Page 32

DULCE

Time stood still for the briefest of moments as Dulce studied not only the stone mirroring the one that had belonged to the Duke, but also the ruby ring resting on La Bisou Morte’s middle finger.

Why did this woman have such a ring? For a moment, Dulce believed the witch might’ve stolen her own, taken it from her, even while Dulce remained cloaked in magic, her ring as hidden as her human form, though she still felt it in her possession.

The witch slowly approached the golden bars, her sapphire eyes lingering on Dulce, a line settled between the woman’s brows while she continued to peer at the ravens before her.

Reed cocked his head, edging closer to Dulce.

The young witch was beautiful, her hair, the shade of the brightest red rubies, falling in shining waves to her waist. Dulce easily understood how Cornelius could fall in love with such a woman, not only for her striking beauty, yet also for the mesmerizing power that emanated from her.

But something was certainly amiss, because a witch this powerful would never willingly allow herself to be locked in a cage, a gilded bird, shackled by the neck.

The creatures dangling from the cages floating above the water garden whimpered in the fading light, their cries creating the saddest of songs.

This wasn’t what Dulce expected to find at all. So many questions whirled in her mind, she hardly knew where to begin. But before she could question the witch, the woman spoke, “You look like a raven I once had.”

“The one you left trapped inside a cabinet at your abandoned castle?” Dulce supplied. “The one that died because of the curse you brought to our land? Yes, I suppose I do look like that bird.”

The witch blinked, then narrowed her eyes, demanding, “Who are you?”

Dulce knew better than to transform into her human form, not with so many guards lurking about, and especially not while the witch was clearly being held prisoner. Held prisoner by whom, though?

“Who is responsible for your confinement?” Dulce asked.

The witch smiled sweetly, unfazed. “Answer my question first.”

“You may recognize my husband’s name,” Dulce said. “ Cornelius Alastair Hale? Your lover. He attempted my murder. All for you.”

“Ah, I see. Dulce Bancroft. Fascinating.” The witch showed no remorse, not a flicker of guilt. Dulce wanted to feed her poisonous berries one by one until the woman’s veins turned black.

“I saw you that night,” she snapped, barely controlling her temper. “You poisoned our tree with your abhorrent spell.”

The witch shrugged. “Your land, it was warded against my particular flavor of magic. I had to be invited by the rightful owner. Men are often weak-minded. Cornelius was the easiest way.”

“He’s dead now.”

She shrugged again.

What was one more death to a witch who would destroy the whole world?

How was she to reach this woman? She seemed completely devoid of empathy, lacking all sense of remorse. There had to be some way to convince her to help them, to rid the land of her curse, before everything perished. Dulce looked at La Bisou Morte’s ring, so exactly like her own.

She had to try.

Closing her eyes, Dulce spoke the words written in her mother’s book, willing the matching ring into view, and the jewel shone along her clawed raven foot like a bracelet. This reached the witch at last. The moment she saw the ring, she gasped, straightening, her indifference completely vanished.

“Where did you get that?” she demanded, kneeling and reaching through the bars for Dulce, who leapt back from her grasp.

“It was my mother’s,” Dulce said.

“Your mother…” The witch blinked, paling. “She was Waverly Brewer?”

“You knew her?” Dulce studied the woman, who trembled with emotion.

“I know she is dead,” the witch whispered. “I felt it the moment she departed.” She gripped the bars, her face twisted in first sadness, then fear. “I would tell you to leave this place, but all of our lives are forfeit now.”

No. No, they couldn’t give up.

“Remove the curse,” Dulce pleaded. “I know you can. You cast it—you can uncast it. Please. We can help you escape this prison.”

The witch clenched her jaw. Her skin going impossibly pale in the gathering darkness, she nodded, seeming to settle on a decision as she reached out to them. “Come. See the truth through my eyes.”

Both Dulce and Reed shrank from her touch, exchanging a glance.

By his narrowed gaze, Reed didn’t trust La Bisou Morte in the least. She bobbed her head in encouragement to him, and he reluctantly hopped closer, allowing the witch’s hand to rest along his wing.

