Malice (Malice Duology #1)(118)
“DARK GRACE!” I recognize the king’s bellow as it reverberates through the barrier. “You will release my daughter at once and answer for your crimes!”
My crimes. Yes. I have plenty of those. There is a trail of bodies outside, soaked in my magic. Every patron cursed from my elixirs. And then Laurel. She would tell me to give up. That I cannot win against an army of the king’s best men, plus the Etherians. I rub my thumb absently over the back of Aurora’s hand.
“I warn you, Dark Grace. When we tear down this wall, my soldiers will rip you limb from limb. Your head will sit on the palace gates. The birds will peck out your eyes!”
“What of your plans to invade Etheria?” I volley back, wondering how far away the High King’s army is. “Have you no more need for your weapon?”
A barrage of steel on wood answers me.
My magic shudders as an echo of Mortania’s voice whispers through me. Is this the man I will allow to care for Aurora? I recall her hard-edged fury when she spoke of her suitors. How she did not falter when her father threatened her very life if she crossed him. And then there are the lives of her sisters, yielded for Tarkin’s greed.
Aurora would not want her throne. Not like this.
“Bring down this wall!” The weapon strikes become more frantic. “You are nothing! NOTHING! A beast who needs to be put down. I will—”
But I am no longer listening. A glimmer on Aurora’s bodice has caught my eye. A piece of embroidery on her neckline, so delicate and small I thought it was a floral pattern. A trail of forget-me-nots or a lily chain. But it’s something else entirely.
Dragons. I trail my fingertip along the golden stitching. A horde of dragons in flight. One tumbling after the other, twisting and soaring, breathing fire. Magnificent, terrible beasts.
Just like me.
Yes. Mortania’s rasping voice again. Both mine and not mine. A shadow dwelling in my soul. And an idea unspools from that darkness. Mortania’s magic heightened my Vila power, making me stronger than I could have dreamed. Had it done the same to my Shifter abilities?
Using the magic I find in the books, in the shelves, in the tables, I create a bed for Aurora. It wraps underneath her, gently lifting her up, then winds over her head, melding into an intricate cage, the slats so close together that I can barely detect the slow rise and fall of her chest. Thorns spike out in every direction, ready to defend her against anyone who draws too near. The star-chosen prince, Elias. The king. Any fool who thinks to wake her and claim her for their own. She will wait until I can figure out what to do. A hundred years, if need be. When the rest of Briar is dead and we can start again. But for now…
The king is still shouting at me. Calling me all manner of names, so familiar to me now that they might as well be mine: Mongrel. Beast. Abomination. They burrow under my skin and spread their roots, sprouting painful memories. The looks on the courtier’s faces when Rose revealed me at the masque. The disgust in Marigold’s voice when she learned I broke the curse. The revulsion in the queen’s eyes when she saw me huddled against her daughter.
Aurora could have created a new world. A realm worth fighting for.
They do not deserve it.
Endlewild and I agree on one thing: Briar is no longer the land Leythana claimed from the helm of her dragon fleet. It has become a tree bearing rotting fruit. And there is only one thing to do with such trees.
Burn them to the ground.
My Vila magic hurtles out of my body and pummels into the outer wall of the library. The ancient brick explodes. Part of the roof caves in, stone and wood raining down in an avalanche on the Grace District. The bells are still tolling in anticipation of the royal wedding. I grit my teeth against the sound. Remember what Kal taught me. I was cautious with my Shifts before. Hesitant. But I draw on my unfathomable rage now, letting it snap and spark and roar.
If they want a monster, they shall have one.
Without a second thought, before I can let myself doubt, I take a running leap out of the gaping hole in the wall.
For one heart-stopping moment, I’m falling. The wind tears at my limbs. My stomach lurches into my throat. But I concentrate on my Shift. Command my power to obey.
Now, I order.
There’s a blinding pain in my back. A pair of taloned wings shreds the fabric of my bodice and unfurls from my spine, like the sails rumored to have graced Leythana’s ships. Veined and scaled and beautiful. Nothing like the flimsy illusions I summoned in the black tower. They buoy me up on the current of wind. My breath halts at the sheer joy of it. At the feeling of winter morning against my skin. The sight of the Grace District spreading below me. Exhilarating. I sharpen my eyesight, reveling in the way the citizens are scattering. Pointing at the sky, their shrill screams like music.
I’ll deal with them later.
Stones are still falling from the wounded library. I position myself in the air, calculating where the king and his men are trying to force through my barrier. Mortania laughs, low and knowing, as her magic unspools with mine. A single command is all it takes. The roof above the guards collapses, as if it were made of nothing stronger than sticks and mud. Death cries float their way up to my ears. Shouts to protect the king. But it’s far too late for that. If I breathe deeply, I can scent the charred copper of blood and fear. It is only the beginning.
I’ll give Tarkin credit. For a realm that hasn’t seen war in centuries, his army is well trained. Within moments, archers line the battlements, shooting volley after volley of flaming arrows in my direction. I land on top of the library and let my Vila magic wrap around me like a shield. The blows strike the shimmery green barrier, then slide away. At the first break in their assault, I launch from my perch and streak across the sky. Find the fiery hearts of the soldiers’ torches and build it up. Stronger and hotter. Until each one blazes green with the force of my power and leaps into the archers’ faces. Men howl and topple off the towers like the markers in Tarkin’s war room.