Chapter 5: You put a spell on me - The Shadow of a Vicious King

POV: E

The darkness has yet to pull me back into oblivion. I can’t remember the last time I was able to focus on something for a meaningful amount of time.

Max pauses outside her bedroom and tugs on the elastic holding her French braid before stowing it around her wrist. “Give me a minute, I’m going to change. Then we can break into Mabel’s attic.”

Not waiting for an answer, she enters her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

She said we. She asked for my help and is making plans with me as though it makes perfect sense. She’s the first person to treat me like I’m not some useless shadow. Mabel and I would talk for a couple of minutes here and there, but she never asked me for anything. Never asked questions about my past.

Max does. She acts like I matter, like I’m more than a whisper caught between this world and the next. Her attention is the lifeline I didn’t know I craved, and every word she throws my way pulls me a little further from the void. I float through her bedroom door out of instinct to keep her close, afraid to disappear if she’s not near. It’s intrusive, but ghosts don’t feel much remorse about stalking the living. It’s our only pleasure in death.

Max steps out of the plaid skirt, white shirt, and nylons she slept in, revealing two matching pieces of black lace. Two things happen at once: first, a twinge of guilt pinches my chest. It’s wild because guilt isn’t an emotion I’m used to. Second, my heart picks up. Her long, creamy thighs are exposed, and rays of sunlight from the window caress the side of her leg. The network of freckles scattered across her chest is mesmerizing, the darker peaks of her breasts visible through the lace.

My mouth dries up, my body tingling with need. I want to lose myself in those bruised lips, to kiss them until she feels safe and whole again.

Oblivious of my treachery, she pulls on a pair of sweatpants and throws a loose-fitted button-down shirt over her bare shoulders.

With a wince, she pats her black-and-blue lip. Her fingers tremble along the edges of the swelling, tracing the tender skin as though testing its limits. Then, with a sudden, almost defiant motion, she uncaps her red lipstick and paints right over the mark.

My heart still bleeds that she should suffer at all. I wish I could have done more to protect her last night. I used to be able to move little things like the remote, the drapes, or a door handle if I concentrated hard enough. And if I did it once, it means I could do it again. When those monsters return, I’ll find a way to scare them off. I’ll push the limits of death further than ever before.

It’s more than attraction. It’s instinct. A primal, unshakable urge to protect her, even from the smallest discomfort. If I had a body, I’d stand between her and every shadow, every draft of cold air, every monster. That voice on the phone, her fiancé, as she calls him… Where is he? She’s beaten and bleeding. If he truly deserved her, if he loved her the way she should be loved, he’d be here.

If he were her true mate, she wouldn’t have to lie to him.

I can’t stop watching her, cataloging every shift of her body, every breath she takes. She unravels her braid with her fingers and gathers her red mane on the top of her head in a messy bun. The movement comes easy and without thought, and I can tell she’s done the same exact thing countless times.

Whatever’s left of me is hers to command. And I’ll protect her from evil monsters and inconsiderate fiancés, whether she wants me to or not.

I drift back to the hallway before she comes out. Her cheeks are red, her eyes sparkling as she hikes the sleeves of her checkered shirt past her elbows. “Alright, let’s do this.”

“Aren’t you afraid of ghosts?” I ask as we climb the stairs to the third floor and into the narrow corridor leading to Mabel’s bedroom.

She titters on the balls of her bare toes. “Should I be afraid of you?”

“No, but you’re the first person I’ve ever met—besides Devi and Mabel—who didn’t run away screaming as soon as I made my presence known. It’s a nice change of pace.”

“I’m a witch. We know ghosts walk this earth. Any witch would have acted the same,” she says, as though anyone who believes in spirits would behave as she does, but that’s simply not true.

“No, you’re special.”

The blush of her cheeks deepens, but she grimaces in an overtly goofy way, obviously trying to make light of it. “Enough flirting. Go and tell me what’s up there.”

I’ve never ventured into the attic, though I’m not sure why.

