Page 4 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen (Curse of the Fae #4)

Witch Hut

DEVI

T he first sign of trouble is the rumbling of thunder in the distance. The previously cloudless sky darkens, burgundy clouds rolling in from the West. I need to head home, and pronto. Invisible, I tuck my head and shoulders in, waiting for the officers to arrive.

Two police cars pull up, keeping at a safe distance, their two-tone sirens casting red and blue hues against the dark fields.

They radio for backup before finally stepping out of their vehicles, their weapons drawn as they take stock of the rampage I caused.

Beads of sweat shine on their foreheads, and their pulses flutter at their necks.

They’re afraid whatever creature killed those men is waiting for them in the dark.

Once more, the crackle of the radio pierces the air, followed by muffled voices, urgent and clipped.

I use a zap of magic to unlock the car that’s closest to the road and ease my way inside the abandoned sedan.

Slipping into the seat without a sound, I take great care not to slam the door.

The leather creaks under my weight as I grip the steering wheel and twist the key into the ignition.

The engine roars to life, and shouts resonate behind me, but I’m already on my way.

I drive straight from the fringes of the countryside to the heart of the city and ditch the car a mile from my house, walking the rest of the way.

The unusual storm clouds are almost blood-red now.

My eyes flick to the sky every few seconds, searching for the shadows I know are bound to rain down on my head.

The faint sound of wings flapping in the distance sends a glacial chill through me.

Bloody hells. They found me. That didn’t take long. Then again, I wasn’t being very discreet.

As Mabel has warned me many times, I’m playing with fire.

Refusing to heed my fate as a no future, has-been queen.

Freya couldn’t take all my magic away, but she made it deadly to use it.

I’ve fucked up this time. Used too much, too far away from the protection of rowan wood.

I bled, making it easier for the cupids to track me.

Cupids are sneaky little beasts, originally created by my grandsire to play tricks on mortals by briefly sparking their passions. They feed on the chaos they create, and when cupids come flying by, they’re not here to help anyone find true love.

But I’ve got my own special brand of cupids chasing me. Every time I use my powers, they come, and those little bastards are vicious.

I flatten myself against the brick wall, pulling two obsidian crystal knives from the inner pockets of my jacket.

I don’t know much about my monsters, except that their assault is mostly proportional to the power I used, and that my magic, whether it’s forged as a whip, a dagger, or a bow and arrows, is useless against them.

They are born from it and immune to its influence.

My jacket scratches against the brick wall as I rush from corner to corner toward the entrance of my shop, keeping close to the wall to avoid an attack from behind. The rowan wood and spells I used to ward my home will protect me, but first, I need to get there alive.

A flock of one-foot-tall cupids descends from the sky, their wings beating the air in rapid flutters. Shadows made flesh, born of a curse that’s haunted me for decades, and they won’t stop until they rip me apart.

Their bodies are grotesque, with oily, tar-like skin stretched tight over round buttocks. They resemble overly muscled, creepy toddlers—if toddlers had long, sharp claws designed to carve out a heart.

And people wonder why I stay away from children.

The cupids’ sole purpose is to hunt me down, shred me to pieces, and take my heart back to their mistress. But it’s their wings that get me every time, their black feathers so similar to my own.

They move too fast and form blurry projectiles streaking toward me.

I barely have time to react before the first one slashes my arm with its long claws.

The pain is sharp—a burst of fire in my muscles, and the gash is no doubt deep enough to join the flurry of old scars marring my skin, if it’s ever allowed to heal.

I don't have the luxury of screaming as another cupid flies at my left side, teeth bared. I twist away just in time to avoid the bite, but its claws catch the hem of my jacket, tearing the fabric as it spins off behind me. I swing one of my knives at it, but it dodges my attack at the last second.

Another one sinks its teeth into my leg, and a sickening jolt shoots through me. I strike it down with a hiss, gritting my teeth together. The cupid shatters, breaking apart into dark, opaque pieces of glass that skitter across the paved alley. Each time I take one down, another appears.

