Chapter 1: Emergency Meeting - The Shadow of a Vicious King

POV: MAX

A grunt slips past my lips as I brace the rusty iron fence with my foot, balancing five grocery bags between my arms. A muscle cramps in my shoulder, threatening to spark a migraine, but I squeeze past the gate and climb the steps to my childhood home. The steel door creaks behind me as I slip off my gillies, the plush hallway carpet tickling the soles of my bare feet.

What was supposed to be a quick errand has turned into a worrying discovery, followed by an urgent summons from my coven leader. My phone buzzes in my pocket, no doubt a flurry of messages from my fiancé. He’s irritated that I had to cancel our dance rehearsal at the last minute, but I’m more concerned with potential death and mayhem than choreography, at present.

“What’s the emergency, Mabs?” I call into the empty hallway.

A familiar voice booms from the kitchen, “Mabel’s not here yet.” Kerri prances over to me, her freshly done manicure matching her sexy black pantsuit. “Is that how your generation says hello these days?”

Even though we’re both redheads, I’m all pale moonshine and freckles next to her smooth, matte, endless tan. Her blood-red hair falls to her shoulders, slick and thin, while my wild mane has to be tamed into a long French braid or a bun just so I can get out of the house without being mistaken for a drifter.

“Hello, Aunt Kerri,” I say with a sheepish grimace.

“That’s better.”

I extend one arm forward. “Will you help me with these?” The mischievous glint in her eyes prompts me to add a quick, “Please.”

She takes half the bags, and I sigh in relief.

On our way to the kitchen, Lady rubs herself against my legs, nearly tripping me. The tortoiseshell purrs, hungry for attention. I dump the bags on the kitchen island, scoop her up, and scratch that brown spot under her chin that drives her wild, and her yellow eyes flutter shut in bliss.

“Why are you carrying a week’s worth of groceries?” Kerri asks.

“I swung by Devi’s before coming here. She asked me to bring them, but she wasn’t home,” I explain.

My Faerie godmother, the infamous Devi Eros, almost never leaves her home on account of being a wanted criminal.

Kerri’s eyes widen. “Maybe that’s the emergency. Was there anything out of the ordinary? Any sign of forced entry or violence?”

I shake my head and grab a glass from the cupboard, Lady propped over one shoulder. “None.”

I move to the refrigerator, fill the empty glass to the brim, and gulp it down. The cold water soothes my budding migraine, Lady’s soft purring mellowing the tension beneath my ribs.

Kerri tucks away the perishables in the fridge. “Are you still struggling with those nasty headaches, sweetie?” she asks.

“Nothing a good aspirin won’t fix,” I say.

Her brows knit together. “Nonsense. I’ll brew you something that’ll keep those away for a few days.”

“There’s no need—” The rest of the sentence dies in my throat as Kerri fills the old, bumpy teapot and clicks on the stove.

There’s no use arguing the virtues of modern medicine with a witch.

A tired sigh quakes my chest. “I should be at a dance studio right now. Rehearsing my wedding dance.”

“I know, I know. With your rich, gorgeous fiancé,” Kerri teases. “How’s dear Lawland doing?”

I press my tongue to the back of my front teeth. “Lachlan. Which you know perfectly well.”

Of all the ways she telegraphs her dislike for my upcoming wedding, that’s the one that most gets on my nerves. She’s a witch who deals with hundreds of refugees every year. For her to pretend she can’t remember my fiancé’s name might be the lamest trick she’s ever used.

Her rich hazelnut eyes dim with a hint of shame, or perhaps worry. “I’m sorry, sweetie. This marrying-a-mortal phase of yours will take some getting used to.”

“And what if it’s not a phase?” I shoot back, annoyed.

She raises her palms to the ceiling. “And what are you going to do? Stop practicing, move into his fancy house on the lake, and birth his one and a half kids?”

“That’s the plan,” I say flippantly, my temper tickled by her relentless probing. “And why would I stop working because I’m married?”

Lady squirms, agitated, and I set her back on the floor.

Kerri licks her lips. “I wasn’t talking about medicine, Maxine.”

She was talking about witchcraft, of course, and my cheeks warm.

I don’t think of myself as a witch. My twin, Nickolas, is the witch in the family. He’s good with runes, knows all the spells, and prays every night, while I can barely brew a simple sleep potion.

“Well…” I suck in air, searching for a way out of this conversation.

Mabel wants me to be more involved in the coven going forward, but the thought fills me with dread. I do love Kerri and the others, but it’d be like having an intern run the whole hospital.

