Ruinous: A Dark Paranormal Romance

(The Marked Mage Chronicles, Book 4)

Victoria Evers
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 RUINOUS
THE MARKED MAGE CHRONICLES
BOOK FOUR
VICTORIA EVERS
 CO N T E N T S

Prologue
1. Take Me To Church
2. Playing With the Big Boys
3. Believer
4. Show Me How to Live
5. From Yesterday
6. Heavy Is the Crown
7. Slept So Long
8. This Ain’t a Scene, It’s an Arms Race
9. Dream On
10. I Want My Innocence Back
11. What’s Coming To Me
12. Survivor
13. Rain
14. Riot
15. Welcome to the Jungle
16. Hands of Time
17. Like A Villain
18. Storm
19. L’Ultima Notte
20. Hey, No Pressure
21. The Death of Peace of Mind
22. Her Name Is Alice
23. Deity
24. Human
25. I Fell in Love With a Devil
26. Nara
27. Look What You Made Me Do
28. Dancing With a Stranger
29. Fire On Fire
30. Just Pretend
31. All of Me
32. Just A Man
33. Falling Like the Stars
34. Who Can You Trust
35. Up in the Air
36. Hey Man Nice Shot
37. In a Heartbeat
38. Outsider
39. Ladies and Gentlemen
40. Friction
41. Sing
42. Blackstar
43. Gravity
44. Born For This
45. Another Day
46. The Ghost of You
47. Ashes
48. I Will Not Bow
49. Break Into My Heart
50. Remember
51. Tonight I Wanna Cry
52. Let Me Go
53. I Remain
54. Kings and Queens
55. For You
56. Make Me Believe Again
57. Dead Reckoning
58. Rescue
59. Hold My Hand
I. Epilogue
II. Epilogue
A Note From The Author
About the Author
 This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, real locales, or historical events are used fictitiously. Other characters,
names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual locales, events, or people, living or
dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. Thank you, and happy
reading!

Cover Art By: Victoria Evers

Hair Graphic By: KLLGraphix

Copyright © 2023 by Victoria Evers

http://victoriaevers.blogspot.com/

Created with Vellum

PROLOGUE
 1692

A ir.
Andras needed air.
The soil was damn near frozen, making every inch he fought through feel like stone. The only
saving grace it offered was that the dirt wasn’t loose enough to fill his mouth and nose as easily when
he tried to breathe. Though, that didn’t mean he could. The lack of oxygen only added to the pressure
building in his lungs. Just when he thought it impossible, the soil managed to grow even harder with
every handful he dug through, peeling away fingernails and even chipping into bone as he clawed his
way up.
But that also meant something else.
He could feel it in the unrelenting cold of the earth pressing into his skin the further he climbed.
The surface was within reach.
Sure enough, one more handful of dirt delivered the beautiful, bitter bite of winter air to kiss his
fingertips.
For the first time in millennia, the sun would once again warm his skin. He would breathe in the
scent of salt from the ocean. He would bathe in the downpour of rain as it washed the grime from his
body. He would be free…
But as Andras breached the surface, all he was met with was more ash, more darkness.
Was this some cruel dream?
He’d seen the wordmarks. That had been the Anástasis. He was sure of it.
But save for the frozen grass he was now sprawled out on, it looked like just another sector of
The Pit. Smoke thick enough to clog his lungs lingered overhead, shrouding the night sky from any
trace of stars. Blood and muck turned the patches of snow into nothing more than frozen filth, and
mangled bodies lie in disarray across the ground.
A series of posts lined the lands around him, lit torches resting atop each to illuminate the expanse
of the field. Even stripped of their leaves, the bare branches looking like warped fingers, the
countless trees bordering the field were enough to make him cry.
Because, dead or not, trees did not exist in The Ninth Realm, and that was a doe peering out from
the darkness between them.
Exhaustion left his legs buckling out from under him as he tried to stand, but he didn’t care.
Andras was home.
He collapsed back on the frozen ground, not caring about the blood that stained it. His eyes had
slipped shut for no more than a minute when soft, uncalloused fingers brushed his cheek.
She was here.
She, too, had made it out.
Andras opened his eyes, beholding a beautiful face of ivory skin—
Only, those weren’t the two-toned eyes of his mate peering down at him. The lovely hair flowing
down to her waist was not moonlight silver, but rather the deepest ebony.
And yet, this stranger was smiling at him. Seeing any face outside the Realm, especially one so
exquisite, should have been a comfort, but this was all wrong.
Where was she?
If Andras had managed to escape the Realm, surely his mate had something to do with it. She
would have known he was coming. She wouldn’t have just left him out here.
Not unless something happened to her.
Where was she?
It was the only question he could ask. No context, no name, no explanation. And yet, this woman
seemed to understand, because she shook her head, apologizing.
No. None of her words were right. None of them made sense.
“No one else came through the portal.”
No.
No, he had seen his mate. She had slipped through the gates before him—
Distant voices broke through the silence, their owners fast approaching, on horseback by the
sounds of it.
The ebony-haired woman was suddenly trying to get him to his feet, demanding they both leave,
but he couldn’t. Not when something had clearly gone wrong. Perhaps his mate was still trying to
reach the surface. He may not have been able to help her, but he could certainly wait for her. He
would be content to lie there until dawn if need be. That is, until a low vibration coursed its way
across his left forearm.
The runes inked into his flesh all glowed pale blue when ignited, save for one. Only if he was in
imminent danger would the Omen sigil be triggered, burning an unmistakable shade of crimson. And
that very design was now visible even through the sleeve of his jacket.
The warning had not come nearly fast enough.
Another series of hooves galloping over the terrain came from behind him, infinitely closer than
their predecessors. The woman dropped to her knees, frantically running her hands over the frozen
grass. Only then did Andras realize it wasn’t just debris lying around him.
Branches and stones and…bones, all arranged in a precise series to form a large circle around
where his body lay.
A summoning.
The corpses strewn across the field made it impossible to approach directly on horseback unless
its rider wished to trample over his fallen brethren. Still, since the woman was the only thing even
remotely upright in the clearing, it was impossible to overlook her. The woman rose to her feet,
looking as if she might run, but it was too late. All she could do was hiss at Andras to lie still.
Her tone shifted into something much composed as she straightened her stance and held her hands
behind her back, taking on an air of hauteur and exasperation. “How may I help you gentlemen?”
A boy no older than fifteen appeared in Andras’s line of vision, lowering whatever strange metal
pole was in his hands. “Mrs. Collins?”
“What the devil are you doing out here?” another man was yelling before he even dismounted
his horse.
The woman offered them nothing but a bland look. “Forgive me, Gideon, but I was under the
impression I was allowed to go where I wished, especially when there is a battlefield full of men I
could tend to.”
“They are all dead.”
“Was that Doctor Hill’s assessment before or after he drowned himself in bourbon?” she
challenged. “Because given what befell my late husband, I would say that is an important distinction.”
“You are not a doctor, Angélique. You are but a midwife,” the man, Gideon, sneered. “Even if one
of these miserable souls was still clinging to life, your care would not be required nor sought after.”
He swung the lantern in his hands towards the closest corpse, which happened to be Andras. The
latter just prayed he had shut his eyes before the other man noticed. Silence fell around his immediate
space, only making the rune on Andras’s forearm grow brighter.
He stood no prayer of controlling the sigil. Most of his runes responded to emotion, and none of
them worked against the monstrosities that dwelled in the Realm, so it wasn’t like Andras had any
discipline now. He willed the light to snuff out, to keep the reaction contained to the vibrations
coursing over the affected skin.
Gideon brought the lantern closer, hovering it directly over Andras’s face. An ear-piercing
whistle followed, and more footsteps approached. Something about the quiver in Gideon’s voice sent
ice sinking into Andras’s veins as someone named of James was summoned over.
“Did your brother succumb to his injuries?” asked Gideon.
“He did,” said an unfamiliar voice.
“And the body?”
“It was to be delivered along with the other casualties for burial preparations, but it has gone
missing.”
Light came to rest over Andras’s face again, and the whole world fell quiet as someone yanked at
the clothing covering his chest until it was exposed to the freezing air.
A strange clicking sound followed as that unfamiliar voice, who he suspected to be James,
snarled, “What have you done to him?”
No answer.
It wasn’t like Andras could look down at himself, but he now had to wonder, was there something
wrong with him? Soon there would be, because his lungs began burning from the effort of holding his
breath.
“He was right about you.”
The woman, Angélique, tried placating the man, but it didn’t sound to be going well. Not when
her best explanation was, “This is not what it looks like.”
She gasped as footsteps approached her, and there seemed to be a struggle before a harsh thud
followed.
“What a remarkable coincidence. You just so happened to be roaming out here in the middle of the
night, where you just so happened to come across an athamé of all things, and you just so happened to
place it on your persons.”
Andras dared to crack one eye open just enough to see Angélique had fallen back on the ground,
the man standing over her brandishing a black-handled blade.
“Highly irregular, wouldn’t you say? Holding onto a known instrument of witchcraft, especially
when you have been accused of bewitching William into shooting my brother through the chest. And
what a remarkable coincidence. Here lies Jonathan’s body, miraculously, perfectly intact, with none
other than his scorned lover standing over his corpse.” An ugly beat of silence followed, then a low,
even uglier laugh. “Do not think me a fool, Mrs. Collins. I am well aware of my brother’s dalliance
with you before he met Cassandra, and the rumors circulating about you have not been kind. The Chief
Justice may not believe in the occult, but you will not find many townsfolk sympathetic to your kind.
Now, I will ask you again, what in God’s name have you done to my brother?”
This definitely took Andras aback. Perhaps he was missing something, but it sounded like the man
believed him to be this Jonathan character. This was nothing more than a case of mistaken identity.
Why would Angélique not correct him? Why would she rather Andras pretend to be dead?
“Sir…” another voice interjected, much higher in pitch. Likely the boy. He must have pointed to
Andras’s arm because hands suddenly pulled up his left sleeve.
There was no mistaking it. Even with his eyes shut again, he knew light poured through the Omen
sigil.
Clearly, these men were not accustomed to magic, if their response was any indication. Any
footsteps near him abruptly scrambled backward, followed by a sharp, devastating blast unlike
anything Andras had ever heard. It was as if lightning had struck the ground in front of him. In the
same breath, something also struck the ground beside Andras’s head, kicking up dirt and snow and
stone fragments that pelted him in his face. It was too much not to warrant a reaction. Andras lurched
sideways, shielding himself too late. Blood welled below his left brow, but he was grateful to find he
hadn’t lost his eye.
But he had also given himself away.
Andras learned far too quickly that the strange metal shafts those men brandished were weapons
he had never seen before. Another startling blast erupted from one of their barrels, and pain
immediately tore through his arm as if an arrow had struck him.
At long last, Angélique began shrieking that he was not this Jonathan person. Still, the men were
all swearing, calling him a demon, claiming he had taken possession of the dead.
Heaven above.
If Andras weren’t in so much pain, he would have rolled his eyes.
These dimwits believed him to be some kind of ghoul, the very things he had once fought against.
It didn’t take control or refinement to wield the energy he needed. Before they could tear any more
holes through his body, Andras focus on the torches several men were holding. With no more than a
wave of his hands, they were ripped away and thrown to the ground in front of them. The pulsation of
that energy alone was enough to frighten their horses, and they took off in the other direction, leaving
their owners stranded as fire licked up and spread in barely a breath. The energy formed a solid wall
of flames as deep as a bonfire and broad enough to cover the width of the field. It was so thick he
could not see through it. That didn’t deter the men on the other side from firing those strange weapons
at him.
Their aim was nowhere close, which was a good thing, too, because Andras couldn’t focus on
anything but the ground beside him. With the flames so high, they illuminated every last detail he had
not been privy to before. The realization had bile rising in his throat and any sense of self-
preservation evaporating. He couldn’t think past the screaming in his head.
No.
Angélique grabbed his uninjured arm, begging him to run, but he didn’t move.
“Open the gate.” The statement came out in a cold, flat tone, so at odds with the fury rampaging
inside himself.
“It’s not that simple—”
“Open the goddamn gate, or I will strangle you,” he snarled.
Her face went ashen, seeing the fury in his eyes. “You must understand. I cannot. Not now.”
Something whizzed past Andras’s face, so close he felt the brush of air from its momentum.
“Please,” she shrieked. “I will explain everything, but we must leave!”
Andras looked at the frozen ground, the loose soil and blood now staining it. More voices were
coming from somewhere beyond the tree line, and he finally relented. His movements were
perfunctory, automatic—no thought put behind each action. He simply followed the woman across the
field toward the thicket. It was impossible to discern where they were going or how far they traveled,
but the forest eventually gave way to the dim outline of a lone cottage. The property rested atop a hill,
the shadowed lands beneath it appearing to be a vast collection of buildings and homes.
A downtown.
Angélique ordered him to “ready the horse” before running inside for “essential” supplies, likely
food and something to help staunch his bleeding.
Exhausted, he staggered to the building at the back of the property, where he found a single steed
being housed inside the stable, white leopard spots splashed across its sturdy black frame. There was
that strange leather accessory the other horses in the field had been wearing, now positioned beside
the stall. Still, he ignored it, directing the horse outside.
It appeared he was not the only one with such an animal. The men back there must have recovered
the horses that fled, because torchlight skimmed across the landscape below, too quickly to be a man
on foot.
And they were headed in this direction.
Andras stared at the wreckage that was his hands in the limited light and couldn’t help but loose a
small, hollow laugh. He knew damn well what purpose she meant for him to serve, knew damn well
any promise she made would be as empty as the pit in his stomach. Mounting, he kicked his heel
against the horse’s flank, forcing it into a trot. Between blood loss and exhaustion, Andras struggled
to so much as sit upright. He slumped forward, resting his upper half on the steed’s crest, not
bothering to keep his eyes open.
Andras did not know how much time he lost. The next thing he could comprehend was his world
tilting and lurching—
—and then his body slamming into the ground as the horse gave a fluttering snort.
It was too dark to see anything, but the sound of galloping hooves growing ever more distant told
Andras enough. He rolled onto his uninjured side, seeing flames rising in the distance.
On top of the hill.
At least a dozen silhouettes stood in front of the cottage, torches in hand, cheers nearly drowning
out a solitary scream. Andras could faintly make out the female figure trying to climb out of a
window, but the mob was prepared. Someone ran up to her before she could drop down, setting the
ends of her gown on fire with a touch. The scream that pierced the air as the woman fell back inside
was music to his ears. For what she had done to him—to his mate—she deserved to burn in the fires
of Hell. It was only poetic that she leave this wretched world likewise.
Another laugh escaped Andras, the effort bruising his lungs, but he could not bring himself to care.
He could have laughed himself hoarse…
That is, until a voice disrupted his revelry.
“Was this your doing, or are you simply enjoying your role as a spectator?”
Andras did not need to see beneath the deep-set hood of his jacket to know who emerged from the
shadows. He didn’t even need to hear that cold, cruel drawl. The sword at his side was all the
confirmation necessary. “Samael,” he said with false cheer, “How lovely to see you after all these
years. I take it this is not a social visit?”
Escaping from the Realm of the Damned with the aid of black magic, only then to cross paths with
Heaven’s chief assassin, Angel of Death, hardly seemed like a coincidence. He wasn’t that fortunate.
“You are well aware of what happened here.”
It wasn’t a question, but Andras nevertheless nodded, his laughter still hollow. “Indeed I am. You
are but conversing with a dead man, for I will be returning to this soil, one way or another.”
To his surprise, Samael drew back his hood, not making a play for the sword sheathed at his side.
“That entirely depends on you. Did the witch divulge who was assisting her?”
Andras could have lied. He could have invented some aimless farce and then fled, but what was
the point? The only person he wanted to see was not here. She never would be.
He admitted as much, earning him a smile from the assassin. The sight was wholly unsettling.
Samael, like the few others of his kind, was known for possessing striking features, but he was
equally known for his stoicism. It did not matter how much you begged or offered or threatened. That
unwavering expression was all you were said to receive.
It may have been preferable, because the smile looming above him promised something far worse,
even as Samael asked, “What if I could get your mate back to you?”
Andras needed a moment. Perhaps blood loss was making him hallucinate, because there was no
way he heard him correctly. “In exchange for what?”
“Your services. Granted, this will not be a quick endeavor, but it will be well worth your while.”
1
T AKE ME T O CH U R CH
 KAT