Crimson symbols crawl across the walls, painted in wide scarlet strokes. Wooden crates are stacked to the rafters beside a heavy desk strewn with parchments. At the center rests a book embossed with an upside-down scarlet tree. Its roots and branches stretch to form a perfect circle.

Candles crowd the desk and shelves, wax draped and hardened along their sides. A large map lies unrolled on the floor, its corners pinned by books and candle stubs, as though the old witch had been trying to chart not only the Fae Continent, but the hidden spaces between worlds.

This isn’t just an attic, it’s a war room.

Light leaks through a round stained-glass medallion window that looks out onto the cobbled street below. A giant, gnarly family tree sprawls across the inside wall, painted in rich vermilion and gold, its limbs stretching from floor to ceiling, its canopy spanning the entire length of the gabled roof.

Against the window lies a smooth white mask laid with rubies of all shapes and sizes. Its eyeless, full-face blank expression is almost human, almost alive. It stares back at me with a directness that sends a shiver through my incorporeal form.

In the corner hangs a strange, black mirror. Not made of glass, but framed by an oval-shaped slab of polished onyx. Its surface ripples in the most alluring and ominous fashion, and I find myself inexplicably drawn to it. Like I might stare into its inky abyss and see myself, but when I float over to it, the dark void doesn’t reflect anything back at me.

Max’s voice coaxes me back to reality. “Can you see the trapdoor?”

On the floor, a single square hatch is wedged shut with a raven-pommeled cane, preventing Max from opening it from below. I hover closer to the hatch. “Yes.”

“Can you open it?”

I try to dislodge the cane blocking the way, but my invisible fingers pass idly through it. The elation that had built in my chest evaporates.

“No.”

“Then describe what you see.”

I give a faithful representation of the attic before floating back down.

“Fuck, I really need to get up there,” Max growls.

Both frustration and excitement flush her face, and I drift closer, greedy for the spark she carries, the life burning in her green eyes. Her gaze follows me without quite seeing, a telltale sign she can sense when I’m near. I should be more careful going forward about curling up beside her again at night or spying on her while she changes.

Bummer.

“What kind of powers do you have? Can you make the wind blow or levitate things?” she asks.

“I used to be able to touch and pick up small objects,” I admit. “But it’s been years…”

Her voice softens. “How old are you?”

I can’t answer that. Not really. No more than I can answer any personal question.

Max tilts her head. “Let me guess. You don’t remember.” A laugh slips out, half grimace, half amusement. “Silly me. I should stop asking the same dumb questions, or you’ll hate me before dinner.”

“I don’t mind,” I say too quickly. “The first decade I remember is the eighties, and I was already a ghost by then.”

“So…” she trails off, “you’re at least seventy-ish.”

The figure throws me for a loop. Seventy. Not ideal, given that I appear to be developing a slightly obsessive—possibly unhealthy—crush on Max.

“How do you figure that?” I croak.

“Well, you don’t sound like a kid,” she says. “So you must’ve been at least twenty when you died.”

I turn it back on her. “And how old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

I’ve watched enough movies to know that’s not a good age gap, and it’s vain, but I can’t let her picture me as an old man.

“Do ghosts still age after they die?” I muse.

She winks in my general direction. “I don’t think so. For all we know, I might be older than you.”

“Death does wonders for the complexion. No wrinkles. No calories,” I joke.

“No student loans,” she adds with a goofy grin.

“Truly the dream,” I say. “Eternal youth and free rent in exchange for your corporeal form. You interested?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Hard pass. I like my body where it is.”

I nod, even though she can’t see it. “I miss having knees. And elbows. All excellent, cruelly underrated body parts.”

She snorts, then presses her lips together, rubbing her palms against her thighs. “Alright. Enough nonsense.” Her voice firms. “Let’s do a séance. Strengthen your presence on this plane, and we’ll see if that helps you get that pesky cane out of the way.”

My heart hammers. “A séance?”