“The only witchy thing I’m good at is gardening. That, and making lightbulbs burn out in a room when I’m angry. That hardly makes one a witch—it’s just a pain in the arse,” I say.

“Still. How are you going to justify your quirks to your oblivious mortal husband?”

It stings that she doesn’t contradict my previous statement, even though I wasn’t fishing for a compliment.

“I’m a mortal, too,” I point out. I infuse the words with as much calm and determination as I can muster, but she waves her hand dismissively, as if the correlation only exists in my head.

“You know what I mean. Where is that young woman who spent her afternoons trekking through the autumn woods with her feet bare and a hooded cape? The one who wanted to open up a women’s clinic next to Devi’s tea parlor?” she asks with a sad smile.

My voice dies down. “I grew up, Aunt Kerri.”

I had to, I want to add, but that’s harsh. Kerri lived through hell, too, yet she never assimilated into the mortal world. Maybe because she lived in Faerie too long, or maybe because she’s a full-blooded Fae.

“If you really want to keep your fiancé in the dark, you should stop calling me Aunt Kerri. Better smooth out that habit before the wedding,” she finally says. “Can I be your fun, outrageous younger sister?”

I blink at her a few times. “Pluh-ease. You still look older than me.”

“Not for much longer,” she answers with a wink.

“Fine. You can be my well-behaved, quiet, fake sibling.”

She chuckles in victory, clearly delighted by my grumpiness.

Kerri looks to be in her late twenties forever, while I’m catching up fast. Give it a few years, and I’ll be the one who has to pass as her elder. She’s Mabel’s daughter, which technically makes her my sister by adoption, but she’s a few centuries older than me, so Aunt Kerri always made more sense.

Mabel raised me and my twin, Nickolas, but always insisted that we shared no blood with her, and we never called her Mom. We already had a mother, and a wonderful one at that. Before the Reds killed her.

I motion to Kerri’s neck. “I’m counting on you to glamor away that tattoo.”

The dark shape of a snarling wolf marks her clavicle and curls up her neck, teeth bared in permanent warning.

She pouts. “Where’s the fun in that?”

A heavy sigh escapes me. “What will Lachlan’s family think of us? A bunch of redheads with an addiction to tea? His mother already hates me…”

Kerri wraps an arm around my shoulders, leaning her head against mine for a brief moment. “Sweetie, mothers-in-law were put on this earth to battle the young women who seduce away their sons—especially when they’re as beautiful as you, and a literal witch.”

I click my tongue. “I didn’t steal Lachlan away with a spell.”

“I know you didn’t enchant him, but it doesn’t mean he wasn’t,” she chimes.

I hike up my left sleeve, revealing the mark near the bend of my elbow—the brand of the Bloodraven coven that summoned me home. The skin is still raised and a deep burgundy color, meaning Mabel hasn’t changed her mind about our meeting, but it isn’t black, which would signal imminent danger.

“Shouldn’t Mabel be home by now?” I grumble.

“Yes, and she must have something vital to share, or she wouldn’t have summoned us both. I was on official coven duty in Culloden when the mark started to itch,” Kerri says.

The kettle whistles, and her lips purse as she opens an empty tea tin. “Bollocks, there’s no angelica left.”

I pick up the gardening scissors and a knitted shawl from the coat rack near the French patio doors. “I’ll get some from the gardens.”

Kerri bites down on her tongue. “Ew. Fresh Angelica is too bitter.”

I pat her arm before heading outside. “I don’t mind the taste. I’ve been drinking Angelica-infused tea my whole life.”

The smell of damp soil and crushed mint wafts through the air as I move along the narrow path leading to the back of the garden. Plants spill over the edges, brushing against my legs, a few twigs catching in my skirt. The garden is busy and overgrown, but familiar, every plant in its place.

The Angelica archangelica is tall and easy to spot above the overcrowded beds. At two meters, it towers over the sprigs of meadowsweet, Filipendula ulmaria, and elderflower, Sambucus nigra. Its stems are thick and hollow under my hand, ridged and a little sticky. The broad leaves are smooth on top and slightly rough underneath, leaving a green scent on my fingers. I cut off a purplish stalk with the scissors, and the air fills with its strong, bitter tang. I know these plants by heart. The ones I can’t use, given my non-existent talent for blood magic, I can at least care for, and the garden has always been my sacred place.

The powerful late-autumn breeze plucks the last leaves of the rowan tree towering above.