M ystic Harbor during the holidays was nothing short of breathtaking. The cobblestone streets
in the Old Port historic district could easily be mistaken for an English village. Christmas
decorations covered every last storefront; wreaths hung from the gaslight lampposts, and the
undisturbed sheet of snow that settled across the sidewalks made it look like a Thomas Kinkaid
painting come to life.
But where holiday shoppers should have been milling around were nothing but cold, empty
streets. Every last store was pitch-black inside, and not one light—from the decorations to the
abandoned cars to the streetlights—was working. The only thing illuminating the desolate boulevard
was the continuous strikes of lightning that doubled in frequency with every passing minute, its
accompanying thunder clashing with the sirens wailing in the distance. Smoke and flames rose from
the decimated hotel several streets north as creatures from the Realm of the Damned ran rampant out
front. The world was falling down around me…
But all I could focus on was my world. The Forsaken—an ancient, indestructible fallen angel
resurrected from the pits of Hell—held a blade to my mate’s throat.
And yet, that wasn’t the worst of it.
All I could do was scream and sob as Val’s weight fell into me, dragging us both to the ground no
matter how hard he tried to stay on his feet. The gunshot still echoed in my ear, Blaine and Dominic
roared in anguish, and the Forsaken was still gloating, but I couldn’t focus on any of it.
All I could see were Val’s eyes. The incomprehension. The pain. The inevitable, horrible
understanding of what was happening, why he couldn’t breathe, why blood was coming from his
mouth as he tried to force the words out, why blood pooled out between the fingers pressed to his
chest.
“Tsk, tsk, my pretty pet,” she purred.
I knew those words…
Angélique.
The three-hundred-year-old witch’s melodic voice had been haunting me every waking moment
and even followed me into my dreams, despite the fact that she was dead.
But it wasn’t her who said it.
The cadence was dead right, but…
I lifted my eyes just enough to see over Val’s shoulder. Dominic lay not ten feet from me, his body
practically convulsing as he clutched his head. And behind him…
 Carly.
Blood ran down both sides of her neck from her ears, her elegant black and silver ball gown was
torn and tattered, and her once-flawless makeup now bled beneath her eyes in tear-streaked black
lines.
And yet she was smiling oh-so sweetly down at us, Dominic’s handgun still aimed at Val’s back…
where she had shot him.
“Valor, Valor, Valor. A cold, heartless bastard of legend reduced to a simpering, sentimental
fool,” she purred again in that horribly beautiful cadence. “What a pity.”
With no more than a blink of the eyes, the brown and white in them turned black, confirming what
I feared.
She was possessed. But not just by a demon.
By Angélique.
She clicked her tongue, eyeing Val as if he were nothing more than a pinned butterfly. “It really
would be the humane thing to do to put you out of your misery, but where would the fun be in that?”
Val’s entire body spasmed in my hold at the sound of her voice, silver lining his eyes as he tried
so desperately to speak.
“Oh, I’m sure I can find some.” There was nothing pleasant about the voice that cut in as black
smoke materialized right behind him. Only the vaguest outline of a man took form inside of it when
Val hawked on the air forced from his body.
A massive blade tore so deep into the center of Val’s back, its fine tip exited through the front of
his chest. The impact and sheer force sent warm, red liquid spraying into my face before the sword
was promptly pried back out, Val’s body carelessly discarded to the pavement.
Meaty fists grabbed the back of my hair, jerking my head up as that black smoke petered away to
reveal its host.
My father.
“Shall we begin?”
I couldn’t do anything more than seethe as that black smoke manifested again. But it wasn’t around
my father. It blanketed my body, and just like that, the ground gave out from under me.
I fell,
and fell,
and fell…
before slamming into the earth.
Mystic Harbor’s downtown was long gone, replaced by the cold, barren expanse of a field. At the
sight of trees lining the frozen grasslands, I mistook it for Jameson Battlefield, but the terrain was far
too hilly, and lanterns didn’t line the property.
What little comfort I took in the fact that I wasn’t sent to the place I was destined to die vanished
almost instantly. Because there were torches, over a dozen positioned atop posts to form a circle at
least twenty feet in diameter.
And in the middle of the circle…
A star-encrusted pentagram had just been scorched into the frozen grass, smoke still simmering
from the charcoaled blades. And just as I’d seen once before, pale rocks and strange, bone-white
branches were arranged at its very center to make a misshapen diamond. Looking closer, I realized
those weren’t all just branches.
 It was bone.
Actual bone!
This was the very same sacrificial ceremony used to break the Anástasis Seal, the portal that
could unleash Hell’s worst nightmares onto Earth. Six of the seven necessary victims had already
been killed. All that remained was Daisy, a Seer that Reese had abducted from the hospital.
At least a dozen people closed in around me, but none had her distinctive brunette hair streaked in
purple.
The one person I did recognize:
Reese.
The boy who I had fallen for not so long ago. The boy who stood by my side when it seemed like
no one else would. The boy who had promised to never give up on me. The boy who now towered
above my sprawled body, the Sanctus blade unsheathed in his right hand. The boy who grinned down
at me with the predatory gleam of a wolf.
This wasn’t my Reese, even if this monster wore his face. “Hello, Princess.”
A taunt.
A taunt to the nickname he’d gifted me with once, to the title that I may very well have bore if
given the chance.
He was still dressed in the sleek black suit he had worn to the gala, a far cry from the gothic
Steampunk fashion he was notorious for. But this wasn’t Reese. Not really. Not as long as that
hideous branding on his neck glowed with its sickly, pale yellow light. The hex that had warped his
mind into something unfathomable.
And blood.
There was blood everywhere. Across the frozen grass, on Reese’s hands, on me.
The air bit with the kind of unrelenting cold that burned my skin. The white chiffon fabric, high
slits, and low cuts of my gown offered the protection of tissue paper against it. The only thing warm
was the slick red stains marring every part of me.
Instinct overrode my comprehension long enough that I looked down at my runes, expecting them
to flare to life, the pale blue lights and vibrations granting me the energy I needed to blast this
imposter across the field.
But as I should have already known, nothing happened.
And nothing would…so long as my father’s sword was anywhere near me.
Up until a minute ago, I’d been under a plethora of misassumptions, mostly concerning that
particular individual. My father, the Angel of Death, was supposed to be working to keep the
Anástasis Seal from falling. It was his job to keep Hell’s gates closed.
But lo and behold, the asshole had been at the helm of this little endeavor the whole goddamn
time.
He was in control of Reese’s hex. He had made the coven of witches betray the Reapers when
they used Blaine’s blood to weaken the Anástasis Seal after Mr. Reynolds slit his throat.
My father didn’t want me dead in order to prevent Hell from opening its gates…
He wanted me dead so that he could tear it down himself.
“Well, look who just caught up.” Reese tssked, running a finger along the Sanctus blade’s fuller.
“It really is a shame about Val. But let’s be honest, we already have enough assholes roaming around
here. What’s one less?”
 That was all it took.
I didn’t care what Reese held in his hands. I didn’t care that my magic lay dormant. I didn’t care
that my entire body stung with the constant bombardment I’d taken tonight.
Reese saw what rested behind my eyes, only amusing him further. He lifted the blade, as if that
would deter me. It would, with anyone else. A single slash from that steel could kill you, even if not
initially. It cauterized wounds in such a way that it was nearly impossible to staunch the bleeding.
So, color Reese surprised when I shot up to my feet and launched myself at him.
He had admitted back in October that he wasn’t much of a swordsman, and it showed. Reese
wasn’t weak by any means, but I knew how heavy that sword was. It also didn’t help that his
movements were clumsy. As soon as he’d taken a step, it was evident he favored his left leg, and
there was a dark, damp splotch pooling on the front of his thigh.
Reese was bleeding.
He staggered back, and a sickening wave of satisfaction rolled through me as I tackled him with
every ounce in me. My upper body leveled right into his stomach, and I hooked my arms around his
uninjured thigh.
Even with his thin build, Reese easily outweighed me. Between my momentum and the fact I left
him with nothing but a disabled leg to stand on, however, he crashed down onto the frozen grass.
And I made no move to get off of him.
With just how many people were around, I didn’t delude myself into thinking I could run away.
But this?
This I could do.
It seemed his coconspirators were more invested in the Sanctus’s ownership rather than Reese’s
wellbeing, because they all scrambled to pull it as far from me as possible, leaving Reese at my
mercy.
And I was feeling far from charitable.
He had manipulated us into going to the Christmas gala.
He had lured us into a trap.
He planned to strip me of my runes, of my mating bond.
He was the reason I was covered in Val’s blood.
The scream that tore from my lungs was nothing short of savage as I slammed my fists into
anywhere I could connect to Reese’s body. He deflected several punches and managed to catch hold
of my wrist, but I rewarded the effort by tearing my nails into his flesh, shredding through the back of
his hands, his cheek, his eyelid—
Reese bucked his hips, knocking me off balance, but I drove my foot down onto his leg. The heel
of my shoe dug right into what I could only assume was a bullet wound as the stiletto gained purchase
in the hole. I wrenched my foot backward, splitting the injury further, carving into muscle and bone.
“Bitch!”
A sharp jab registered in my jaw from his fist, but I didn’t care, even as blood filled my mouth.
Something primitive had been awakened in me, thirsting for his pain, demanding an inkling of
repayment for what he had done.
Even after multiple sets of hands grabbed me, I continued thrashing, clawing, and swinging with
everything I had until I was finally pried off of him.
He scrambled back in a daze, his face a roadmap of claw marks and swelling. Any satisfaction
drained from me as Reese’s chest began shaking. He lay in the dirt, bloodied, beaten, and…laughing.
The muscles in his face split the slashes further, but it only seemed to amuse him. Reese dragged a
finger along one of the deeper scratches, catching and smearing the blood now blossoming from the
cut. “Well, now, look who finally decided to grow a backbone.”
Reese could still feel pain, made evident by his grimace and the hand that gripped his injured leg
as he pulled himself back up. But the predatory gleam in those once-beautiful amber eyes spoke for
itself.
“I was beginning to think you didn’t have it in you, to attack me. But let’s be honest, darling. When
you point your finger at someone, there’s always three pointing back. All anybody needs from you to
break the Anástasis Seal is some of your blood, but instead of just lying low—like any rational
person would—you’re out and about, waving a neon sign in everybody’s face.” Reese gave a
theatrical sigh, flicking a hand to the branding on his neck. “Even when you knew the hex was about to
enact, you still ran into the fray to ‘save’ me. And then you were willing to make an even bigger
public spectacle going after Daisy at the gala.”
He snickered, prowling closer.
“Your parents really did a number on you, didn’t they? I mean, honestly, how low does your self-
worth have to be? Fallen angels will come pouring out of that portal when the seal’s broken, but
you’re willing to risk it all for a girl you’ve spoken to for…what? A whole five minutes? And not
only did you think this was a good idea, but so did Blaine, when you had the resources to send how
many other Underworld lackeys to go and fetch her. Clearly, Pride isn’t your greatest sin, because
time and time again, all you both prove to be are pawns.” Reese ran a finger over one of the larger
gashes I’d torn into his face. “Tell me, Princess. Would you be able to do the same if the roles were
reversed? Would you be able to carve into your mate’s flesh?”
Every muscle, bone, and cell in my body stilled at that—at his words, at that knowing look, at the
sheer delight he found in the prospect.
Reese removed what appeared to be a river rock from his pocket. It was smooth and gray, except
for the engraved black symbol on the top. “Seems we’ll just have to wait and see.”
My runes may not have worked in the Sanctus’s presence, but the sight of that stone sent me
reeling back, or at least, I tried to. The hands pinning me into place only fortified their grips.
The design may not have been the serpent branded to Reese’s neck, but I recognized the rock for
what it was.
A hex.
“Sadly, it doesn’t work on Underworlders with Enochian magic,” he crooned, nodding down at
the tattooed runes decorating my left forearm and hand. “But no worries. We’ll be correcting that as
well.”
He motioned to someone over my shoulder, and another person kicked the back of my legs,
forcing me to the ground. The impact from my knees hitting what had to be frozen stone sent pain
shooting all the way down to my feet. It still paled in comparison to the searing hot manacles
suddenly clamped around both of my wrists.
Silver.
The cuffs were linked by a thick, three-foot-long chain.
This wasn’t the first time I’d found myself wearing such a thing, but the modification to this
particular one was definitely new.
 At the center of the chain was a giant chunk of bone-white flint, misshapen yet oddly beautiful,
like a demented, excessively large paperweight. There was a hole in the middle of the rock, allowing
the manacle chain to run right through it. When its owner set the slab on the grass, everyone released
me and backed off.
Ooookay.
Despite the added weight slowing me down slightly, it wouldn’t do much to secure my captivity.
At least, that’s what I thought.
The moment I tried rising to my feet, I found I could only get as far as the chain would allow.
Whether I attempted to lift the slab by the chains or pick it up with my own two hands, I couldn’t get
the damn thing to budge. The rock couldn’t have weighed more than fifteen pounds…
Yet, I tried every which way to move it, unable to get the slab to shift so much as a millimeter.
Seriously, it was like Thor’s hammer.
“Adder stone,” Reese mused, admiring its glassy surface. “Otherwise known as a serpent’s egg.
By itself, it isn’t harmful to Underworlders, but most people don’t know that the stone is a conduit.
With the help of a skillful practitioner, it can manipulate non-angelic energy. Unless you’re human or
born from a heavenly bloodline, every pound of this rock will feel like three hundred.”
And it did.
Based on its size, I’d probably have better luck trying to move a dead car without wheels.
“It’s rather perfect, isn’t it? The holes here form naturally,” he said, tapping where the chain fed
through the rock. “Rumor has it that one of Hell’s princes was buried alive beneath hundreds of small
adder stones some centuries ago. The weight didn’t crush him, as he would have likely preferred. It
just felt like it.”
Reese’s grin turned into a horrifically beautiful smile.
“Imagine, your body slowly wasting away from dehydration and hunger as it felt like the weight of
several elephants pinned you down, pulverizing your insides.” He clicked his tongue. “Rough way to
go, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps something you should keep in mind for your own prince.”
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you it isn’t polite to play with your food?” I jeered. “If you plan to
kill us both, then grow a pair and do it yourself.”
Taunting him may not have been the best strategy, but the idea of him playing puppeteer with my
body so that I would kill Blaine?
It didn’t get much worse than that.
Reese stopped just shy of my reach, that grin spreading into an all-out smile. He knelt down,
resting on his haunches to meet me at eye level. “You really have no idea what’s going on here, do
you?”
“Enlighten me then.”
He clicked his tongue. “Oh, but what fun would that be? The whole villain monologue is rather
cliché.”
I gave him my own chilly smile. “So you admit you’re the villain?”
“As long as Blaine’s claws are in you? That I am.”
“I believe we already established he didn’t hex me.”
“No, he just forced a mating bond on you…that just so happens to let him crawl around inside
your head.”
“He didn’t force anything on me—”
 Reese snickered. “Come on, Kitty Kat. You can’t be that naïve.”
The most aberrant laugh escaped me, somehow lovely and yet malicious. “‘Equals in heart and
mind.’”
Those five single words strung together landed their blow, ripping that impish façade from
Reese’s face. “That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” Now I was the one clicking my tongue. “Don’t tell me you never suspected it.”
“That’s bullshit!”
I laughed, even as Reese lashed out, his hand seizing my throat. “Tell me, what bothers you more?
Losing me, or losing me to him?”
It was no secret that Reese couldn’t stand Blaine, even before any of this started. He made that
perfectly clear when he did nothing but badmouth Blaine at his funeral service.
“You’re not his,” Reese snarled.
“And if you’re what a Twin Flame is supposed to be, then all that tells me is that such a
relationship is toxic.” Another laugh tore from my lungs. “You can cover every inch of my body in
hexes. I wouldn’t willingly touch you with a ten-foot pole.”
By the fury brewing in those amber eyes, I was sure he would crush my larynx as his grip
tightened…
Only, that fiendish grin returned as Reese abruptly let go of me, his gaze fixed somewhere over
my shoulder. “Well, if it isn’t the girl of the hour.”
I caught sight of the brunette as she was quite literally dragged across the frozen grass.
The purple streaks in her hair weren’t discernible in the torchlight, but the moment Reese brushed
the front strands from her face, I recognized who the young woman was.
Daisy.
As Reese said, I’d only met this Seer once, but even if I hadn’t, I couldn’t just let her die.
And it didn’t seem Daisy was too keen on the idea either. Her hands were cuffed behind her back,
and two men who were easily twice her size held the girl by each of her arms. That didn’t stop her
from thrashing and bucking with everything she had.
I pulled at my own handcuffs, trying to study the lock mechanism in the limited light. As my
horrible luck would have it, I didn’t have any pins in my hair that I could use to pick it. At this point, I
wasn’t past dislocating my thumb to slip out of at least one of the cuffs…
But they were too tight.
Each was adjusted to the smallest part of my wrist, so unless I somehow managed to all-out crush
my hand, these cuffs weren’t going anywhere.
And neither was I.
Reese tore the duct tape covering Daisy’s mouth, and the girl let out the kind of scream that could
rival a banshee’s. He just laughed.
“Make all the noise you want, my dear. We’re in the middle of a forest preserve, during a polar
vortex. There isn’t a soul around here for miles.” Reese gave a cursory glance over his shoulder at
his audience. “At least, not one that’ll help you, anyway.”
He nodded to the men stationed at her side and headed back toward me. Again, Daisy was hauled
along, her feet slipping uselessly over the frozen ground as she desperately tried to gain traction. The
backs of her knees were kicked out, forcing her legs to buckle under her. All she could do was scream
as her captors quite literally dragged her across the field.
 The men had no choice but to lift her when they reached the makeshift symbol of debris and bone,
as to not disturb it, and they dropped her into the center with a harsh thwack. Something in her
snapped upon impact, likely her shoulder dislocating by the looks of it.
Daisy’s entire body trembled, and the sight only invited another horrible thought.
We were in the middle of a polar vortex.
Everybody, apart from Daisy in her hospital gown and me in a literal one, was at least dressed in
somewhat appropriate clothing. And yet, I didn’t feel nearly as cold as I should have.
Seeing as how I just barely recovered from hypothermia, this didn’t inspire much confidence. If
my body was in shock from prolonged exposure, it could easily give me the hot flash currently
warming me. The best I could do was pray this was merely a side effect from adrenaline instead. If it
wasn’t, I likely wouldn’t be mentally or physically able to do much of anything if the opportunity
arose.
Everyone around me—save for the hulk of a man likely meant to serve as a guard—moved
forward, coming to stand just outside the perimeter of the symbol as they all began to chant. Daisy
tried rising to her feet, but she barely managed to get to her knees when Reese gripped her hair from
behind and wrenched her head back hard enough to make her cry.
He whispered something to her, but I couldn’t hear it. She certainly did, because every muscle
inside Daisy went as taut as a bowstring.
The group guarding the symbol spread out to form a circle, blocking Daisy and Reese from my
view just as white-hot flames burst free from the ground. It took a moment to realize…
No, it wasn’t the ground.
It was the material used to create the symbol, even the bones.
The utter wrongness of it all prickled at every inch of my skin.
Bones didn’t burn. At least, they shouldn’t have. Not by an ordinary flame.
But these did. The fires soared higher and higher, until they became an outright fence of flames.
Reese and Daisy couldn’t be seen, even as the people obstructing my view stepped back.
I didn’t need nor want to see what was happening in there. I witnessed it myself a couple of
months back, when I entered an astral projective dream state. Hellhounds had slashed open a girl’s
throat and left her to bleed there, all done to break another of the Anástasis ‘s locks.
And same as last time, there was nothing I could do.
A sound—sharp but guttural—came from behind that wall of flame, and I could only imagine it
was Daisy as she choked on her own blood, the way Blaine had. I wanted to scream…
But something else followed.
A grunt.
Blatantly male.
Any chanting abruptly ended just as another sound followed. Only, it didn’t come from inside their
creepy cult inferno.
It came from behind me.
Though it had to be at least twenty yards back, the single blast was harsh, loud, and propagated
with the very distinctive energy that could only come from a rifle.
It was immediately accompanied by a sharp slap! that sounded…wet. Before I could even think to
drop flat to the ground, warm liquid painted my back.
Two hundred pounds of literal dead weight collapsed on top of me with a definitive thud,
stripping the air from my lungs.
Instinctively, I attempted to climb out from under him, but the impulse drained as quickly as it
came when more and more shots rang out.
Bodies fell, people scattered, and the flames from the ritual were instantly snuffed out. Fear rang
through me at the sight of Reese and Daisy crumpled on the ground, but from what I could tell, the
latter wasn’t hurt. Reese, however, gripped the side of his head with one hand while trying to grab
Daisy with the other. She bucked her hips, drew up her foot, and drove the heel into his cheek.
The impact was enough for her to escape his grip, and taking low to the ground, she took off for
the nearest tree line.
Everybody else was rewarded with gunfire, but a distant voice barked an order, the words
inaudible over the clamor. In just a few swift seconds, a young man emerged from the forest, running
at an all-out sprint in Daisy’s direction.
Shit.
He was moving far faster than she was, so I could only hope that she lost him in the confusion of
the woods. Daisy managed to disappear into the thicket, leaving only Reese and me from what I could
gather. No one who had attempted to run was left standing, the field a mess of bodies and blood.
With my wrists still trapped, the best I could do was play dead, which wouldn’t be too hard. I
was covered in enough blood to rival Sissy Spacek at the end of Carrie.
But that only would get me so far.
Several voices were calling out from somewhere behind me, at least four from what I could
distinguish, and either they were yelling louder or getting closer. If someone checked for a pulse, I
was obviously fucked. And if not, then I’d likely freeze to death out here amid my charade.
The adrenaline was wearing off, and rather quickly, because any warmth in me was the wrong
kind. My skin burned, but only from the sheer chill of the ground as I was forced to lay pinned down
upon it.
I expected Reese to try army crawling or something out of view, especially with the subtle hills in
the terrain. From where he was, he stood a chance of making it out of here without taking a bullet to
the back like his cohorts.
But the idiot rose to his feet!
I wanted to scream at him, though it wouldn’t serve any good. More gunshots rang out, but to my
odd sense of relief, nothing struck him. Every bullet came within feet of him, only to hit an invisible
barrier. Each impact against the wall sent sparks ricocheting off it. In the brief illumination, I could
see subtle cracks growing.
Whatever magical shield he’d thrown up wouldn’t last, and he knew it.
With one last look towards me, he snarled, slid the Sanctus blade into a sheath strapped to his
side, and ran (or rather limped) towards the same tree line Daisy had disappeared into.
Seriously?
Half of my body was being crushed beneath someone twice my size, I was turning into a human
icicle for the second time tonight, and this asshole—who still in his deluded state swore that he loved
me—was ditching me!
Really, what the fuck, universe? Do you hate me that much?
Before I could wallow too much in pity, the gunfire ceased, bringing clarity to the voices.
And one in particular.
 “Katrina!”
What little energy I had left rose at the sound of that British accent as I bucked and barely
managed to pitch the dead man off of me. “Raelynd!”
Never had I been so happy to see my mate’s boss in all my life.
The guy, as always, was sporting a three-piece designer suit, but like the rest of us tonight, he
looked rather worse for wear. There were tears everywhere in his clothing, the left sleeve clinging on
by nothing more than a thread…which just so happened to be covered in blood. And he was in full-
demon mode. The entirety of his eyes was black, matching the pronounced, inky veins that pulsed all
along his face.
I could imagine how I looked in comparison.
His expression gave me a pretty good idea the second he spotted me.
Slinging his rifle over his back, he screamed for a medic before he even reached me. Seeing over
a dozen of his men behind him was only more of a relief.
Raelynd dropped to his knees and was about to put his hands on me…but seemed to think better of
it. Scoping the extent of blood on my body, it was clear he didn’t know where it was safe to touch.
I tried to answer his questions, but it was like someone fastened a clamp to my throat. I didn’t
even realize I was crying until I felt the warm streak of tears rolling down my cheeks. All I could
manage was a shake of the head.
Raelynd understood it wasn’t my blood, but it did little to comfort him. “Blaine?”
Another shake. I mouthed Val’s name, the single syllable leaving me to choke on a sob.
The demon peeled off his blazer and draped it over my shoulders, offering what warmth it could
as he studied my handcuffs and the stone I was chained to. “Fucking hell.”
Rae called out to someone named Maddox, demanding a kit of some kind, only…he never got a
response. The demon rose to his feet, muttering a plethora of obscenities—
Until he looked behind me at the tree line.
A thick fog rolled out of the forest, the powdery white pallor and composition unnatural at best. It
didn’t move like natural fog. It billowed out in an ever-thickening wave, the way it might when
produced by a dry ice machine. But its expanse was too great, and the color only further clarified its
wrongness. Red particles akin to glitter hung in the air, appearing to melt when the fog fully
enveloped them. The effect made it look like the fog was outright bleeding.
“Ventus Cicuta, aquilo!” someone screamed.
I hadn’t the faintest idea what that meant, but I had a feeling it wasn’t anything to do with cuddly
puppies and magical rainbows as everyone started fleeing across the field. My suspicions were
confirmed when the men too close to outrun the billowing mass all collapsed to the ground not five
seconds after it reached them.
Raelynd tried and failed miserably to break my handcuff chain with the bud of his rifle, leaving
me with one horrible option. The risk was apparently worth it, because he had me pull the chain as
taut as it could go, allowing what little space I had to help shield myself from any potential shrapnel.
Keeping my head low, I tried to make myself as small as possible as Raelynd fell back to take
aim. He didn’t bother counting down, charging the air once again with gunfire as a single blast
detonated.
Before I could brace myself, gravity sent me hurtling sideways as the chain snapped. It would
have been a relief, if not for the white-hot pain that lanced up my right arm.
 But I didn’t get the chance to look at the damage.
Raelynd hooked his arms around me, hauling my frozen, agonized body back up to its feet and
forcing me into a run.
The handcuffs still singed my wrists, and the two halves of the broken chain dangled from each
end. That, too, was made of silver, acting as fire-hot whips. They swung with the force of my
momentum as I ran, lashing my exposed skin. The pain in my arm was only intensifying, barely
eclipsing the sharp stabbing sensations reverberating through both my knees—
But Raelynd refused to let up. Even as my bare feet slid between patches of dead grass and frozen
snow, he didn’t slow down, resorting to damn near carrying me around my underarms.
We made it within ten yards of the furthest tree line when he cursed.
“Hold your breath!”
The effort left me feeling like my lungs might burst, but I managed one last inhale before that fog
bank rolled over us.
Raelynd hauled me just over the border of the forest, and we both spotted a pair of headlights
through the thicket, not thirty feet ahead.
But even without breathing, something felt wrong.
My legs became leaden, my feet may as well have been made of cement, and my arms could have
weighed a hundred pounds each for how heavy they seemed.
And I wasn’t the only one feeling it.
Raelynd stumbled at the same time I did, and neither of us could muster the strength to recover.
We both collapsed to the ground with an ungainly thud.
Even the men who had gotten a head-start all buckled under their own weight, staggering and
crumpling to the earth just shy of the headlights that punctured the blanketing fog.
I anticipated the air to burn my lungs as I finally inhaled…
But nothing happened.
There wasn’t even the noxious sting of chemicals I expected to breathe in. If anything, it smelled
like burnt syrup or cookies that had been left too long in the oven.
Raelynd and I still tried crawling over the dead foliage and snapped twigs, but it took us more
than a minute to trek a few feet.
The weight of my body was too much.
My arms gave out, and I didn’t have it in me to move.
Hell, it was too much effort even to talk.
Thankfully, that weight didn’t settle onto my lungs, because breathing was the only thing I could
do. We just lay there, hearts thundering, lungs heaving, and bodies inundated by what may as well
have been adder stone.
My left cheek was mashed into the dirt, giving me a clear view of Raelynd’s sprawled body
beside me…as well as my right forearm.
A hooked piece of metal protruded from the inside of the appendage as blood still leaked from the
top…which I realized was the entry point.
The shrapnel had cut straight through my arm but had apparently gotten stuck before it could fully
exit.
After several minutes, the fog thinned out to wisps before vanishing entirely. Some foolish part of
me thought I would be able to move again, but that pressure didn’t let up.
 A chill that had nothing to do with the weather raked down my back like spiny fingernails as I
heard what sounded an awful lot like a car door opening and closing somewhere up ahead.
Fallen branches and dead leaves broke and crinkled under several pairs of footsteps, striding
right for me.
I didn’t know how Raelynd still had it in him to move so much as a finger, but he managed to drag
a handgun out from somewhere strapped to his body. He struggled to lift his head, aiming as best as he
could. The demon squeezed the trigger, but just as he did, an invisible force wrenched both the gun
and his hand sideways, slamming them into a tree trunk with a nauseating crack.
A pair of heeled boots stepped between Raelynd and me, their owner’s feet not six inches from
my face. Another set of hands grabbed me from my other side and rolled me onto my back.
The sight was…unsettling, to say the least, as I was forced to look up at whoever loomed over
me.
A heart-shaped face, two-toned eyes, and long, pale blonde hair just shy of being silver.
It was me.
Or someone who looked an awful lot like me.
“Hello, daughter,” she sighed.
The sentiment could have been a comforting one…if not for the needle that accompanied it as she
knelt down and stabbed a sedative into my neck.
2
P L AY I N G WIT H T H E B I G B O Y S
 BLAINE