“Didn’t Mabel ever try to commune with you?”

The word suggests some sort of intimate exchange, and my throat dries up. I can’t remember the last time I felt thirsty, or contemplated the need for water or food, but I do wish I had a glass of Nether cider at hand to drown out my frazzled heartbeat.

Max skips to the kitchen and comes back with two bulging bags under her arms. She empties them onto the floor with a focused gleam in her eyes, then stoops to pour a ring of coarse salt around herself. Once the circle is complete, she kneels inside it, arranging candles with careful precision, humming quietly.

Settling in a lotus position, she rests a thick, leather-bound book on her knees and flips through brittle pages until she finds a section marked “Glimpses of Otherworldly Planes.”

She bites down on her bottom lip, looking both fierce and innocent, her confident movements undercut by the heavy blush rising to her cheeks and the slight tremor in her voice.

“This kind of spell doesn’t call for talent,” she murmurs. “Just rigorous preparation. I can do this.” She nods a few times, as though she’s trying to summon the courage she needs to succeed.

The crack of a match raises goosebumps along my arms as Max lights one of her candles, the scent of sulphur and smoke flooding my senses. I expect her to use it to light the others, but instead she holds a giant needle over the flame.

“What are you⁠—”

Before I can finish, she sinks the tip into the heel of her palm without a flicker of hesitation. “I need blood for the spell.”

“Don’t hurt yourself on my account,” I ground out.

“I’m a witch. A bad one, maybe, but I don’t fret at the sight of blood. Believe me.”

Red drops fall into the shallow bowl of water at her feet. She adds dark ink to the mixture, and the liquid blooms into a deep crimson. With a paintbrush, she divides the circle into four neat quarters, her hand steady as she paints symbols with careful strokes, copying patterns from the spellbook. The grace in her movements steals my breath.

“What are those?”

“Runes,” she says. “They should help you focus your energy.”

The red ink shimmers. I drift closer to the circle, my gaze tracing the slope of her neck and the elegant curve of her back. I imagine what it would feel like for our knees to brush. To taste the warmth of her pulse.

Her bite of power coats my skin, teasing, like the echo of a touch I’ll never have. I hover there, caught between fantasy and desire, knowing every second I linger pulls me deeper into a longing I cannot satisfy, a fire that can never burn me.

When she serves two cups of tea and sets them in front of her, I cross the line of salt and settle myself in front of her in the circle.

“Are you ready?” Her eyes shine with excitement—forest green, deep and endless, like staring into an enchanted woodland.

“Always.”

A soft, playful laugh pops out of her mouth and shivers down my spine.

“Dark One, heed my prayers,” she declares, her voice smooth and commanding.

“Grant sight to those lost in the dark.

Grant strength to the weary and worn.

Grant blood to the desperate and thirsty.

Let your mercy answer their call.”

Her pupils dilate, and she curls a hand around the bronze handle of my lantern—my cage, my home, my prison—the only tangible part of me. The sight is erotic as fuck.

Warmth tickles the length of my spine, as though she’s actually touching me. The sensation of human touch spears through me, as sharp and intense as a lightning bolt. She’s radiant, magnetic, utterly intoxicating.

“The void hungers.

The grave awaits.

But not tonight.

I offer blood in death’s stead.”

The star-shaped freckle at the corner of her mouth beckons. I want to reach out, press my lips to hers, and feel her pulse. I want to curl my fingers into her fiery hair and press her closer, feel the brush of her lips against mine. This is impossible, and yet, I crave it beyond reason. I can’t stop picturing my hands on her body.

I’m hard. Dizzy. Desperate.

I feel more alive than ever.

That little dent I made in her mattress wasn’t nearly enough. I want to spread her out over the bloody runes and feel her tremble beneath me, mark every inch of her skin with my mouth, my tongue, my teeth.

