Page 6 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen (Curse of the Fae #4)
One Stormy Night
DEVI
“ I could ask Max to bring the crate inside if you prefer,” Mabel offers.
I tiptoe out into the street, scanning the sky for any signs of the cupids. “I’m good.”
After an attack, they usually fly back and forth over the city, tracing my steps back to where I first used my magic.
What they lack in intelligence and strategy, they make up in speed and brute strength.
I can’t feel their nauseating bite of power in the air at the moment, but I know they haven’t gone far.
Mabel twists her car keys in the trunk’s lock and lifts the lid. “I can’t keep it at my house any longer,” she announces on a heavy sigh.
A wooden box the size of a milk crate rests on top of Mabel’s reusable grocery bags.
She pricks her thumb on the lock to open it.
The rowan wood has been burnt to withstand the test of time, and the whines of the rusted hinges bring goosebumps to my neck.
This box hasn’t been opened in a long, long time.
My breath catches. “Is that?—”
“Yes.”
Inside the box lies a golden spindle. Intricate Fae runes swirl across its surface, some ancient patterns etched into the shaft, and the carvings decorating the whorl’s beveled edge are impossibly smooth and precise.
As the worlds’ most talented arrow carver, I cannot even begin to understand the power and craftsmanship that went into making such an artifact.
A dizzying flare of magic sparks from the crate, zapping my fingers as I inch my hand toward it, as though the spindle aches to be claimed and mounted upon a wheel once more.
A spindle rumored to alter the course of destiny.
“You’ve had the Spindle of the Gods in your attic all this time?” I say quietly, my fingers numb from its proximity, my tongue dry.
“It wasn’t an issue as long as nobody knew it was there,” she grumbles.
My gaze darts over to her. “And who knows now?”
“No one yet, but I can’t afford to keep it with me, not anymore. A new Mist King has been crowned the second the Eternal Chalice melted.”
My head swims at the news. “Do you know who he is?”
“No, but I felt his presence, as surely as I’m talking to you now. It won’t be long before he seeks me out.”
When she was young, Mabel was married to the Mist King, and her first husband almost destroyed the Fae when he tried to seize control of the continent. She lost her queenly powers when he died, but a part of him, along with a fraction of his magic, stayed with her.
“Why would he come for you? It’s been centuries since you’ve stepped foot on the Islantide.”
“We both know well how the magic of a realm is infused with certain…flavors of the past. Like muscle memory. The new Mist King will be eons younger than I am, but I’m still to blame for his realm’s downfall.” Mabel’s lids flutter closed, her face pale and riddled with grief.
“You only meant to stop Armand. You never condoned any of the cold-blooded murders that followed his demise.”
Deep lines appear around her tight mouth. “No, but my actions still led to a realm-wide genocide. If Armand had married anyone else, he would have become the one and only King of Faerie, and the Summer King wouldn’t have slaughtered all his people.”
“The slaughter of the Mist Fae was an unforgivable crime, and everyone involved was severely punished for it,” I say quickly.
“Were they?” Mabel muses, deep in thought. “When their children are still reigning over the realm?”
“They’re all dead, at least,” I negotiate.
“That they are.” She tightens her hold over the raven-shaped pommel of her cane, her knuckles white.
“I’m the last Fae alive who lived through the Mist Wars.
Even if the new king of the Islantide doesn’t blame me for how they ended, he will seek me out, if only to know what facts were left out of the history books.
But whatever happens next, he must not be allowed to use that spindle. ”
Mabel is my best friend, and I won’t let some psycho king imbued with the powers of the most deranged leader in history hurt her.
“I will keep it—and you—safe. Hells, you should move in here until the fucker shows his face.”
The corner of her mouth quirks. “I’ve never known you to be quite so sentimental.”
“You know how much you mean to me, Mabs, despite all my shortcomings. I couldn’t love you more if you were my own flesh and blood.”
She pats my arm. “And I love you, my Devi. But I don’t need a bodyguard, no matter how heartfelt the offer is. By the Dark One, you might be in worse danger than I am.”
I nod. As much as it thrills me to be closer than ever to reclaiming my stolen crown, it also means I’ve become a target for those who drove me out of Faerie. “Freya must be freaking out. With the chalice gone, I could easily take back my crown, if not for that wretched curse.”
“Don’t underestimate her. Or the curse. And don’t get any ideas about using the spindle.
Not all wheels spin all yarns, and the tapestry of the gods is not meant to be altered—” Mabel stops, her wrinkled eyes narrowing on a dark silhouette barreling down the cobblestone sidewalk on the other side of the street.