I ’m not sure what’s more embarrassing: the fact I was stupid enough to be drugged and
kidnapped or the fact that it takes waaaay too fucking long for me to comprehend what is
happening.
The last thing I remember was standing on the street with the Forsaken holding a knife to my
throat. He didn’t slice me open—thank Christ—but the alternative didn’t feel much better.
Don’t believe what the movies tell you. When you see people like Tom Cruise slamming bad guys
in the head with guns and elbows and fists, they always drop to the ground, unconscious.
When the Forsaken hit me, my skull felt like it had been bludgeoned by a brick. The impact did
have me dropping to the ground, but it wasn’t enough to knock me out. No, that would have been too
nice. Instead, I just lay there on the asphalt, so certain the asshole had knocked my fucking brain
loose. Black peppered my vision, and tiny flashes of white exploded all over my periphery, even
when my eyes were closed. There was the sharp prick to my neck, and then—
Nothing.
Until now.
Enough time has passed for the pain in my head to have subsided enough that it doesn’t feel like
my brain might explode; the pain registers no less. And it’s not just in my head.
I feel like I’ve been plowed over by a semi, and I’m surprised I can flex the fingers on my left
hand because it feels like my arm has been ripped off by the shoulder.
Everything around me sounds distorted and loud all at once, which should be my first clue that
something’s wrong. I want to tell everyone to shut the fuck up, but when I try to speak, my tongue feels
too large for my mouth, and I can’t get my lips to part. The muscles in the back of my neck are pulled
as tight as bowstrings, and it’s only then that I realize I’m already sitting up. My head is slumped
forward, and I find it’s the only part of me that can move.
Chains lock me into place—around the chest, around the abdomen, around the legs—and of
course, each wrist is bound to the chair’s armrest. The metal feels like it’s fresh from the fire as it
sears any exposed skin.
Silver.
Just perfect.
I try prying open my eyelids, but there may as well be ten-pound weights attached to them.
Though muffled, I can detect laughter somewhere in front of me. The sounds grow louder,
accompanied by footsteps, as I try and fail to lift my head.
 “Looks like Sleeping Beauty’s finally coming around.”
When I don’t respond, fingers dig into the back of my hair, yanking my head up. If muscles could
cry, the ones in my neck would be weeping with relief, but any good fortune vanishes as a fist slams
into the side of my face.
Well, that seems gratuitous, is all my drug-addled brain can conjure up. And maybe it’s the
tranquilizer’s effects or just the sheer stupidity in that thought, but I want to laugh.
Yeah, I’m apparently not “awake enough” for my captors because any humor vanishes at the sound
of a very distinct, very sharp crackle that ignites in front of me just as something presses to my chest.
Let me tell you, kids, avoid being tased at all costs, because, as you can imagine, fifty-thousand
volts of electricity hurts like a motherfucker.
Ever had a Charlie Horse in your leg? Well, imagine that sensation all over your body. It doesn’t
even last six seconds, but the feeling isn’t my idea of a pleasant wake-up call. And boy, does it get the
job done.
Again, I’m not sure why movies depict tasers rendering people all the time, because there’s
nothing but sheer and total awareness of my body as any lethargy is jolted clear out of me. Every
muscle cramps up, and the full-body spasm begs my limbs to straighten out, despite my chains.
The moment the metal prongs are lifted from my chest, the sensation thankfully goes with it, but
the relief doesn’t last long. Meaty fingers grip my jaw, and with one swift yank, the duct tape I didn’t
even realize was on my mouth is ripped away.
“Son of a bitch!” It may not be my most eloquent line, but someone must have glued on that shit.
I’m pretty sure it ripped out half my facial hair.
That’s easily the least of my problems, though, because one look around the room tells me I’m
fucked.
Concrete walls surround me, the space entirely open and empty, save for the crates, stocked
artillery, and a few bed cots up against the far wall. Everything’s cold and gray and lit by those
hanging industrial bulbs protected inside tiny cages.
Stripped of any other content, the space looks suspiciously like an army barrack.
Because it is.
Because I’ve been here before.
Westmoreland Penitentiary closed its doors back in the nineties, and—except for an occasional
television or film crew coming in to shoot—it had remained unused for decades until Nathan
Reynolds’s security firm purchased the property. The whole place had undergone massive
renovations to make it into something more akin to a military compound for Reapers.
And it had served such a purpose, until now, apparently.
That much is clear because not one of the assholes occupying the room is of the angelic variety.
Half a dozen bruisers stand at the only entrance to the room, all easily twice my size. That
wouldn’t mean much if my runes were working, but so long as I’m locked in silver, magic won’t be
on my side. Even if it was, I doubt their companions would let me get far.
Several Hellhounds circle the perimeter, their sulfuric stench strong enough to smother me from
here. Even with their matted black fur concealing the fullest extent of their injuries, it’s clear they’ve
all been recently put through the wringer. One leaves continuous blood tracks across the floor as it
paces, and another is missing a huge chunk of its left ear. Still, they’re licking their chops, and that is
most definitely blood staining their teeth, so I’m not feeling particularly keen on ruffling their
metaphorical feathers.
And then there’s the matter of Carly, or rather the three-hundred-year-old bitch currently renting
out her body. She had clearly showered since I last saw her on the street, because there was no trace
of the blood, soot, and God only knows what else. Now, she’s pristine from the top of her blonde
head all the way down to her bare feet. She’s also ditched the red carpet look Carly had been sporting
for the gala, opting for a dress right out of the Elvira collection. And I don’t mean the Mistress of
Darkness. I mean full-on Michelle Pfeiffer in Scarface.
This little red number looks to be silk, showing off a plethora of skin with a slit that nearly
reaches the outside of her hip and a neckline cut low enough that she’s one wrong move away from a
wardrobe malfunction. And she’s barefoot. Even if I couldn’t see that her eyes were entirely black,
this detail would have been enough to clue me in that she’s possessed.
The girl is rather…neurotic when it comes to her feet. The sight of someone walking barefoot in
public is enough to make her dry heave. Back at school, she talked Daniel’s ears off about how it was
an “open invitation for fungi and parasites” when she learned that he didn’t wear flip-flops in the
locker room showers. I kid you not; she broke up with him until he agreed to.
The walls, the ceilings, and even the floor look damp, and I can imagine the real Carly would be
screaming bloody murder if she witnessed herself like this.
And let’s not forget Daddy Dearest brooding in the corner.
It’s quite fortunate that Kat doesn’t resemble her father, seeing as how the Angel of Death is about
as intimidating as you might imagine. The guy’s got to be at least six-three and built like an MMA
fighter. For the life of me, I can’t wrap my head around what Kat’s birth mother ever saw in him. I
mean, he’s got that whole “tall, dark, and handsome” thing down to a T, but the severity in his features
makes it look like his face could crack in half if he dared to smile. Not exactly what you would call
“come hither.” Anger radiates off him like heat from the sun. It’s that palpable. The way he’s eyeing
me, you’d think he wants to snap my spine in half.
Hell, he probably does, though I can’t say it’s warranted.
The only thing I’m guilty of is being mated to his daughter, and he’s made it quite clear he couldn’t
give any less of a shit about Kat.
But the real prize is the motherfucker standing directly in front of me.
Next to this fallen angel, Kat’s old man may as well be a kitten.
Thankfully, I had the pleasure up until now of seeing the Forsaken only with a mask on. Without
it? Well, the sight is enough to want to scrub my mind’s eye out with bleach, because, oh holy hell, is
it terrifying.
Since I didn’t die in the ritual that brought him back from the pits of Hell, the Forsaken didn’t
come back quite “whole.” He’s inhumanly good-looking…for the half of his face that actually has
skin. The right side of his body is perfectly preserved, while the left is literally that of a living
skeleton. And witnessing both halves draw themselves into a smile isn’t helping the nightmare
cementing itself in my head.
“Hello, prince,” he croons, his voice almost lyrical as he admires the taser still in his hand. “I
don’t believe we’ve had the chance to be properly introduced, but I assume you know who I am.”
I take a long, purposeful look at his face. “Harvey Dent?”
Clearly, he isn’t a Batman enthusiast, because his one functioning eyebrow furrows, and he seems
genuinely confused. Not until a soft snicker comes from somewhere behind me does he realize I’m
taking the piss out of him.
And I’m promptly rewarded with a fist to the face.
I’ve taken more than my fair share of punches, but holy fucking shit, I was not prepared for that.
Seeing as how the asshole didn’t even bother using the hand with skin on it, you’d think that might
lessen the impact.
And you would be wrong.
Seriously, is the guy made of marble? Because it feels like someone literally just slammed a large
rock into my cheekbone, hard enough that I hear a crack.
“Care to venture another guess?”
I try to smile and instantly regret it as pain radiates up my cheek and even into my eye. “Given
your warm welcome? I’d rather not.”
The asshole flexes his hand, all too ready to deliver another strike. “Oh, come now. Dazzle us
with that silver tongue and quick wit.”
I’m really not in the mood to have my face quite literally bashed in, so I offer what little I do
know. “You’re a member of the Forsaken. You fought in Lucifer’s rebellion.”
“And?”
And what?
That’s seriously the bottom of the very shallow well of information I have on him.
When all I can provide him is a blank expression, he sighs and rolls his eyes over-dramatically.
“The Right Hand to the Heir of Babylon, Michael’s greatest adversary in the Book of Daniel…”
He’s looking at me more expectantly now, and—
Nope.
Seriously, I’m not trying to be a dick, but I have no idea what the fuck he’s going on about.
He pulls out what looks like a cross between a short-sword and a spear, the shaft adorned with
markings I’ve never seen before.
“It may not be able to destroy its victim’s soul like Samael’s collection, but it can kill anyone,
God or man, just the same.” Spinning the weapon effortlessly in his hand, the blade and handle
somehow extend to the length of a javelin.
Even I have to admit, the weapon is impressive, not to mention creepy as fuck. Just being near it
has the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.
“The Prince of Persia,” he iterates, like that should clear everything up.
It doesn’t. The only metaphorical light bulb turning on has to do with some video games and a
Jake Gyllenhaal movie, and I don’t think he’ll appreciate another smartass remark.
When I don’t answer again, he pinches the bridge of his nose…or at least what he has of it. The
cartilage is still there, but it looks terribly thin on the damaged side, barely held together by skin that
blends right into the exposed bones of his cheek. “I expected as much from these humans. Fuck, they
can barely remember what they ate for breakfast last week. But to discover that the Underworld’s
own crown prince is this dimwitted?”
“Well, my apologies, but I haven’t taken Bible Study classes since I was little, and I had a
painfully short attention span as a child.” And maybe you just weren’t worth remembering. It takes
everything in me not to voice that last bit.
“Dagon, of Gehenna.” He says this, again, like this should be a revelation, but it still means shit-
nothing to me.
 Kat’s old man can’t seem to take anymore because he rolls his eyes so far I’m surprised his
corneas don’t detach in the process. “As much as we all appreciate your dick-measuring here, can we
please move on to business?”
I’m grateful for the subject change…until I glimpse of the dagger he’s unsheathed from behind his
back. Although, calling it a mere dagger seems to be underselling it. The sucker’s long and broad
enough to fall into the short sword territory. And he just so happens to be bringing it with him as he
heads over to me.
“Look familiar?” He turns the blade over, showcasing the all-too-familiar symbols forged into the
steel. “Word has it that you stole its cousin from a descendant of mine, after you slayed him.”
Ah, yes. The Sanctus blade.
The not-so-lovely angelic sword that just so happens to destroy the soul of anyone killed by it.
There are only seven of its kind in the world, and one may or may not have fallen into my possession.
Unsurprisingly, Samael isn’t in the mood for my bitching, because he stops me before I even start.
“Katrina already confessed to Nick Holloway several weeks ago that you stole it.”
“In my defense, your ‘descendant’ was trying to kill your daughter and me, so I’d call it the spoils
of war, if anything. Not to mention, the guy was a grade-A dick.” Yeah, not helping, Ryder.
Samael doesn’t even blink at the remark. “Be that as it may, I’d like it back.”
“Yeah, and I would really like a vacation in Hawaii right about now. Sadly, I don’t see either of
us getting what we want.”
Dagon steps forward again, all too willing and eager to crush every bone in my body, but Samael
just lifts his hand. The gesture is enough to fend him off, albeit reluctantly.
“Even if I wanted to give it back for some unfathomable reason, the only person who can retrieve
your precious sword was deep-fried by your friend here with Hellfire last night, so he’s not exactly in
the condition to go get it,” I say, motioning to Carly, or rather Angélique.
A flicker of confusion registers in those green eyes, but before Samael can ask further, the witch is
all too happy to take the reins.
“Speaking of stolen things,” she purrs, “I’d like my grimoire back.”
“Come again?”
“My spell book,” Angélique clarifies.
“I know what it is, but why would you think I have anything of yours?” I ask.
“Perhaps this will jog your memory.” She heads over to the table and grabs a piece of paper. It’s a
fresh white sheet with a photocopy image of aged parchment.
I’ve spent the past two years looking through at least a hundred different grimoires, and nothing
about this looks remarkable. I say as much, earning a frown.
“My grimoire was said to have been destroyed after my untimely death, and this was clearly
written by another’s hand, but the spell is the same,” she says, “which means there’s a replica floating
around.”
“And what makes you so certain I would have it?”
Angélique’s smile only broadens as she practically pushes the printout into my face. “This was
leaked by a demon who just so happened to get it from your boss. And word has it that this was taken
from a grimoire your brother delivered, on your orders.”
The only book I gave Raelynd was that old journal Kat found at an abandoned church outside
Greenpoint Cemetery, where Angélique’s body had been laid to rest…
 “Any witch worth her salt knows her own spells, so why would you care if someone else has the
book?” I ask.
She gives me a saccharine smile. “As you can imagine, opening a portal into Hell isn’t exactly a
process you want to play fast and loose with. Its complexity leaves a lot of room for error, something
you don’t want to risk when resurrecting a body. If the ritual isn’t completed and performed by the
book, a person can easily be brought back missing some limbs, or in some cases—” she nods over to
Dagon “—his skin. I pride myself in knowing I will bring us all back intact.”
“Well, most of us,” Dagon mutters, making a point to look at Angélique, whose expression is
suddenly caught between confusion and pure rage as they seem to share a silent exchange.
“You said I would get my body, that I wouldn’t have to keep possessing people—”
He holds his hands up as if to placate her, but his words certainly don’t match his actions. “I said
you would get a body. You choose any fetching creature you wish, and we’ll use the energy from the
portal to make you its sole occupant.”
“I want my body!”
“Your body comes back in the condition you died in, lovely. Seeing as how we all drowned, the
worst thing that will happen is that we come back a little damp. You, on the other hand, will look like
a melted candle if you’re lucky.”
She honestly looks like she may very well stab Dagon, but that doesn’t seem to be a deterrent
because he still reaches out, taking hold of her waist. “Come now. At least you’ll have a body. And
might I say, this one is particularly fetching.”
Does he have a death wish? Because the venom in her eyes could take down any lesser man.
The girl is pissed.
“She doesn’t look anything like me! And she’s cumbersome at best.” Angélique shakes her head
as if it’s an Etch-A-Sketch. “The brat is already trying to claw her way up, and it’s barely been three
hours.”
“Just do a shot,” one of the guards suggests, lifting a flask in his hand. “It’ll quiet her down, at
least for a little while.”
She rolls her eyes, indignant. “You don’t think I’ve already tried that? If I do anymore, I’ll be the
one drunk. How much longer do we have to wait?”
“Not long, I reckon.” Dagon motions over her shoulder as footsteps stagger down the hall towards
us. Applause breaks out for a whopping ten seconds before the room goes quiet enough that you can
hear a raindrop fall.
“What the fuck happened?” Kat’s father demands.
Only once Angélique steps aside do I see the new arrival is Reese. Nick had put a bullet into his
leg the last I saw of him, and it appears he’s had an eventful few hours because Reese looks an awful
lot like a horror movie victim. His clothes are torn and frayed, and there isn’t an inch of skin that
doesn’t appear to have blood on it. Not to mention, dozens of scratch marks run down the length of his
face. You’d think a rabid cat had been set loose on him.
“Why don’t you ask his boss?” Reese seethes, looking at me of all people. “Raelynd and his
cronies ambushed the site. Wiped out the coven and freed Kat.”
“And Miss Monroe?”
Reese doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The fury brewing in his eyes speaks volumes.
I don’t believe it.
 Kat and Daisy got away.
It takes everything in me not to laugh.
Kat’s father continues interrogating Reese, but the latter doesn’t bother even looking in Samael’s
direction. His eyes are wholly focused on me.
“Well, you look worse for wear,” I taunt.
“You’ve looked better yourself,” Reese growls.
“Ah, yes, but I’ve looked far worse.” My face begs to differ, because the mere act of smiling
activates every muscle and its corresponding pain. The effort is enough that black spots dance in the
outer edges of my vision, but holy hell, is it worth it. “Seems someone has found out my little kitten
has claws.”
As expected, Reese only seethes further, enough that I’m surprised he isn’t foaming at the mouth.
“She’s not yours!”
“You might want to tell that to your face.”
Further yelling and questions ensue, but Reese doesn’t acknowledge them. He charges over—
well, as best as he can, given the limp—slamming his fist into my left cheek.
I welcome the hit, spitting out the blood pooling in my mouth with a laugh.
I don’t care that I’m egging him on. The fucker didn’t strip Kat of her runes, because he couldn’t.
Because my girl fought with the ferocity he’s been trying to smother, even before he was hexed. Reese
wants some sweet, timid “Damsel in Distress,” and only now is he realizing what should have been
painfully obvious. Kat ain’t Princess Buttercup. She’s pried his claws out of her, and even better?
She’s turned those claws on him. Kat sees Reese for what he is under all the boy-next-door bullshit.
That hex doesn’t turn you into a different person. It brings out the worst in you. Everything he’s
done proves he’s more than capable of it if push comes to shove. And at long last, she sees this. She
sees him without any masks on, and she’s not liking what’s underneath. Kat would sooner claw off
Blackburn’s face, literally, than be with him.
And he knows it.
But as that old phrase would tell us, “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.”
Reese gets in three solid punches before Dagon finally pulls him back, and that last one definitely
does its damage. I hear rather than feel the break of bone. Everything already hurts too fucking much
to tell, but either he’s broken my jaw or cracked a couple of teeth.
I’m given my answer when I spit out a molar with my next mouthful of blood.
As expected, Reese tries wrestling out of Dagon’s grip, but it doesn’t do any good.
Not having my face bashed in should be a relief. And it would be, if not for the look Angélique
sends my way.
“Now, now,” she simpers, patting Reese on the shoulder. “Don’t go breaking our dear Prince. Not
before I’ve had my fun with him.”
And just like that, I know I’m fucked.
3
BELIEVER
 BLAINE

