Page 22 of Wicked Prince of Shadows (Wicked Princes #2)

I steadied myself against one of the walls and then picked up the bucket. The more I learned of this place, the more I hated it.

“KRAK-KRAK-KRAK.” A harsh, echoing cry split the air—deep, guttural, and far too close. My blood ran cold. Above the highest wall, a shadow wheeled—massive and angular. Its enormous beak gleamed like forged steel, and its eyes burned with a cold, pitiless hunger.

“Deathbeaks!” someone shouted from the lower terraces.

Wings unfurled across the battlements as guards leapt skyward.

Dark feathers and smoky spans beat the air, the wind whipping their armor and scattering grey petals from the newly awakened garden.

The first deathbeak dove, its wings snapping open with a sound like cracking sails as it struck one of the upper platforms. Stone splintered under its talons.

A creature slammed against the wall, its beak snapping at a winged warrior. Shadows coiled across the battlements as the defenders fought back. I ducked instinctively as one of the massive birds swept over the garden, its feathers brushing the top tiers and sending a chill gust over my skin.

“Stupid birds,” Osric muttered from the terrace above me. “They won’t ever leave us alone. They’re the reason we can’t go out to play in the salt flats.”

“Do they attack every day?” They certainly had both days I’d been here.

He shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s not so bad as long as the behemoth isn’t coming after us. When he comes, then the centipedes and the beetles come too.” He crouched down as he looked at me from the edge. “It’s all right. You’ll get used to it.”

I really didn’t want to imagine getting used to this.

And he was right that there were more attacks.

The deathbeaks attacked seven more times, and the soldiers went to the walls to fend off something else I couldn’t see.

From the wails and screams at one of the attacks, I knew at least one, perhaps two people, had been injured.

I felt so helpless as I continued to work on the plants.

Two of the kitchen workers and three others from the palace came to help me finish watering, allowing me to keep whispering the incantations to the plants.

Gehn and Lou came to get me, offering to take me to dinner with the Hollow King.

Though I was tempted, I once more refused.

I found a large mug of tea sitting on the bedside table of my room with a saucer over the top to keep it hot.

Well…I had promised the doctor that I would drink it.

I washed up, ignoring my stomach growling, and then I sat on the edge of the bed.

Not surprisingly, the backs of my thighs ached as did my lower back.

The hot tea tasted of mushrooms, dirt, and something herbal that I couldn’t put my finger on.

Ugh. The unpleasant earthiness coated my tongue, and I grimaced.

Well, if there was one thing that was consistent between realms, it was that medicinal teas never tasted good.

My mind couldn’t stop circling though: the bite, the blood, the salve, the curse, the Hollow King’s hands, the black garden clawing its way back to life.

I crossed the cold floor and stepped out into the hall. The palace was silent. Not peaceful—just… dead quiet. As if everything had stopped breathing.

The deeper I went, the more it felt less like a palace and more like a tomb. The vaulted ceilings swallowed sound, and every shadow stretched too long.

Mosaics faded to nothing in patches while others showed only bare marble as if nothing had ever existed, all color gone except for grey, charcoal, black, and white.

And above all, it was so empty. Paintings were hung at intervals, but they were simply blank canvases or canvases with streaks of grey or black.

There were no guards. No servants. No firelight or candles. Only the faint scent of iron and incense, and the soft brush of my feet on the marble.

The windows—massive arches in the wall—had no glass.

No curtains. Just wind pouring in from the night, curling through the air like cold breaths.

It slid across my skin, whispering against the stone.

I tugged my sleeves down, but it did nothing to shake the feeling that I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be.

I made my way down to the tiered garden again, drawn by instinct more than decision. What if there was an eidon out here? Could the eidon help us?

As I reached the large landing at the top of the garden, I paused. My blood chilled even more.

There he was.

The Hollow King.

He stood at the base of the garden beside the tree I’d found him by twice, its branches silver-black in the moonlight, heavy with bulbous, thick-rinded fruit.