Long strings of mist rise from the earth.

Fog is a familiar sight in Inverness—whether it’s the steamy kind that forms when cold air meets warm water, upslope fog along the mountains, or the winter fog that rolls in when it gets really, really cold. But this… This is new.

The silver gleam of the suspended droplets distracts me from my task, and I pause to examine the eerie, almost tangible strands that have suddenly invaded my garden. They coalesce into a cloud, erasing anything beyond the property gates from my vision, and my hand cramps around the gardening scissors.

The porch light switches on.

“Max?” Kerri calls from the house.

I’ve been trained to flee first and ask questions later, but the apparition is strangely appealing and calming. The murky air lulls me into a daze. Swirls of mist dance along the skin of my arms, the gray cloud swallowing me whole.

I’m blind.

“Max, get inside!” Kerri shouts.

I jolt awake from whatever spell I’d been put under and dig the balls of my feet into the leaves, the dry crunch echoing in my ears. The sharp light of Kerri’s cell phone pierces the veil of fog, moving rapidly up and down as she runs up to me, and I stagger toward it.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

I open my mouth to speak as the mist thins just long enough for me to glimpse a tall, elongated apparition stalking toward her.

By the Darkness and all its whispers…

The thing wears no clothes, nothing to hide the emaciated silhouette of something that might have been a man, once upon a time. An eyeless mess stands in lieu of its face, showcasing sharp and uneven angles, as if its bones were beaten into submission until nothing human remained. A clear yellow jewel shines where its heart should be, eight curved metal insets clawing out of its thorax and holding it in place.

“Kerri!” I squeak, my pulse swirling.

The Fae narrows her eyes at the monster. “Get inside! Now!”

I spin around to find another faceless man waiting behind me, cutting off my escape path. Two other silhouettes detach from the fog. We’re surrounded by four—maybe five—of them, with who knows how many more still hidden in the mist.

The creatures don’t snarl, growl, or speak. Their mouths are sewn shut, leaving them eerily silent, their wide-flared nostrils sniffing the air, grime filling every crevice of their thick, leathery skin.

Kerri starts to shift. I haven’t seen her change forms in years, and the snaps and pops of her bones bring acid to my mouth. Soon after, a black wolf stands in her place. She extricates herself from her torn pantsuit and crouches in a defensive stance, baring her lupine teeth.

The faceless men emit a series of excited, horrible clicks in response to her sudden transformation. They’re not as fast as Kerri, but surprisingly in sync. They move as one and reach for her, textured bumps running along the joints of their fingers, the ends tipped with long, claw-like nails.

Kerri slams the one standing between us and the house to the ground, her powerful wolf jaw making quick work of its neck, but the thing doesn’t bleed. Doesn’t scream. It just goes limp, and the others prowl forward.

A newcomer cuts us off from the house, shoving me aside on his way to Kerri. I hit the ground hard, the air punched from my lungs, but none of them even glance my way. They circle her, suffering her bites with slow, careful patience, as though waiting for the right moment to seize her.

I dig my nails into the earth and crawl to my feet, grab the shovel leaning against the side of the shed, and ram it into the back of the closest monster. A low squelch echoes in my ears as the weapon pierces flesh, the skin of the monster crumbling like cardboard.

The thing collapses inward with a wet crunch and falls to its knees. I hold my breath—one heartbeat, two—but he drags himself upright again, the yellow jewel set in his chest flaring brighter. One by one, his companions turn their eyeless faces toward me.

Fuck. I’ve got their attention now.

I strike again and again, my blows landing wild and useless, until one bad swing gives the monster the opening it needs to rip the shovel from my grip.

It considers the gardening tool with a tilt of its head before snapping the shaft in two and letting the pieces fall at its feet.

Now that the shovel is out of my hands, they all return their attention to Kerri, who managed to tear a couple down, only for three more to stalk out of the mist. The way they move—surgical, perfectly trained, unfazed by the strikes—makes me think they feel no pain, no emotion, nothing beyond the cold drive to complete their task.

A desperate roar builds in my chest. “Leave her alone, you freaks! What do you even want from us?” I yell.

The wind rises, thinning the mist. A silhouette looms just beyond the iron gates, a dark shape highlighted by the golden glow of the street lamps.

A terrible bite of power—the likes of which I didn’t know existed—slithers under my skin. It feels similar to Mabel’s magic in its all-encompassing strength, but it’s much, much colder. And darker. The icy flare sinks deep into my chest and sparks a numbing ache. The phantom’s clothes are torn, but a smooth, white geodesic mask covers his face and mouth, with no holes whatsoever.