I t’s not exactly something that should give you the warm and fuzzies—recognizing your
foreseeable prison—but I can’t help feeling the slightest sense of relief knowing that I am, in
fact, at Reynolds’s Reaper compound. It took a shit-ton of pain and some good old-fashioned dumb
luck, but I was able to cut my last visit short. I can only pray that Lady Luck is again on my side
tonight as I’m escorted past the same barred cells of the compound’s basement.
Nathan Reynolds obviously hadn’t anticipated keeping too many guests here, seeing as how he
had only left this section of the original prison untouched. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. It reeks of
mold and mildew, and half the iron bars on the cells have rusted. The other half, however, gleams in
only the way fresh silver can.
And oh, look.
Five cells down, I find my old stomping grounds. Chains are still fixed into the wall mounts, and
the door sits ajar, in invitation. It also seems hygiene isn’t a priority, with the dark carmine stains
coating the floor and cuffs. I can only hope that the blood is solely my remnants, but it’s wish
fulfillment at best.
I expect to be led into the cell or at least one of its identical companions, but the two bruisers
flanking each side of me continue dragging me down the hall. We round the bend to an unfamiliar
section of the basement, and we only stop once we reach a steel door at the very end. The damned
thing looks like something that belongs to a bank vault, offering plenty of noise reduction. That still
didn’t seem enough to whoever had installed a ward just outside its surface, because I’m hit with a
wave of magic before the door is even hauled open.
When Angélique had announced where I would be going, I safely assumed she would be playing
escort. So color me relieved when she instead left with her half-faced companion. I didn’t want to
imagine what exactly she would be doing with Carly’s body, but picturing her playing Operation on
me wasn’t much better.
My two snarling companions had apparently taken the long way to get here, because we find
Angélique already waiting on the other side of the door. And let me tell you, the sight isn’t a pretty
one.
Evidently, dowsing me in holy water and filleting my skin with silver just won’t do.
Five occupied cells line the right wall, and the insides speak for themselves. The first contains a
man who appears to have kissed a buckshot. At least, that’s what it looks like from what’s left of his
face. The body lays slumped against the far wall where blood and other unmentionables have
splattered. I’d call it a small mercy, given the state of his neighbor in the following cell.
Blood pools the entire floor around a sprawled corpse, the severed arm lying beside him the
obvious cause of death. And he couldn’t have died too long ago. The blood hasn’t even dried. Hell,
the edges still look to be fanning out. I know I shouldn’t feel too bad, given what these assholes put
me through here, but it doesn’t squelch my nausea as recognition hits.
He’s one of Nathan Reynolds’s men, as I suspect the others are—likely whoever occupied the
compound when Dagon and Samael seized it.
I don’t even bother cataloging the carnage of the following two cells. Not like I could really tell.
It’s just a mess of limbs and torsos tossed atop one another. I can see a couple of heads, but it’s clear
most of the bodies don’t even have that. There must be at least eight victims here, all bloodied beyond
identification.
The same cannot be said about the particular person positioned by the back wall.
From what I gathered during my own time here, Nathan Reynolds had preferred blades and
scalpels for his “interrogation” methods. Angélique, on the other hand, appears to admire the Spanish
Inquisition. And not the Monty Python version. We may as well have entered the set of Hostel or
Saw.
It probably doesn’t reflect well on my character, but I recognize more than a handful of devices
right off the bat. Your typical fanfare is front and center: thumbscrews, a wooden horse, a
waterboarding station, and even a rack. What turns the bile in my throat volcanic, however, can be
found in the corner.
A God’s honest Strappado.
For those of you unfamiliar with medieval torture devices, it’s a rigging used to tie a person’s
hands behind their back in what historians might call a Palestinian Hanging. The method uses its
victim’s weight against itself, the way it does in a crucifixion. If you’re lucky and the torture only
lasts for a short while, you might be able to get out alive with dislocated shoulders, but the odds
aren’t in your favor.
Without the use of your arms, you’d have no choice but to bear the weight of your entire body on
your chest, forcing your rib cage into a position of perpetual inhalation. And without the ability to get
the air out of your lungs, you’ll get to enjoy the excruciatingly slow process of suffocating. The lack
of oxygen also forces fluid into the area around your heart. If you’re lucky enough not to suffocate to
death first, you get the lovely experience of having your heart rupture in your chest.
The heavier you are, the quicker the death.
Dominic Rafferty isn’t the Hulk by any means, but he definitely isn’t a featherweight, standing
about as tall as me with roughly the same muscle mass.
I had only crossed paths with the Irishman once, and considering he was hexed with the order to
deliver Kat and me to our deaths, I wouldn’t say it was a pleasure. But my brother had known him to
some degree…and he had come with Kat to face off against Dagon after the hotel blew up, so it’s safe
to say I don’t have the full scope of what’s going on here.
I can confirm as much when he lifts his head enough to see who is approaching.
His entire neck had been covered in various hexes, the tattoos varying from elaborate to
downright macabre. Now? His neck looks like an overused dry-erase board, the white of his skin
smeared with what appears to be blotches and streaks of grayish marker, as if the extensive brandings
had been nothing more than cheap henna now scrubbed away.
 Honestly, what the fuck is going on?
Dominic is supposed to be a Light Mage, which means silver shouldn’t affect him. Yet, steam
rises from the manacles his wrists are strapped to as the metal sears the exposed flesh. And that’s not
the only thing sizzling. One of Angélique’s lackeys presses some kind of flat stone into the side of
Dominic’s neck. The rock burns bright orange the second it makes contact, as if it’s a hot fire poker.
The sound that comes from Dominic is muffled by the gag in his mouth, but it’s still unmistakably
a…laugh.
Ooookay.
I already gathered that the guy’s a bit of an odd duck, considering he’s dressed like a cross
between Stuart Townsend in Queen of the Damned and Jack Sparrow. But quite literally laughing in
the face of torture is a whole new level of peculiar.
Angélique doesn’t take too kindly to his less-than-desired reaction either, because she runs a
finger along the length of his arm before pressing down when she reaches the top. His shoulder bows,
looking all but ready to dislocate—
But she abruptly lets up, taking notice to the back of his neck. Angélique tugs at the fabric
concealing his chest, shoulder blades, and other arm. “What is the meaning of this?” she hisses.
I can easily see at least six burn marks in various stages of healing on his skin, all the same size as
the stone that was just pressed to his neck.
It’s apparently what she doesn’t see that’s the problem, because the guard has to swallow down
the lump in his throat, his voice unsteady. “We did as you said. We’ve tried every variation of
firestone on supply, but none of the sigils will brand to his skin.”
I get a better look at the flat rock the guard places on the nearby table, and sure enough, there’s an
intricate design carved into it.
It’s the stones used to sear hexes into a person’s flesh.
Sure, Dominic’s skin is burnt, but there isn’t so much as a speckle of ink there.
“Take him up to Dagon, see if he doesn’t have another method,” she orders. The witch looks
increasingly agitated as two guards ease the gears to the Strappado’s rigging and drag him from the
room…
But then her attention returns to me.
The black inky substance accompanying possessions fills Carly’s eyes in time to the witch’s flare
of emotion. “You know, I never understood why these Reapers prefer escalation. They think that
breaking a man slowly is somehow more effective. If anything, I find it promotes resistance.
Considering your own impressive collection of scars, I can assume you understand. Give the body a
chance to adapt, and it’ll build up the necessary pain threshold. That’s why I don’t bother with
foreplay.”
Before I can so much as breathe, I’m slammed into the wall beside me. Only then do I see the
blackened metal fixed to the equally blackened cement. It’s about ten inches tall and raised a good
seven feet off the ground. The metal is only an inch thick, but it expands at least eight feet wide. One
of the guards grabs my hand and pins it at an angle to the metal. I anticipate the contact to burn my
skin, certain it’s coated in silver.
To my surprise… nothing happens.
I attempt to pull my hand back, only for the other guard to level his fist into my solar plexus. I
can’t help it. My diaphragm contracts, and all I’m fit to do is double over. Or at least I try. The back
of my hand is still firmly pinned by the one bruiser’s grip, leaving my body practically hanging by the
effort.
I barely get the chance to lift my head in time to see Angélique removing something from a liquid-
filled jar.
At first, I think it’s a blade, the glint to the damp material unmistakably silver. The metal is at least
nine inches long, fashioned to a fine needlepoint. Only when she brings it closer does the pungent
smell of rubbing alcohol sting my nose.
“Can’t let you get sepsis now, can we?” She purrs, flashing that forged metal in front of my face.
It’s not a blade. It looks more like a goddamn railroad spike. And it’s the last thing I can process
before she hammers it right through my hand!
Tendons sever as she twists it oh so slightly, and a soft click can be heard, as if it’s been locked
into place within the metal frame.
There’s no breathing through the pain.
The contractions in my diaphragm are the only things keeping me from screaming, because all I
can see is black as my entire awareness centers on that singular point of impact. The guard releases
my hand, and as I attempt to crumple to the floor, I’m rewarded with further tearing as that metal
pinches deeper against the median nerve running through my wrist and palm. I’m not going to lie;
lesser pain has sent me into shock. That glorious numbness is all I can pray for, but the initial trauma
isn’t ebbing.
With every second, the pain doubles, triples on itself as my insides react to the silver, not to
mention the alcohol soaking the nail. I could have gotten my hand run over by a fucking car, and it
would have hurt less.
My effort to wrestle my other hand away is laughable. At least to Angélique. She regards me with
the kind of amusement a demented child shows an ant frying under a magnifying glass.
Fuck, I’d take death by fire at this point. It would be a hell of a lot faster. I’m barely able to
breathe through the pain enough to draw in the air, to fuel my scream, as that second nail finds its
home.
My vision doesn’t just go black. My whole world does.
4
S H OW ME H OW T O L I V E
 KAT