I can imagine a life where she’d strip for me, begging for my hands to learn the shape of her flesh and draw a moan from her lips. I’d be good at it, too. I’d know exactly where to graze and where to pinch, how to adjust the pressure to quicken her breath until her body softened with sweetness and longing.

Max sets the lantern carefully next to the teacups, oblivious to the turn my thoughts have taken. In a single heartbeat, I shift from a jaded, incorporeal ghost to something that hungers for more—craving the joys stolen from me in death, willing to kill for a moment in this woman’s arms. I might not remember my own name, but I’d know how to make her scream in pleasure and beg for more.

Maybe I was stuck in this purgatory to find a way to atone for the sins I committed, but I want to double down on them. My head is full of sweet ways I could torture Max, if she let me, and all the ways devils like me worship angels like her.

A sudden wind blows the fine hairs framing her face forward, and the other candles flare to life. Salt scrapes across the floorboards, poking holes in the circle.

“Fuck. It’s working.” Her eyes bulge, and her blush deepens. She sounds surprised and proud and terrified all at once. “How are you feeling?”

“Delirious and hungry,” I whisper darkly.

Goosebumps rise along her lower arms, and she rubs the chill off. Her cheeks are so red, I could just take a bite out of them.

“How about that cane? Could you move it now?” she asks.

Right. She’s not trying to give me strength because she wants me to kiss the life out of her. She needs me to open the hatch for her. The realization pops the dangerously heated bubble I was caught in.

A pang of regret twists my chest as I float upward to the attic.

My newfound strength tapers off too quickly, leaving me just enough time to wrench the cane away. The wooden stick hits the floor a heartbeat later, marking the moment I become fully ghost again. I make peace with my decision not to kiss Max, because that stolen second would never have been enough. But now that I know it’s possible, I’ll practice—every waking hour of every day, if that’s what it takes.

“I did it!” I announce proudly.

Max pulls the attic’s trapdoor down and unfolds the ladder tucked between the two floors.

I’m grinning from ear to ear, which she can’t see, but she mirrors that grin right back anyway and starts to climb.

“Well done, boo,” she teases.

Just as she’s about to step off the folding ladder, a powerful gush of air rustles the papers on the desk. The drawings on the walls glow blood-red. Magic snaps in the air like elastic stretched too far, and shoves Max back violently.

She falls to her bum on the floor below. “Ow.”

The elation from the séance drains out of me as I zoom to her side. “Flaming hells. Are you alright? I should have realized what those drawings were—or at least slowed down your fall.”

“No, it’s my own fault. I should have known Mabel would have warded the place.”

Without thinking, I offer a hand to help her up.

She takes it without seeing it and springs to her feet, my hand clenching around her knuckles in surprise.

Fuuuuck.

Shock widens her eyes and shortens her breaths. We remain locked in that touch, her green gaze searching the empty space in front of her. She blinks at the deep grooves left by my fingers on her skin before I soften my hold, but if I listened to the roar in my ears, I’d only grip her tighter.

With a nervous laugh, she slinks away and brings her hand to her chest.

I touched her. Actually touched her.

Her hand was so small in mine…

“How did you know my hand was there?” I croak.

“I didn’t—” Another stifled laugh quakes her throat, her cheeks flushed with the deepest blush yet. Lovely. Full of life. “Instinct, I guess.”

Max rubs her knuckles down with her thumb and tilts her head toward the attic. Her pupils are huge, her wild pulse visible at the angle of her neck. “Wait here. I’m going to get my sketchbook so you can describe the runes Mabel used.”

She veers off toward the stairs, racing down. I can’t shake the sense she wants me to stay behind, to give her space, as though she caught a glimpse of my wretched soul and needed to get away.

The way she flees, so quick, so deliberate, only sharpens my need to chase.

I’m losing control. I shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want her. And yet every instinct screams to hunt her down, to take what I cannot, to pull her close and never let go. The impossibility of it only feeds my hunger. Forget the ring, forget her dumb fiancé, forget the life she had before we met.

Max will be mine—whatever the cost.