Page 9 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Cage

THE MOMENT WE STEP INSIDE, the air turns heavy.

Sulfur lingers in the air, thick and acrid. It burns the back of my throat. There’s no light, not even the faint flicker of a candle.

The wood beneath our feet groans as we move deeper into the entrance. Kalix silently closes the door behind us. His hand moves to his sword. The scraping of steel against leather is barely audible in the silence. I do the same, mirroring his movements as my eyes sweep the house.

The first floor is undisturbed.

To the left, the kitchen is shrouded in shadows. The only light filters through a moonlit window, casting sharp silver outlines across the counters.

To the right, the living room sits in eerie stillness. A lonely clock on the wall. Its rhythm beats far too loudly. White sheets drape over the furniture. Untouched, frozen in place, I surmise the house hasn’t been used in some time.

So why the hell is the Duke here?

My fingers tighten around the hilt of my sword, keeping the blade raised in a defensive position across my torso.

The wood creaks above us.

We freeze, listening. Silence follows.

I tilt my head toward the staircase and push forward, taking two steps at a time to minimize the sound of my boots on aged wood. Kalix follows.

The second-floor splits into two parallel halls, both lined with closed doors. Shadows stretch long and still, unbroken by candlelight.

Something isn’t right.

“Should we flip a coin?” Kalix whispers.

His tone is light, but I hear the restraint beneath it. A joke, yes, but not without tension.

I don’t answer. Instead, I reach outward with my magic, trying to latch on to any viable mind. Nothing. Just static. A void where thoughts should be.

Then, a choking rasp.

The sound scrapes against the silence, coming from the final door at the end of the hall.

I move. Steady now . Kalix flanks me, guided toward the sound.

The presence I sensed earlier outside of the house waxes and wanes. There, then gone. It slips through my awareness

Odd.

My fingers brush over the cold steel doorknob. I push it, and the hinges groan as it swings open.

Inside, the room is swallowed in nearly total darkness. Only a single window to the right allows enough moonlight to carve a faint silhouette through the gloom.

In the center, a figure kneels, hunched in on itself. The faint silver light catches on fabric, revealing the Duke’s insignia stitched into the back of his overcoat.

“Duke Leving,” I call, my voice low but firm. I ensure he hears me clearly.

Nothing.

I never sensed his consciousness when we entered. And even now, I can’t read him. He is a void, an absence.

That shouldn’t be possible.

Leving isn’t a mage, nor does he have one in his ranks. He shouldn’t be capable of mental shielding. Even if he were, I’d be able to sense the resistance.

Mental shielding is something beings with magic in their blood can perform more easily than those without. A mortal can still do it, but it takes extensive training by someone who is an expert on the topic, typically someone with mind magic.

There’s nothing. It’s not silence, it’s absence.

He remains frozen in place. Not even the subtle rise and fall of breath disturbs him.

Kalix and I step forward, slowly and with measure. The air feels even heavier now.

Something isn’t right.

He smells wrong. Kalix’s thought slips into my mind.

“Sir,” Kalix says, his voice firm, trying to get his attention.

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

Leving remains locked in place, hunched forward. We’re close now, barely a foot away.

Cautiously, I extend a hand. Maybe physical contact will snap him out of whatever this is. My fingers brush his shoulder.

The door slams shut.

A gust of air rushes past, like something stepping back into the room.

The presence I felt outside is here.

Leving jerks violently. His body convulses. His spine bends back with a wet, sickening crack.

Then he freezes. His head snaps back. Suddenly, arms fling outward, fingers twitching and stretching as if trying to grasp at something.

A second of silence. Then his breathing changes.

Shallow. Ragged. Wrong.

“What the fuck?” Kalix curses, his voice sharp. He instinctively steps back and tightens his grip around his sword.

Then bones snap. The sound is wet, a series of horrific cracks.

Leving’s arms contort, twisting at impossible angles. His fingers break, then reform, the bones shifting in deformed angles.

His neck jerks violently to the side—too far, too fast. A killing angle. Yet he doesn’t fall.