V oices crept into my awareness before I opened my eyes, but I couldn’t determine what was
being said. Everything sounded muffled and echoey all at once, though the tones certainly
didn’t seem congenial. Every part of my body felt so unbearably weighed down, as if cement blocks
pinned my limbs.
Wherever I was, only the faintest of light illuminated the space, bathed in a paleness I knew to be
from the moon. It hurt to even move my eyes, but I saw enough to know this wasn’t good.
I lay on what felt like a worn, lumpy carpet with a thin cotton sheet thrown over it. Above me was
a network of steel metal construction frames and a weather-beaten ceiling accommodating skylight
windows. Everything was rusted or dirtied, and the air smelled like mildew and rotten eggs.
It took far more effort than necessary to turn onto my side, and the action was accompanied by the
ugliest sound and sensation I hoped to never hear again.
My wrists burned something fierce, which shouldn’t have been shocking, considering Reese had
locked me in silver handcuffs—
But the chain had also been broken.
Even if the metal was still searing into my skin, I shouldn’t have met resistance when I tried to
draw my hands down from where they were positioned above my head.
And yet, that was exactly what I was met with.
Craning my head back, I looked up at what I realized was a headboard.
But definitely not the bedroom variety.
This flimsy mattress—or rather cot—rested on one of those metal bed frames you see in horror
movies about mental hospitals. And just as I suspected, my wrists were cuffed, the chain looped
between one of the metal posts taut enough to prevent me from even sitting up.
I gave a futile tug, hoping against hope that the old metal had rusted.
Nothing.
A sharp whistle sounded off not five feet from me, its source outside of my periphery. I may have
jumped out of my skin, if my body was capable of movement. Lying on my side, I got a better look at
my surroundings.
They didn’t inspire much confidence.
I was in a factory.
And an abandoned one at that.
A few large pieces of machinery were positioned around what I assumed used to be the assembly
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vents, — forma le projet de rendre visite à ses protégés afin de voir
de près le bonheur qu’elle leur avait donné et de recevoir leurs
remerciements.
Mais quand elle entra, vers le soir, dans la chambre somptueuse
où le duc et la duchesse venaient de se retirer, elle fut étrangement
surprise ; car, loin de témoigner de la joie et de la remercier, ils se
jetèrent à ses pieds, les yeux pleins de larmes, en sanglotant de
douleur.
— Est-il possible, dit la fée, et qu’est-ce que je vois ! N’êtes-vous
point satisfaits de votre sort ?
— Hélas ! madame, nous sommes tellement malheureux que
nous allons mourir de chagrin si vous ne prenez pitié de nous.
— Quoi ! Vous ne vous trouvez pas assez riches ?
— Nous ne le sommes que trop !
— Serait-ce qu’il vous déplaît de ne voir tomber de vos lèvres
que des pièces d’or toujours, et, par goût du changement, vous
plairait-il que j’en fisse sortir des diamants ou des saphirs gros
comme des œufs de tourterelles ?
— Ah ! gardez-vous-en bien !
— Dites-moi donc ce qui vous afflige, car, pour moi, je ne le
saurais deviner.
— Grande fée, il est très agréable de se chauffer lorsqu’on a
froid, de dormir dans un lit de plume, de manger à sa faim, mais il
est une chose meilleure encore que toutes celles-là. C’est de se
baiser sur les lèvres quand on s’aime ! Or, depuis que vous nous
avez faits riches, nous ne connaissons plus ce bonheur, hélas ! car
chaque fois que nous ouvrons nos bouches pour les unir, il en sort
de détestables sequins ou d’horribles ducats, et c’est de l’or que
nous baisons.
— Ah ! dit la fée, je n’avais point pensé à cet inconvénient. Mais il
n’y a pas de remède à cela, et vous ferez bien d’en prendre votre
parti.
 — Jamais ! Laissez-vous attendrir. Ne pourriez-vous rétracter
l’affreux présent que vous nous avez accordé ?
— Oui bien. Mais sachez que vous perdriez non seulement le
don de répandre de l’or, mais avec lui toutes les richesses acquises.
— Eh ! que nous importe !
— Soit donc fait, dit la fée, selon votre volonté.
Et, touchés de la baguette, il se retrouvèrent, par un froid temps
de bise, dans une grange ouverte à tous les vents ; ce qu’ils furent
naguère, ils l’étaient de nouveau : affamés, demi-nus, tremblants de
froidure comme des oiselets sans plumes et sans nid. Mais ils se
gardaient bien de se plaindre, et se jugeaient trop heureux, ayant les
lèvres sur les lèvres.
 LES ACCORDAILLES

