The mother of the witches still ached for her daughters, so she took them deep into the forest and infused the land with magic wild and fierce.

Her powers warped the woods into a realm of shadows, a sanctuary for her children.

Like all things, such potent magic comes at a cost. The darkness spilled into the surrounding lands, birthing creatures twisted and heinous, leaving mortals to fear what they could no longer control.

So, the witches remain with their covens, shackled to the forests and mountains, far from mortal lives.

This is why we are feared, why sacrifices are made, and why the hatred between mortals and witches endures.

It is also why mages were created: to hunt us, the predators, the hunter, and the hunted.

Over time, witches have refined their bloodlines, our powers growing sharper, deadlier, more honed with each generation. We are not like the mortals, soft and fleeting. We are the predators. And predators never forget their place.

I suppress a smirk as I look at my prey across from me. He doesn’t realize how much I can hear in his silence—the tension in his jaw, the way his hands twitch on his lap—savoring his discomfort. Prey , I think, my amusement curling at the edge of my lips.

My thoughts drift to what awaits me at the castle. Mages . I have never liked their kind—arrogant, self-important, and always eager to flaunt their moral superiority. I know they’ll be there, and I am already steeling myself to endure their pompous asses.

Still, I won’t be like this guard, shrinking into silence.

I’ll have my way, as I always do. I’ll work alone, answer to no one, and bend them to my demands if they stand in my way.

Let them try to hunt me. My fingers drum lazily against the leather seat as the carriage bumps along the road, my smile widening just slightly.

They have no idea what they’ve invited into their gilded halls.