“Bring the girl to me.”

The words are loud without being spoken aloud, and the glacial voice is hoarse, as though it hasn’t been used in a long, long time.

Mist presses in from all sides, seeping into my hair, my lungs, my nose—marking me as a target. It’s clear now our attackers are only acting on their leader’s orders, his proximity increasing their strength and speed.

Beyond the gates, the phantom paces the street with the impatience of someone who can’t wait to tear us apart. For whatever reason, he can’t come to us himself, so he’s playing fetch with his minions instead.

They reach for me, but I leap out of their grasp, launching myself headfirst into the overgrown plant bed.

A series of growls and whimpers tells me Kerri isn’t faring much better.

I claw at the earth, scrambling away from the gates. The snapping roots of the rare, stubborn plants I’ve spent most of my life caring for twist my stomach.

I dart between the bushes until I burst onto the limestone path leading back to the well-lit porch. I’m between Kerri and the house now, and the black wolf retreats. Lacerations in her fur ooze dark, burgundy blood.

Kerri keeps her eyes locked on our attackers as she inches backward, closing the space between us, but for every step she takes, they bridge the gap. She’s too far away.

My jaw clenches before I rip the metal rod holding up the birdhouses Nick and I painted when we were younger out of the ground. Half-mad, I charge forward to spear the monsters—anything to buy Kerri enough time to flee.

She finally spins around, but one of the faceless men detaches from the mist and sucker-punches her from behind.

Kerri’s hide melts away, revealing her human body—naked, trembling, drenched in cold sweat. The hand of the monster bursts through her abdomen, clawing its way out.

Blood sprays from her belly, pooling at her feet.

“Kerri!”

Her mouth opens, forming a big ‘O,’ before she breathes, “Run.”

A desperate cry tears out of my lungs as I spin around and run, my heart beating wildly in my throat. The creature simply…ripped her open. Just like that.

As I reach the three wooden steps leading up to the porch, long nails sink into my ankle, shackling me. I crash forward, landing flat on my face. The French doors sway in the wind, inches away.

A sickening chill washes over me. A tingling sensation tickles my toes, ankles, and knees, as though a swarm of frozen insects is crawling over my skin. I glance over my shoulder, but there’s nothing there. Only the monster who stopped my escape, sprawled on the ground in much the same predicament I am.

The lights in the house flicker wildly.

A nasty bruise blooms on my bottom lip as I crawl forward, dragging myself up the stairs. The claws of the monster tear at the tender flesh of my calf. Lady crouches into a fighting stance on the porch, hissing and roaring at my aggressor, her fur spiking. She launches herself at the creature, raising all hells, and I break free.

Mabel always said the house was the safest place to be in a crisis. An unintelligible curse tears out of me as I push myself past my limits until my upper body crosses the threshold.

An outraged meow echoes in my ears, followed by the rush of paws thundering inside and up the stairs.

Lady tried her best.

Claws squeeze my hamstrings. I kick the grimy hand preventing me from escaping to no effect, the creature slowly dragging me back outside, inch by inch, like it’s got all the time in the worlds. I grab the leg of a nearby display table for purchase and knock down the potted plants and heavy bronze lantern that were set on it.

The solid antique lantern is the only weapon at hand, and I ram it over the head of the faceless man. Its stained glass panels shatter, and a flash of blinding light floods the porch. The pressure on my leg relents.

White spots dance in front of my eyes, but I manage to scamper all the way inside the house.

I crawl to my feet, holding myself against the wall, eyes wide, my breaths coming in short bursts. My lips are swollen, my lower leg flayed and gushing blood, but the monster stops his approach, unable to cross the rowan threshold.

A shard of blue-stained glass from the broken lantern is embedded deep in my palm, and I wince at the depth of the cut. My heart is in tatters. The shrill whistle of the forgotten kettle anchors me back to reality, and I hobble to the stove.

The click of the gas switch shudders through me as I risk a glance back outside to where the creatures still lurk. Their faces are angled toward me, skeletal arms hanging limply at their sides, like a bunch of robots put on hold.

The phantom’s cold voice thunders in my mind once more. It doesn’t even sound remotely annoyed, just amused, as though my escape provided welcome entertainment in an otherwise easy fight.

“Come, my reavers. Bring the witch. The girl is out of our reach for now.”