Quand la princesse Othilde vint au monde, on se récria

d’admiration et d’étonnement : d’admiration, parce qu’elle était bien
la plus jolie mignonne qu’on puisse imaginer ; d’étonnement, parce
qu’elle était à peine aussi grande qu’un poing fermé d’enfant.
Couchée dans un berceau pas plus large que la main ni plus long
que le doigt, vous auriez dit d’un oiseau des Iles, encore sans
plumes, dans son nid. Le roi et la reine ne pouvaient se lasser
d’admirer ses jambes, ses pieds roses, qui auraient tenu dans un
bas de poupée, son ventre de souris blanche, son visage qu’un
pétale de marguerite eût suffi à cacher. A vrai dire, ils s’inquiétaient
de la voir si extraordinairement petite, et leur royale grandeur ne
pouvait supporter l’idée d’avoir donné le jour à une naine ; mais ils
espéraient que leur fille grandirait, sans rien perdre de sa
gentillesse. Ils furent bien trompés dans leur attente. En demeurant
gracieuse autant qu’il est possible, elle grandit si peu qu’à cinq ans
elle n’était pas plus haute qu’un brin d’herbe, et qu’en jouant dans
les allées elle était obligée de se dresser sur la pointe des pieds
pour cueillir les violettes. On fit mander des médecins fameux, on
promit de leur donner les plus riches récompenses s’ils parvenaient
à hausser de quelques pouces seulement la taille de la princesse ;
ils se concertèrent avec gravité, les mains croisées sur le ventre,
clignant de l’œil sous le verre de leurs bésicles, inventèrent des
drogues qu’Othilde fut obligée de boire, des onguents infaillibles
dont on la frotta soir et matin. Tout cela ne fit que blanchir ; elle ne
cessait pas d’être une adorable naine ; lorsqu’elle se divertissait en
compagnie de son bichon favori, elle lui passait entre les pattes sans
avoir besoin de baisser la tête. Le roi et la reine eurent recours aux
Fées, avec lesquelles ils avaient toujours eu d’excellents rapports ;
elles ne manquèrent pas de venir, celles-ci, dans des litières de drap
d’or, aux franges de pierreries, que portaient des Africains nus,
celles-là dans des chars de cristal, attelés de quatre unicornes ; il y
en eut qui trouvèrent plus commode d’entrer par la fenêtre ou par la
cheminée, sous forme d’oiseaux de paradis ou de martinets aux
ailes bleues ; mais, dès qu’elles frôlaient le parquet de la salle, elles
devenaient de belles dames habillées de satin. L’une après l’autre,
elles touchèrent Othilde de leurs baguettes, la prirent dans la main,
— elle n’était pas plus lourde qu’une grosse alouette, — la baisèrent,
lui soufflèrent sur les cheveux, firent des signes au-dessus de son
front en murmurant de toutes-puissantes paroles. Les charmes des
Fées n’eurent pas plus d’effet que la médecine des savants
hommes ; à seize ans, la princesse était encore si petite qu’il lui
arriva un matin d’être prise tout entière dans un piège à rossignols
qu’on avait mis dans le parc. Les courtisans, qui ont intérêt à tenir
les souverains en joie parce que la bonne humeur, d’ordinaire, se
montre généreuse, faisaient de leur mieux pour consoler le roi et la
reine ; ils proclamaient que rien n’est plus ridicule qu’une grande
taille, que les statures élevées ne sont, à bien considérer les choses,
que des difformités ; pour ce qui était d’eux, ils auraient bien voulu
n’avoir qu’un demi-pied de haut, — mais c’est aux races royales que
la nature réserve de telles faveurs ! — et quand ils voyaient passer
quelque énorme manant, ils se tordaient de rire en se prenant les
côtes. Les dames d’honneur, — afin que la princesse parût moins
petite à côté d’elles moins grandes — renoncèrent d’un commun
accord à porter des talons hauts, qui étaient une mode de ce temps-
là, et les chambellans prirent l’habitude de ne jamais s’approcher du
trône qu’en marchant sur les genoux. Mais ces ingénieuses flatteries
ne réussissaient pas toujours à dérider le roi ni la reine ; bien des
fois ils eurent envie de pleurer en baisant leur fillette, du bout des
lèvres, de peur de l’avaler ; et ils retenaient leurs larmes, pour ne
pas la mouiller toute. Quant à Othilde, elle ne paraissait point
chagrinée de son malheur ; elle avait même l’air de prendre grand
plaisir à mirer sa jolie petite personne dans un miroir à main, fait d’un
seul diamant un peu gros.

II

Cependant, — comme tous les désespoirs s’usent enfin par

l’accoutumance, — le roi et la reine devenaient moins tristes de jour
en jour ; sans doute ils auraient pris le parti de ne se plus désoler, s’il
ne leur était arrivé une chose bien faite pour renouveler leur douleur.
Sur le rapport qu’on lui faisait de la beauté de la princesse, — car la
renommée, qui flatte volontiers les personnes royales, avait divulgué
en tous lieux la grâce d’Othilde et non sa petitesse, — le jeune
empereur de Sirinagor se rendit amoureux d’elle, et il envoya des
ambassadeurs la demander en mariage. Vous pensez l’embarras
que causa une telle proposition ! Marier cette mignonne poupée,
grande comme une perruche, il n’y fallait pas songer. Quel homme
s’accommoderait d’une épouse qui se perdrait certainement à toute
minute dans le lit nuptial ! « Où donc êtes-vous, ma bien-aimée ? —
Là, tout près de vous, mon ami, dans un pli de l’oreiller. » Et la
demande de l’empereur de Sirinagor était d’autant plus effrayante,
qu’on le disait lui-même d’une taille colossale ; il était plus beau que
tous les princes, mais plus grand que tous les géants. Le jour de sa
naissance, il avait été impossible de trouver un berceau assez vaste
pour cet énorme prince ; on avait dû le coucher sur de longs tapis
dans la salle du trône. A trois ans, il lui fallait se baisser un peu pour
dénicher les oiseaux à la cime des chênes ! Ses parents, comme
ceux d’Othilde, avaient consulté les médecins et les Fées, tout aussi
vainement ; il avait grandi de plus en plus, d’une façon démesurée ;
lorsque ses peuples, en célébration de quelque victoire, lui
érigeaient des arcs de triomphe, il était obligé de descendre de
cheval, pour passer dessous ; et si hauts qu’ils fussent, il ne
manquait pas de heurter aux frontons la tarasque d’argent éployée
sur son casque ! Naturellement, le roi et la reine déclarèrent aux
ambassadeurs que l’union projetée était la chose du monde la plus
impossible. Mais le jeune empereur, fort colère de son tempérament,
ne se tint pas pour satisfait d’une telle réponse ; il ne voulut entendre
à rien ; l’aveu de la petite taille d’Othilde lui parut une allégation
absurde, imaginée dans l’intention de le bafouer ; et il s’écria en
coiffant son casque, dont les ailes d’argent frémirent, qu’il allait tout
mettre à feu et à sang pour venger cette injure.