The fruit hadn’t been ready for harvest just hours ago, but they’d ripened and doubled in size since thens. His eels slid through the air. They moved up into the branches and then down, nudging at the fruit.

Reaching up, he took hold of one fruit, his thumb pressing against the sleek black rind.

He shook his head, his grey tongue pressing at his lips.

His jaw tightened, the stitches pulling.

Then he tugged it free. The leaves on the branch rustled with the movement.

The eels circled overhead once, then dipped lower, sensing something.

Then, without looking my way, he turned and left the garden, eels following him.

I should have stayed put. Or gone back to my room.

But I didn’t.

I crouched down and crept along the top of the garden until I neared the opposite side where he exited.

Something tugged within my chest, and I followed.

What was he doing? He held that fruit against his chest as if it were a precious treasure.

When he passed one of the cross corridors, he snapped his fingers and pointed to the archway.

The eels and crabs scuttled away, sliding off into darkness.

Their fins shimmered in the dark, their eyes glittering silver before they vanished.

I remained just far enough behind to watch him, half expecting him to see me at any point. He didn’t look back. Not even once.

Every line of his body was taut, as if waiting for something. His shoulders stayed squared, his hands clenched at his sides.

I followed at a distance, keeping to the shadows even though the hallways stretched empty. No guards. No servants. Just cold wind slithering through the stone corridors and the soft pad of his boots ahead of me. How had he not noticed me yet?

The deeper we went into the palace, the stranger it felt.

Lifeless.

I’d thought it eerie before, but now it was worse.

The walls swallowed sound completely. No echo of footfalls, no whisper of life.

It was like moving through a forgotten mausoleum that had once held court and color.

Even the shadows hung differently here—thicker, tighter to the floor.

Sometimes they stirred as he neared them.

But that was the only other sign of life.

Why was no one here?

He reached a heavy door carved from dark wood, then pressed against the handle. He grunted as he shoved it inward, dragging across the stone. Then he stepped inside.

The door started to close slowly. My hands fisted, and my lips pressed tight. I shouldn’t do this. This was wrong. But I darted forward anyway.

The edge brushed against me as I passed through into his chambers, the air cool but still rich with the scent of parchment, cloves, ink, myrrh, and cedar.

Though I hadn’t really given much thought to what his chambers would be like, this wasn’t what I expected. It looked like a gathering area that had been converted into a study, lit only by moonlight pouring through a high window and framed with heavy black velvet curtains.

Books lined the shelves and were stacked on almost every surface, most ancient and in varying states of decay.

The cabinets had been carved and marked with runes and sigils.

In the center was a massive table, covered with parchment, candles burned down to puddles, dried herbs, opened books, and numerous other items.

Only one chair was near the table, though four other chairs had been pushed up against the wall and filled with books.

A black cloth hung halfway over a massive mirror, and several black boxes stacked awkwardly on one another.

Multiple paintings hung on the wall, the frames elegant and carved but the paintings themselves gone.

The earthquakes had obviously disheveled a fair bit of the room, but it seemed to me that it was probably always chaotic these days.

He stood in front of the table now and placed the fruit on a piece of parchment.

I crouched down and crept closer, hidden in the shadows and partially by a cabinet that jutted out into the hall.

From my vantage point, I could see his profile, lit silver by the moon. His face was drawn tighter than I’d seen it—tense, unreadable. The stitches along his jaw flexed as he worked.

He picked up a long, slender knife from the table. Then he made a long, clean cut through the center of the fruit. The thick rind split open with a soft crackle. The inside gleamed faintly.

A familiar tart scent reached me, and I suddenly realized what the fruit was.

A pomegranate.

Or at least something like one.

I’d seen whole pomegranates a few times, and their rinds hadn’t been so leathery or dark. But that smell was unforgettable. It made my mouth water at once.

He crushed one of the seeds under his thumb, pressing it into the paper. His brow furrowed as he leaned closer.

His body went rigid, his shoulders locking. Then his head dropped.

A low, guttural exhale escaped him, and the sound turned into something darker. Angrier.

The muscles in his arms coiled. His fingers clenched. And then—roaring, he flipped the entire table.