Instead, his feet slip underneath him in a series of sharp, disjointed movements. His spine bends, folding him backward into a grotesque bow.

Pushing off the ground with deformed arms, his body rises. His head twists, cracking and turning, until our eyes meet.

Gone is the brown from his portrait. Only white remains—glassy, empty, and soulless.

His jaw unhinges. Yellow foam bubbles at the corners of his mouth, spilling between his teeth.

Then he screams a sound that isn’t human or natural. It splinters the air.

Then his flesh tears open.

From within, inky spikes spear outward, punching through muscle and bone.

They burst from his back, his arms, and his chest, ripping through him like blades from the inside out.

Blood spills in thick, violent bursts. Each fresh wound sends sheets of crimson splattering onto the floor.

“Well, let’s not wait for it to finish transforming, yeah?” Kalix quips, his voice strained as he chokes on the thick sulfur air. He tugs at his tunic, making sure to cover every inch of exposed skin.

It’s likely some type of hellion capable of possession. Not a common pest but a far worse breed.

And if I’m right, its blood will eat through human flesh like acid, down to the bones.

Kalix lunges. His blade glints in the faint moonlight.

Steel arcs through flesh.

The Duke’s head falls, plummeting to the ground with a thud. It rolls before coming to a stop. His body collapses after it.

It’s silent again for a moment. Nothing moves.

Then his chest rises.

Not breathing. It’s something else.

Something worse.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Kalix’s displeasure seeps into his features.

I take a cautious step forward. My fingers grip tightly around my sword. My eyes sharpen, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.

This thing is fighting its way out.

The body twitches, then convulses.

A wet, tearing sound rips through the room.

My mind barely pieces together what’s happening before long, black claws, tips red as rubies, punch through his chest, ripping it open from the inside out.

The force splatters our clothes with blood.

The thing inside him sinks its claws into the wood, anchoring itself. And then it begins to pull free.

A head emerges first, covered in long black hair that falls forward like a curtain that conceals its face.

Below it, its rib cage gapes open, filled with organs in all the wrong places. It’s wrong, twisted .

I have never seen anything like it.

What the fuck is this thing?

I move.

My blade drives forward, spearing through its gaping ribcage, straight into the twisted mass of organs.

The thing lurches, screeching. Its free arm snaps out toward me.

A flick of my wrist.

A razor-thin arc of magic slices clean through its limb, severing it mid-motion.

The howl it releases is deafening. Raw agony laced with fury. A sound too sharp and layered, like a chorus of things screaming at once.

My ears hurt.

My blade stays buried, pressing deeper, searching for what I hope is its heart.

Kalix moves.

His blade swings in a deadly arc.

The head separates cleanly, sent rolling across the now blood-slicked floor.

The creature writhes, convulsing—then, stillness. I hold my stance, taking controlled and measured breaths.

A few seconds pass.

Nothing. It doesn’t reanimate.

Kalix exhales sharply, nudging its decapitated body with his sword.

“Should we take it to Iris?” he murmurs reluctantly.

Neither of us want to touch the damn thing.

I exhale, dragging my hand down my face before re-sheathing my sword. “This is a problem.”

I glace at what’s left of the Duke. His body is ruined, but the bigger question remains.

“How the hell did this get inside him?” My voice is quiet, more to myself than Kalix. “If he was dealing with the North…what the fuck are they dealing with?”

We need answers.

Kalix mutters a string of colorful curses, something about Iris owing him for this. I smirk.

“As if you could command her of all people,” I jest. Kalix snorts but doesn’t argue.

I pull on a pair of black leather gloves, noticing Kalix doing the same. He gags dramatically at the stench, shaking his head.

“Gods, this thing smells worse than it looks.”

He reaches inside his coat, retrieving a row of vials, and tosses a few toward me.

We get to work, methodically harvesting what we can—dark, slick tissue, unfamiliar organs, anything. The smell is rancid, thick with rot.

Neither of us speak, but we don’t need to.

We both know.

Iris will have to settle for samples this time.

There’s no way in hell either of us is carrying this damn thing tonight.