III

Il fit comme il avait dit. Il y eut de terribles batailles, des villes à

sac et des populations entières passées au fil de l’épée ; tant
qu’enfin le roi et la reine virent bien que c’en serait fait d’eux et de
tout le royaume s’ils n’entraient en accommodement avec le
gigantesque conquérant qui marchait vers la capitale en enjambant
les bourgs et les forêts en flammes. Ils se hâtèrent donc de lui
demander la paix, s’engageant à ne plus lui refuser la main de leur
fille. Ils étaient, du reste, assez tranquilles sur les suites de ce
consentement ; l’empereur, à la vue d’Othilde, ne manquerait pas de
renoncer à son dessein, et s’en retournerait dans son pays avec ses
armées en vain victorieuses.
Jour fut pris pour la première entrevue des deux fiancés ; mais
elle eut lieu dans le parc, non dans le palais, parce que le vainqueur
n’aurait pas pu se tenir debout sous les plafonds des salles.
— Çà, dit-il, je ne vois pas la princesse. Ne viendra-t-elle
bientôt ?
 — Regardez à vos pieds, dit le roi.
Elle était là, en effet, dépassant à peine les plates-bandes de
l’allée ; si menue et si jolie dans sa robe d’or, le front tout reluisant de
pierreries, elle paraissait encore plus petite à côté du jeune et
magnifique empereur, dont se dressait sous le ciel l’armure
ensoleillée.
— Hélas ! dit-il.
Car il se désolait de la voir, là-bas, si charmante, mais si petite.
— Hélas ! dit-elle à son tour.
Car elle était bien marrie de le voir, là-haut, si beau, mais si
grand !
Et ils eurent des larmes, elle dans ses yeux levés, lui dans ses
yeux baissés.
— Sire, dit le roi, — pendant qu’ils se considéraient encore de
loin ! — Sire, vous le voyez, vous ne sauriez épouser ma fille. Forcés
de renoncer à l’honneur de votre alliance…
Mais il n’acheva point sa phrase, et, muet de stupeur, il regardait
la princesse et l’empereur, elle grandissant, lui rapetissant, à cause
de l’amour, plus puissant que les fées, qui les attirait l’un vers
l’autre ! Bientôt ils furent presque de même taille ; leurs lèvres se
touchaient comme les deux roses d’une même branche.
 LE MAUVAIS CONVIVE

Il régnait une grande inquiétude à la cour et dans tout le royaume

parce que le fils du roi, depuis quatre jours, n’avait pris aucune
nourriture. S’il avait eu la fièvre ou quelque autre maladie, on n’eût
pas été surpris de ce jeûne prolongé ; mais les médecins
s’accordaient à dire que le prince, n’eût été la grande faiblesse que
lui causait son abstinence, se serait porté aussi bien que possible.
Pourquoi donc se privait-il ainsi ? Il n’était pas question d’autre
chose parmi les courtisans, et même parmi les gens du commun ; au
lieu de se souhaiter le bonjour, on s’abordait en disant : « A-t-il
mangé, ce matin ? » Et personne n’était aussi anxieux que le roi lui-
même. Ce n’était pas qu’il eût une grande affection pour son fils ; ce
jeune homme lui donnait toutes sortes de mécontentements ; bien
qu’il eût seize ans déjà, il montrait la plus grande aversion pour la
politique et pour le métier des armes ; lorsqu’il assistait au conseil
des ministres, il bâillait pendant les plus beaux discours d’une façon
très malséante, et une fois, chargé d’aller, à la tête d’une petite
armée, châtier un gros de rebelles, il était revenu avant le soir, son
épée enguirlandée de volubilis et ses soldats les mains pleines de
violettes et d’églantines ; donnant pour raison qu’il avait trouvé sur
son chemin une forêt printanière, tout à fait jolie à voir, et qu’il est
beaucoup plus amusant de cueillir des fleurs que de tuer des
hommes. Il aimait à se promener seul sous les arbres du parc royal,
se plaisait à écouter le chant des rossignols quand la lune se lève ;
les rares personnes qu’il laissait entrer dans ses appartements
racontaient qu’on y voyait des livres épars sur les tapis, des
instruments de musique, guzlas, psalterions, mandores ; et, la nuit,
accoudé au balcon, il passait de longues heures à considérer, les
yeux mouillés de larmes, les petites étoiles lointaines du ciel. Si vous
ajoutez à cela qu’il était pâle et frêle comme une jeune fille, et, qu’au
lieu de revêtir les chevaleresques armures, il s’habillait volontiers de
claires étoffes de soie où se mire le jour, vous vous expliquerez que
le roi fût fort penaud d’avoir un tel fils. Mais, comme le jeune prince
était le seul héritier de la couronne, son salut était utile au bien de
l’État. Aussi ne manqua-t-on point de faire, pour le résoudre à ne
pas se laisser mourir de faim, tout ce qu’il fut possible d’imaginer. On
le pria, on le supplia ; il hochait la tête sans répondre. On fit apprêter
par des cuisiniers sans pareils les poissons les plus appétissants,
les plus savoureuses viandes, les primeurs les plus délicates ;
saumons, truites, brochets, cuissots de chevreuil, pattes d’ours,
hures de marcassins nouveau-nés, lièvres, faisans, coqs de bruyère,
cailles, bécasses, râles de rivières, chargeaient sa table à toute
heure servie, et il montait, de vingt assiettes, une bonne odeur de
fraîche verduresse ; le jugeant las des venaisons banales et des
légumes accoutumés, on lui accommoda des filets de bisons, des
râbles de chiens chinois, hachés dans des nids de salanganes, des
brochettes d’oiseaux-mouches, des griblettes de ouistitis, des
brezolles de guenuches, gourmandées de pimprenelles des Andes,
des rejetons d’hacubs cuits dans de la graisse d’antilope, des
marolins de Chandernagor et des sacramarons du Brésil dans une
pimentade aux curcas. Mais le jeune prince faisait signe qu’il n’avait
pas faim, et, après un geste d’ennui, il retombait dans une rêverie.
Les choses en étaient là, et le roi se désolait de plus en plus
lorsque l’enfant, exténué, se soutenant à peine et plus blanc que les
lys, lui parla en ces termes :
— Mon père, si vous ne voulez pas que je meure, donnez-moi
congé de quitter votre royaume, et d’aller où bon me semblera, sans
être éclairé de pas un.
— Eh ! faible comme tu es, tu t’évanouirais avant le troisième
pas, mon fils.
 — C’est pour reprendre des forces que je veux m’éloigner. Avez-
vous lu ce qu’on raconte de Thibaut-le-Rimeur, le trouvère qui fut le
prisonnier des fées ?
— Ce n’est pas ma coutume de lire, dit le roi.
— Sachez donc que, chez les fées, Thibaut mena une vie très
heureuse, et qu’il était surtout content à l’heure des repas parce que
de petits pages, qui étaient des gnomes, lui servaient pour potage
une goutte de rosée sur une feuille d’acacia, pour rôti une aile de
papillon dorée à un rayon de soleil, et, pour dessert, ce qui reste à
un pétale de rose du baiser d’une abeille.
— Un maigre dîner ! dit le roi, qui ne put s’empêcher de rire
malgré les soucis qu’il avait.
— C’est pourtant le seul qui me fasse envie. Je ne saurais me
nourrir, comme les autres hommes, de la chair des bêtes tuées, ni
des légumes nés du limon. Octroyez-moi de m’en aller chez les fées,
et, si elles me convient à leurs repas, je mangerai à ma faim et
reviendrai plein de santé.
Qu’eussiez-vous fait, à la place du roi ? Puisque le jeune prince
était sur le point de mourir, c’était une façon de sagesse que de
consentir à sa folie ; son père le laissa donc partir, n’espérant plus le
revoir.
Comme le royaume était près de la forêt de Brocéliande, l’enfant
n’eut pas beaucoup de chemin à faire pour se rendre chez les fées ;
elles l’accueillirent fort bien, non point parce qu’il était le fils d’un
puissant monarque, mais parce qu’il se plaisait à écouter le chant
des rossignols quand la lune se lève et à regarder, accoudé au
balcon, les lointaines étoiles. On donna une fête en son honneur
dans une vaste salle aux murs de marbre rose, qu’éclairaient des
lustres en diamant ; les plus belles des fées, pour le plaisir de ses
yeux, dansaient en rond, se tenant par la main, laissant traîner des
écharpes. Il éprouvait une joie si grande, malgré de cruels
tiraillements d’estomac, qu’il eût voulu que les danses durassent
toujours. Cependant il devenait de plus en plus faible, et il comprit
qu’il ne tarderait pas à mourir s’il ne prenait point quelque nourriture.
Il avoua à l’une des fées l’état où il se trouvait, osa même lui
demander à quelle heure on souperait. « Eh ! quand il vous plaira ! »
dit-elle. Elle donna un ordre, et voici qu’un page, qui était un gnome,
apporta au prince, pour potage, une goutte de rosée sur une feuille
d’acacia. Ah ! l’excellent potage ! Le convié des fées déclara qu’on
ne saurait rien imaginer de meilleur. On lui offrit ensuite pour rôti une
aile de papillon dorée à un rayon de soleil, — une épine d’aubépine
avait servi de broche, — et il la mangea d’une seule bouchée, avec
délice. Mais ce qui le charma surtout, ce fut le dessert, la trace d’un
baiser d’abeille sur un pétale de rose. « Eh bien, dit la fée, avez-vous
bien soupé, mon enfant ? » Il fit signe que oui, extasié, mais, en
même temps, il pencha la tête et mourut d’inanition. C’est qu’il était
un de ces pauvres êtres, — tels sont les poètes ici-bas, — trop purs
et pas assez, trop divins pour partager les festins des hommes, trop
humains pour souper chez les fées.
 LA TIRE-LIRE

Jocelyne était mendiante sur un chemin où ne passait personne ;

de sorte qu’il ne tombait jamais aucune monnaie dans la frêle main
lasse d’être tendue ; quelquefois, d’une branche secouée par le vent,
une fleur s’effeuillait vers la pauvresse, et l’hirondelle qui vole vite lui
faisait, dans un flouflou d’ailes, l’aumône d’un joli cri ; mais ce sont là
de chimériques offrandes que l’on ne saurait donner en payement
aux personnes avares qui vendent les choses que l’on mange ou les
choses dont on s’habille, et Jocelyne était fort à plaindre ; d’autant
plus que, née elle ne savait quand, d’elle ne savait qui, n’ayant
d’autre souvenir que celui de s’être éveillée, un matin qu’il faisait du
soleil, sous un buisson de la route, elle ne rentrait pas, le soir, dans
une de ces bonnes chaumines, pleines d’une odeur de soupe, où les
autres fillettes, après avoir tendu le front au père et à la mère,
s’endorment dans de la paille tiède, sur le coffre à pain, en face du
feu de sarment, qui s’endort aussi. Elle se résignait à grimper, dès
que montait la nuit, dans un orme ou dans un chêne, et sommeillait,
couchée le long d’une grosse branche, non loin des écureuils qui, la
connaissant bien et ne s’effrayant plus d’elle, lui sautaient sur le
bras, sur l’épaule, sur la tête, jouaient de leurs petites pattes dans
ses cheveux ébouriffés, couleur d’or et si clairs qu’il était difficile de
s’assoupir dans l’arbre, comme dans une chambre où il y a de la
lumière. Lorsque les nuits étaient fraîches, elle se serait volontiers
fourrée dans quelque nid de loriot ou de merle, si elle n’avait été trop
grande. Son habillement était fait d’un vieux sac de toile, trouvé, un
jour de chance, dans le fossé du chemin ; elle le rapiéçait de feuilles
vertes, chaque printemps ; comme elle était jolie et fraîche, avec des
joues fleurissantes, vous auriez pris cet habit pour la feuillaison
d’une rose. Pour ce qui était de sa nourriture, elle n’en connaissait
guère d’autre que les avelines du bois et les sorbes de la venelle ;
son grand régal était de manger des sauterelles grillées à point sur
un petit brasier d’herbes sèches. Vous voyez bien que Jocelyne était
la créature la plus misérable que l’on puisse imaginer, et si son sort
était déjà bien cruel durant la belle saison qui met de la chaleur dans
l’air et des fruits aux arbustes, pensez ce qu’il devait être quand la
bise saccageait les noisetiers stériles et lui gelait la peau à travers
ses loques de feuilles mortes.
Une fois, comme elle s’en revenait de sa cueillette d’avelines,
elle vit une fée, toute habillée de mousseline d’or, sortir d’entre les
verdures d’un épinier ; la fée parla d’une voix plus douce que les
plus douces musiques :
— Jocelyne, parce que tu as le cœur aimable autant que ton
visage est charmant, je veux te faire un don. Tu vois cette tire-lire,
toute petite, qui a la forme et la couleur d’un œillet éclos ? Elle
t’appartient. Ne manque pas d’y mettre tout ce que tu as de plus
précieux ; le jour où tu la casseras, elle te rendra au centuple ce
qu’elle aura reçu.
Là-dessus, la fée s’évanouit comme une flamme éteinte d’un
coup de vent, et Jocelyne, qui avait eu quelque espérance à l’aspect
de la belle dame, se sentit plus triste que jamais. Ce ne devait pas
être une bonne fée, non ! Était-il rien de plus cruel que de donner
une tire-lire à une pauvre fille qui n’avait ni sou ni maille ? Qu’y
pouvait-elle mettre, ne possédant rien ? Les seules économies
qu’elle eût faites, c’était ses souvenirs de jours sans pain, de nuits
sans sommeil dans la bise et la neige. Elle fut tentée de briser contre
les pierres ce présent qui se moquait d’elle ; elle n’osa point, le
trouvant joli ; et, pleine de mélancolie, elle pleurait ; les larmes
tombaient une à une dans la tire-lire pas plus grande qu’une fleur,
pareille à un œillet épanoui.