Evading them is the only viable option, but it soothes my raw nerves to feel the crunch of their monstrous bodies under my feet. I stagger forward, blood gushing down the side of my leg, my body screaming in pain. They feed on it. They’re getting stronger, more frenzied, more rabid.

The shop is visible now. The Pat’s Pottery, Pots, and Potions sign swings on its hinges as a chaotic burst of wings blurs my vision.

The cupids move together—coordinated, fast, relentless.

One needles my arm, while another slices my stomach, in the exact spot where the Mark of the Gods stands.

Its nail gouges the flesh of my abdomen as if it means to peel off the tattoo in one sharp swipe.

The mark brands me as Eros’ true heir, and I won’t surrender the last remnants of my crown so easily.

They aim for my heart next, for that ultimate trophy.

Twisted laughter fills the air, and I push myself forward, determined to escape, barely staying on my feet as I press a hand to the torn flap of skin and muscle hanging from my belly. It’s too much. Blood soaks through my clothes, and I know—I know—they’re hungry for it.

Almost there.

I won’t let them win. Not when it means Freya will inherit what’s left of my God-given magic, the part that sank deep into my bones, a power so rooted in me that even she couldn’t grasp it.

I’d suffer a thousand deaths before legitimizing her claim to the throne, allowing her to become the rightful Spring Queen instead of the usurper she is.

The door to the shop opens, my faithful Percy hovering in the air, sensing my arrival. The sight of his round, purple melon hat fills my eyes with tears.

With every ounce of strength I have left, I run. I only need one more second.

One more step forward.

I stagger over the rowan threshold, my breath coming in painful rasps. The cupids that dare to cross with me immediately shatter into a cascade of polished glass beads, which scatter in a cacophony of tinks across the floor, rolling deeper into the shop, carried by their own momentum.

I made it.

Molten heat engulfs me as I fall to my knees on the varnished wood.

My antique shop doubles as a tea and divination parlor, and the familiar warmth of the hearth feels eerie.

The gentle glow of the fire is meant to soothe the chill of early morning, not to heal the brutal treatment I suffered at the hands of the monsters who butchered me in the streets.

I’m on all fours, shaking and retching from the stench of my own blood, but the shallow drizzle of red in my wake is nothing compared to the pool forming beneath me. Sweat clings to my skin, mingling with the sweet-dill fragrance of the tea I brewed late last night.

There’s no place to die but home, right?

In the far corner, three round tables with tall stools allow my customers to exchange stories, while the bar counter separates the front area from the kitchenette. Shelves cluttered with glass vials and mismatched jars line the walls.

The flames crackle softly, the only sound in the room besides my uneven breaths, until Percy slams the door shut behind me. “Blimey! You swore—you swore you wouldn’t use too much magic?—”

I shrug off his scalding tone, sliding down to press my forehead to the cold wood, then rolling to my side, my world spinning. “Didn’t you see ‘almost being mauled to death’ in the schedule? You’re slipping, my friend.”

He lands on my thigh, his arms braced on his tiny hips. “I would’ve noticed if you’d added something as meaningful as a botched suicide attempt into my planner.”

I grin, desperately holding back a chuckle as Percy starts healing my wounds. Laughing is agony when your intestines are threatening to spill out of your abdomen, but the sting quickly wanes.

Percy’s a great healer, the one power I’ve always failed at.

Healing, whether myself or others, from cuts and scrapes or a broken heart, is beyond me.

Percy fixes what I destroy, and it’s always been that way.

My loyal Faeling excels at what I do worst by divine irony.

The only skill we share is our flippant, sarcastic, and downright mental sense of humor, but I can see his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You almost did it this time. Almost came home in too dire a state for me to fix.” A heavy sigh whistles through his lungs. “Is that what you want? For our story to end like this, in a dark corner of the new world, forgotten by most and reviled by the rest?”

“ Reviled ? Are you trying to cheer me up or finish me off?”