What choice did they have? Here was the only person who knew how to rid the destruction spreading across the land.

The moment the witch’s hand touched her, Dulce gasped, transported in time. Plunged into La Bisou Morte’s memories.

A building carved into a mountainside, lined with rounded windows, full of winding underground corridors and assembly halls slipped into her mind.

Young girls carrying books and wearing matching clothing in furs and wool walked in groups and lines past one another through a courtyard, laughing and arguing.

A school. For those with magical abilities.

Dulce nearly cried out when she recognized one girl in particular. Her mother. She looked to be around twelve or thirteen.

“My name is Marguerite,” the witch said, her voice echoing in Dulce’s head, calm and comforting, as though she were about to read a children’s bedtime story.

“Your mother was once my dearest friend.

We were sent to the same boarding school, a school for girls born with magic.

When mine overflowed and threatened the lives around me, which it often did, I was severely punished.

Starved. Shocked. Submerged in ice water.

Anything our teachers could think of to bring my power under control.

It was your mother alone who would bring me food, fire-warmed clothing, a comforting song, though she risked being beaten for it.

It was she who showed me kindness when all I had known was cruelty.

She told me on many occasions that our teachers were only envious, that I held more magic than all of them combined, that I would be truly great someday.

She was my only family, a real sister to me. ..

“I studied hard, learned some measure of control over my power,” Marguerite continued, and Dulce watched the scene change.

The girls went from children to young women arm in arm as they skipped through the dark corridors, ignoring the scowls of the others.

Her mother’s laughter echoed along the stone—a sound Dulce thought gone forever, almost forgotten.

“When the time for the binding ceremony came, of course we chose to tie our fates together.” Marguerite played with the ring on her finger, her eyes filled with sadness.

“Few had ever mustered the courage for it, but your mother and I, we had known for years that we wanted to be more than sisters. We would gladly sacrifice our lives for each other. And so we made the blood bond. We would be there to help one another, to lend our magic to the other, come what may. Everything was perfect, until…”

Dulce watched as the scene changed once again. Marguerite, appearing just the same as she did now, her youth and beauty in full bloom, stood alone in a field of berries, humming softly to herself as she filled her basket. Was she immortal, or was it magic that had prevented her from aging?

A young man of surpassing beauty approached Marguerite. Light shone around him in an enchanting halo. He was incredibly handsome, almost impossibly so, with golden hair framing his otherworldly features, falling past his shoulders, his eyes like silver moons, his smile hypnotic.

“When I met Aldrich,” Marguerite said, “I felt as if my eyes were seeing color for the first time. Love, true love, was mine. There was nothing greater than his affection. Within a fortnight, I had become entirely infatuated with him. He was more than life to me, all I could think of day and night.

“No secret can be kept between the bonded, though, and Waverly knew. She told me she didn’t trust Aldrich.

That she sensed a great wickedness in him.

That he hunted me for my magic as a tiger might hunt his prey.

She implored me to never see him again, to protect myself and my power from his greed.

But that was impossible. Unthinkable. I was already too far under his spell.

Soon, perhaps sensing the disapproval of my bonded sister, Aldrich wanted to take me away, out from under the strict supervision and rules of our school.

He told me he loved me with his entire heart and soul and wanted to give me the whole world, and fool that I was, I believed him.

So I turned my back on your mother, using a dark spell with Aldrich’s sorcery to fracture our bond, and I abandoned the only true friend I had ever known.

“I never saw her again.” Marguerite sighed, her gaze turned to the sky.

“The day she died, I felt it through our bond, even though I had believed it broken. And part of my heart died with her. But by that time, I had become infatuated with a new desire. The desire for a child of my own. Aldrich refused to give me one, no matter how many times I begged him. Yet I was a powerful witch, and I took matters into my own hands. It was not a difficult spell. When I became pregnant, that was when everything changed. That was when I knew your mother had been right about Aldrich…”

As darkness fell in earnest, flames came to life around them, glowing along the water’s edge, lighting up the stone trees. Marguerite looked only more beautiful as tears fell from her sapphire eyes.