II

Une autre fois, il lui arriva un bonheur qui la rendit plus

malheureuse encore. Sur le chemin où ne passait personne, le fils
du Roi, au retour de la chasse, vint à passer, l’épervier au poing.
Monté sur un cheval qui secouait sa crinière de neige, vêtu de satin
bleu ramagé d’argent, la face fière et à ce point lumineuse de soleil
que l’on ne s’étonnait pas d’y voir éclore la fleur rouge des lèvres, le
prince était si beau que la mendiante crut voir un archange en habit
de seigneur. Les yeux écarquillés, la bouche ouverte, elle tendait les
bras vers lui, et elle sentait quelque chose, qui devait être son cœur,
sortir d’elle, et le suivre ! Hélas, il s’éloigna, sans même l’avoir vue.
Seule comme devant, — plus seule, d’avoir un instant cessé de
l’être, — elle se laissa tomber sur le revers du fossé, fermant les
yeux, sans doute pour que rien n’y remplaçât l’adorable vision.
Quand elle les rouvrit, mouillés de pleurs, elle aperçut à côté d’elle la
tire-lire qui ressemblait un peu à des lèvres entr’ouvertes. Elle la
saisit et, avec l’acharnement désespéré de son vain amour, —
mettant dans son souffle son âme, — elle la baisa d’un long baiser !
Mais le présent de la fée, sous l’ardente caresse, ne s’émut pas plus
qu’une pierre touchée d’une rose. Et, à partir de ce jour, Jocelyne
connut de telles douleurs que rien de ce qu’elle avait enduré
jusqu’alors ne pouvait leur être comparé ; elle se rappelait, comme
de belles heures, le temps où elle n’avait souffert que de la faim et
du froid ; s’endormir quasi à jeun, frissonner sous les rafales, ce
n’est rien ou c’est peu de chose ; maintenant elle n’ignorait plus les
véritables angoisses.
 Elle songeait que d’autres femmes, à la cour, illustres et parées,
— « moins jolies que toi », lui disait le miroir de la source, —
pouvaient voir presque à toute heure le beau prince au lumineux
visage ; qu’il s’approchait d’elles, qu’il leur parlait, qu’il leur souriait ;
avant peu de temps sans doute, quelque glorieuse jeune fille, venue
de Trébizonde dans une litière portée par un éléphant blanc à la
trompe dorée, épouserait le fils du Roi. Elle, cependant, la
mendiante du chemin sans passants, elle continuerait de vivre, —
puisque c’est vivre que de mourir un peu tous les jours, — dans
cette solitude, dans cette misère, loin de lui qu’elle aimait si
tendrement ; elle ne le reverrait jamais, jamais ! La nuit des royales
noces, elle coucherait dans son arbre, sur une branche, non loin des
écureuils ; et, tandis que les époux s’embrasseraient par amour, elle
mordrait de rage la dure écorce du chêne. De rage ? non. Si
douloureuse, elle n’avait pas de colère ; son plus grand chagrin était
de penser que le fils du Roi, peut-être, ne serait pas aimé par la
princesse de Trébizonde autant qu’il l’était par elle, pauvre fille.

III

Enfin, un jour qu’il neigeait, elle résolut de ne plus souffrir. Elle

n’avait plus la force de supporter tant de tourments : elle se jetterait
dans le lac, au milieu de la forêt ; elle sentirait à peine le froid de
l’eau, étant accoutumée au froid de l’air. Grelottante, elle se mit en
route, marcha aussi vite qu’elle pouvait. C’était par un matin gris,
sous la pesanteur des flocons. Parmi la tristesse du sol blanc, des
arbres dépouillés, des buissons qui se hérissent, des lointains
mornes, rien ne luisait que ses cheveux d’or ; on eût dit d’un peu de
soleil resté là. Elle marchait toujours plus vite. Quand elle fut arrivée
au bord du lac, elle avait sur ses haillons, à cause de la neige, une
robe de mariée.
— Adieu ! dit-elle.
 Adieu ? Oui, à lui seul.
Et elle allait se laisser tomber dans l’eau lorsque la fée, en robe
de mousseline d’or, sortit d’entre les branches d’un épinier.
— Jocelyne, dit-elle, pourquoi veux-tu mourir ?
— Ne savez-vous point, méchante fée, combien je suis
malheureuse ? La plus affreuse mort me sera plus douce que la vie.
La fée eut un bon petit rire.
— Avant de te noyer, reprit-elle, tu devrais au moins casser ta
tire-lire.
— A quoi cela me servirait-il, puisque, étant si pauvre, je n’ai rien
mis dedans ?
— Eh ! casse-la tout de même, dit la fée.
Jocelyne n’osa pas désobéir ; ayant tiré de dessous ses haillons
l’inutile présent, elle le brisa contre une pierre.
Alors, tandis que la forêt d’hiver devenait un magnifique palais de
porphyre aux plafonds d’azur, étoilés d’or, le beau fils de Roi, sorti de
la tire-lire envolée en miettes, prit la mendiante entre ses bras, la
baisa dans les cheveux, sur le front, sur les lèvres, cent fois ! En
même temps, il lui demandait si elle voulait bien l’accepter pour mari.
Et Jocelyne pleurait de joie, pleurait encore. La bonne tire-lire lui
rendait au centuple, comme elle lui avait rendu le baiser, les larmes
de tristesse en larmes de bonheur.
 LA BONNE RÉCOMPENSE

Rien ne pouvait distraire de son chagrin la princesse Modeste, et

vous auriez eu pitié d’elle si vous aviez pu la voir. Non point qu’elle
fût devenue laide à force de pleurer, — jolie comme elle était, on ne
saurait cesser de l’être, — mais elle pâlissait chaque jour
davantage ; et c’était une rose rose, changée en rose blanche.
Vainement ses demoiselles d’honneur faisaient leur possible pour la
tirer de souci ; elle ne daignait sourire ni de leurs chansons ni de
leurs danses ; si on lui offrait, à l’heure du goûter, des confitures de
perles, dont elle était naguère très friande, elle détournait la tête
avec un soupir ; il lui arrivait de repousser du pied son sapajou
favori, qui en était pour ses frais de jolies singeries ; attristée de la
joie des autres, elle avait fait ouvrir la porte de leur cage à ses
perruches familières, dont le jacassement l’importunait. Même elle
ne prenait plus aucun plaisir à se mirer, tandis que ses femmes lui
mettaient dans les cheveux des fleurs de pierreries. Enfin, il serait
impossible d’imaginer une désolation pareille à celle de la princesse
Modeste, et des cœurs de roche s’en fussent attendris. Je vous
laisse à penser quelle devait être l’inquiétude du roi, qui aimait
tendrement sa fille. Il n’avait goût à rien, ne s’intéressait plus aux
affaires de l’État, bâillait aux flatteries de ses courtisans ; c’en était
au point qu’il assista un jour, sans la moindre satisfaction, à la
pendaison de deux ministres, bien que les spectacles de cette
espèce eussent toujours eu le privilège de le mettre en belle humeur.
Ce qui le navrait surtout, c’était que la princesse s’obstinait à ne
point révéler le pourquoi de son chagrin ; il perdait l’espoir de guérir
une douleur dont il ne connaissait point la cause. « Voyons, ma fille,
disait-il, serait-ce qu’il vous manque quelque chose ? — Hi ! hi !
répondit la princesse en pleurs. — Avez-vous envie d’une robe
couleur d’étoiles ou d’aurore ? — Hi ! hi ! — Voulez-vous que je fasse
mander des joueurs de guitare ou des chanteurs de ballades
renommés pour chasser la mélancolie ? — Hi ! hi ! — Vous est-il
venu dans la pensée qu’il vous serait agréable d’être mariée à
quelque beau fils de roi, aperçu dans un carrousel ? — Hi ! hi ! » On
ne pouvait obtenir d’autre réponse. Une fois cependant, à force
d’être suppliée, la princesse finit par avouer que si elle se chagrinait
de la sorte, c’était à cause d’un objet perdu. « Eh ! ma fille, que ne le
disiez-vous plus tôt ! Ce que vous avez perdu, on le retrouvera.
Quelle est, s’il vous plaît, cette précieuse chose ? » Mais, à cette
question, Modeste poussa un cri d’effroi, et se cacha la tête dans les
mains, comme une personne qui a honte. « Jamais, balbutia-t-elle,
jamais je ne nommerai l’objet que je regrette. Sachez seulement que
c’était un présent des fées, en mousseline, qu’il était le plus beau du
monde avec ses broderies et ses dentelles d’or légères et
lumineuses comme une nuée du matin, qu’on me l’a dû dérober un
jour d’été que je me baignais avec mes demoiselles, dans la rivière
sous les saules, et que je mourrai sûrement si on ne le retrouve
pas ! » Là-dessus, toute rougissante, elle s’enfuit dans son
appartement ; et le bon père eut le cœur serré d’entendre des
plaintes à travers la porte, et de petits sanglots, par secousses.
Bien que les renseignements donnés par Modeste n’eussent rien
de précis, et que sa description de la chose égarée ou volée ne fût
pas de nature à éviter les confusions, le roi résolut de mettre en
œuvre le seul moyen dont il disposât pour consoler le désespoir de
sa fille. Des courriers parcoururent toute la ville, furent envoyés dans
les moindres bourgades, dans les plus lointaines campagnes, avec
mission d’annoncer que la princesse, en folâtrant près de la rivière,
sous les saules, avait perdu un très précieux objet, le plus beau du
monde, en mousseline, orné de fines broderies et de dentelles d’or
légères et lumineuses comme une nuée du matin ; et, pour ce qui
était de la récompense à celui qui le rapporterait, le roi faisait savoir
qu’il ne reculerait devant aucun sacrifice, qu’il s’engageait par un
grand serment à ne rien refuser de ce qui lui serait demandé. Il est
inutile de dire que cette proclamation mit en émoi tout le pays. Les
gens qui avaient fait, très loin de la rivière, n’importe quelle
trouvaille, sans dentelle ni broderie, ne laissèrent pas de rêver de
beaux rêves ; et ceux qui n’avaient rien trouvé se mirent en devoir de
chercher. Il y avait une grande foule, du matin au soir, sous les
saules, le long de l’eau ; hommes, femmes, enfants, courbés vers
les herbes, écartant les branches, haletaient d’espérance,
s’imaginaient à chaque instant qu’ils allaient mettre la main sur leur
fortune ; et, pendant toute une semaine, on apporta au palais mille
vaines bagatelles, pièces de monnaie, bribes de rubans, gants
déchirés, qui n’avaient aucun rapport avec la description faite par les
courriers. Chaque fois qu’on lui présentait un nouvel objet, la
princesse détournait la tête, faisant signe que non, et se replongeait
plus profondément dans ses mélancolies.
Or, il arriva une fois qu’un jeune pêcheur, fort bien fait de sa
personne, et très agréable à voir malgré ses haillons de bure, entra
dans la cour du palais, et dit, avec un air d’assurance, qu’il voulait
parler au roi. La première pensée des hallebardiers qui étaient là fut
de jeter ce misérable à la porte ; on ne s’entretient pas avec des
personnes couronnées quand on n’a sur la tête qu’un méchant
bonnet de laine rouge déteint sous la pluie et le vent. Mais dès que
le pêcheur eut affirmé d’une voix haute qu’il avait dans une poche de
sa veste de quoi ramener le sourire sur les lèvres de la princesse,
les gardes prirent un air beaucoup moins rébarbatif, et le jeune
homme fut introduit dans la salle du trône.
En le voyant, le roi haussa l’épaule.
— Évidemment, dit-il, celui-ci ne sera pas plus heureux que les
autres ; ma fille, cette fois encore, n’aura point le contentement
qu’elle espère.
— Sire, dit le pêcheur, Votre Majesté se trompe ; la princesse
Modeste, grâce à moi, va sortir de peine.
 — Est-il possible ?
— Cela est certain.
En même temps, le jeune pêcheur, à qui ne manquait pour être
beau comme un fils d’empereur que d’être habillé de velours ou de
brocart, tira de dessous sa veste quelque chose de léger, de long,
qui était enveloppé d’un papier rose.
— Sous ce papier, reprit-il, se trouve l’objet perdu par la
princesse, et je pense qu’elle en tombera d’accord, si Votre Majesté
veut bien le lui faire remettre.
— J’y consens.
Sur un signe de Sa Majesté, un chambellan, ayant pris le paquet
rose, l’alla porter à la princesse.
A vrai dire, la tranquillité du pêcheur, le ton ferme dont il parlait,
avaient inspiré quelque confiance au père de Modeste. Il se pouvait
que le jeune homme eût trouvé le présent des fées ! Mais non. Vaine
espérance. Chimère. Modeste serait triste aujourd’hui, comme les
autres jours.
Un éclair de rire sonna, vif, clair, joyeux, pareil à un bris de
verroteries, et la princesse, rose de plaisir, courant avec un air de
danser, se précipita dans la salle, sauta au cou de son père. « Ah !
quel bonheur ! je l’ai ! je l’ai ! comme je suis contente ! Ah ! mon bon
père ! Aussi, voyez, je ris comme une folle, moi qui ne cessais de
pleurer ! » Une chose qu’il serait difficile d’exprimer, c’est la
satisfaction du roi en entendant ces paroles. En dépit de l’étiquette, il
se mit à rire lui-même, et, comme les courtisans ne manquèrent pas
de l’imiter, comme les valets des antichambres et les hallebardiers
de la porte, entendant qu’on riait, crurent bon de rire aussi, ce fut
dans tout le palais un si joyeux tumulte d’hilarité que le sapajou de la
princesse, debout sur la queue de la robe, n’y put tenir, et se prit les
côtes, en pouffant !
Cependant le roi se tourna vers celui à qui l’on devait l’heureux
événement :