Now, he laughs, pleased with himself, and my chest warms at the sight.

“Don’t lose faith, diamatay ,” he murmurs.

In his language, it means more than friend. More than family. More than heart.

“I’m exhausted, Percy. If I can’t use my magic, what am I good for?”

He fixes the torn flap of muscles and skin next to the Mark of the Gods until only a faint web of silvery scar remains and wraps his hands around the tip of my index finger, giving it a heartfelt squeeze. “Anything you set your mind to, diamantay . Anything at all.”

I fight back the pesky tears again. I don’t do tears. Never. But as Percy pieces me back together, I wonder, how much longer can I go on when I’m only scraps of what I was before? Banished from my home. Unable to use my abilities. Forced to hide in a world that has no use for me.

Percy’s vibrant bite of power dulls, but he still tugs on my jacket to access the gash in my arm. The blood makes the fabric cling to my skin, and I clench my jaw, steeling myself against the pain as I peel it off, discarding the shredded jacket to the side.

Percy fusses, his iridescent wings sagging against his back as he takes stock of the long, deep zigzagging cut running from my wrist to the underside of my arm. He’s pale, his skin almost gray in the light of dawn.

"I’m good. This isn’t fatal by any means." I crawl to a seat, testing the newly healed muscles of my abdomen. I’m pleasantly surprised to find everything in perfect order. "You can get to it later."

"I’m not finished," he insists. "You’re still bleeding."

I arch a brow, daring him to fight me on this when he’s clearly on the verge of collapse. "But you’re exhausted."

“It’s my job to make you whole, diamantay ,” he says in a breathy, almost desperate rasp.

The corners of my lips curl up, and I give my oldest friend—my forever family—a resigned chuckle to ease his sorrow. “Oh, Perce. You know I haven’t been whole in decades.”

“I know.” He hovers near my arm. “It’s killing me that I can’t do the one thing I was born to do. But I can fix those cuts. Stop the bleeding. Let me at least do that.”

I draw a sharp inhale at how emotional he sounds. “Alright, you can heal this one, but the leg will have to wait.”

He inclines his head in agreement and lands on my arm, his boots leaving prints in the half-dried blood staining it.

I track his movements closely. The span of his hand barely covers the width of the cut, so it takes him a minute.

He shouldn’t be so hard on himself. No one could fix me as I am now.

The gashes in my spirit, my soul, run deeper than cupid claws could hope to reach.

I chew on my bottom lip and wait for my Faeling to finish, watching for signs of further exhaustion on his part, ready to catch him if he falls.

“There. Good.” He nods to himself, a bit of life returning to his cheeks.

“Thank you, Perce.” I move to stand, but the blood loss dizzies me for a moment, so I brace myself against the wall at my back. Despite Percy’s incredible work, I’ll need a bit of time to adjust.

He takes one dark look at me and steals my cell phone from the pocket of my destroyed leather jacket.

I raise a hand in warning. “Don’t you dare call Mabel?—”

“I’m calling Mabel.”

“Percival Arthur Batten, you leave that phone alone!” I growl, infusing the order with as much power as I can muster, still leaning against the wall not to collapse.

Percy lets out a satisfied huff at my failed attempt to bend his will. “You’re too weak to control me. Serves you right.” He extends his small hand to the screen of my phone and taps in the password, but before he can do anything else, a powerful knock at the door spooks us.

My pulse spikes as we both turn toward the entrance of the shop.

“Percy? Percy, it’s Mabel. Are you in there?”

Say her name out loud, and she appears. That witch. Shit. Did she already hear about my murder spree?

“Weren’t we supposed to meet in town for breakfast? Why are you so early?” I shout through the door, calculating the chances that she caught a whiff of the cupids’ bite of power.

“Open up, child. Or the stink left behind by your chubby visitors will trigger my migraines.”

My eyes screw shut, and I rest my head against the wall. Caught red-handed. So much for keeping it a secret.