Jonas Campbell strides toward the shop through the drizzle, rain dripping from the edges of his leather jacket. He slows down as he approaches, his green eyes as sharp and watchful as ever, and crosses the street to meet us. He looks good. He always does.
“What are you doing outside in this weather?” he asks, never quite able to turn off his suspicious nature.
“Come and see for yourself,” I shoot back.
Rain patters against the car’s roof as I skirt away from the open trunk, allowing my old flame a look inside.
The Spindle of the Gods might be one of the most powerful Fae relics, but it doesn’t look like much.
Its wood is dark with age, and though the pointed rod is made of gold, it’s hardly the kind of object that makes a homicide detective stop in his tracks.
By mortal standards, it’s not valuable enough to matter, and as an antique shop owner, it’s perfectly reasonable for me to collect such things.
He raises a brow, his eyes dancing with humor. “Can I ask what it is? Or what’s it’s for?”
I offer him a genuine smile, not unhappy to see an old friend after the day I’ve had. “Depends on how badly you want to waste your time.”
Our gazes lock, and he draws in a sharp breath. “Long time, Devi.” He squares his shoulders, burying his hands in his pockets, and takes an awkward, very deliberate step back. “We need to talk.”
Jonas Campbell. If I’d been in a position to ever fall in love with a mortal, it would have been him. But if he’s here today, it’s not to rekindle anything.
“I have company, detective.”
Jonas turns to Mabel. “I’m sorry, madam, I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m Jonas Campbell, Detective Inspector, Police Scotland.”
A warm, old-womanly smile stretches across the witch’s lips. “We’re about to have breakfast. You’re welcome to join us inside, Detective.”
Jonas takes a long look at her white hair, wrinkles, and cane, then shakes his head. “Thank you, madam, but I’m on the clock.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I’ll come back after my shift, alright?”
“Mm-hmm,” I nod.
He leaves, and Mabel leans in, her voice conspiratorial. “When did you stop sleeping with the handsome detective?”
I pick up the spindle crate and hold it to my chest. “It’s been years, now.”
“But you know why he’s here,” she muses.
“I’m afraid I do.”
She nods and hurries me along. “Let’s eat, then we’ll be out of your hair.”
Back inside the shop, she pauses, her gaze flying to the bronze ceremonial lantern in the corner.
“Since I’m leaving the spindle in your care, I’ll take my Starlight’s lantern back with me. I’ll appreciate the occasional company now that Max has officially moved out. And maybe it’ll do him some good to get out more. I know you two don’t exactly get along…”
Goosebumps rise on my neck as my eyes flick to the lantern. “He’s been pretty quiet lately,” I admit.
“Well, thank you for taking care of him as long as you did.”
“Not at all. He’s my responsibility.”
The corners of her eyes crinkle, her smile stretched a little tight. “Maybe, but he’s my grandson.”
After my last patrons have gone, Jonas finally steps into the shop. His blazer, tie, and dress shirt still look neat despite the late hour, so he hasn’t stopped by the pub before coming to see me.
He doesn’t waste time with pleasantries, his voice low, "We need to talk, Devi.
" His eyes scan the room, landing on me with a look that tugs at something deep inside my dead heart. As soon as our eyes meet, he looks away and rubs the arch of his brow, his breath catching in his throat. “I’m serious.”
I’m wearing a black dress with a scoop neckline, a fitted bodice, and a flared skirt for the occasion—and nothing else underneath. Shiny black army boots complete the look. Bet that’ll distract him from his detective duties.
I finish washing the teacups from my last customers. “I’m all ears.”
He approaches the bar. “We got a strange call this morning, by the river. I’ve got about twenty dead men and the picture of a bonnie lass…” He presents the picture to me, and it’s blurry, so I give him a pep-filled shrug.
“How are you so sure it’s me?”
A shadow drapes over his brow. “William told me,” he grumbles, glaring at me with his inquisitive, serious detective stare, yet I catch him sneaking a glance at my bare thighs.
I shake off the nerves and reach for the top cupboard, pulling down Jonas’s favorite teacup. The earthy green ceramic feels steady in my hand, the smooth matte surface cool and achingly familiar against my fingers. “Tea?”
He clears his throat. “It’s…been a while.”
My eyes dart to the empty seat in front of me. “You want answers, don’t you? Sit down.”
He shrugs off his leather jacket and hooks it on the coat rack, but he doesn’t obey. Instead, he licks his lips, his strong, powerful arms crossed in front of his chest. “You can’t keep killing people.”