Kingdom of the Cursed (Kingdom of the Wicked, #2) (22)

“After my parents were murdered, anger and wrath were my biggest comforts. He sensed that, saw the path I was on, and offered me a productive outlet for that fury.”

We weren’t dissimilar. “How long have you been here?”

“Hmm. Time is peculiar here. A mortal hour might be a week. A month, a decade. All I know is it’s been a while.” Anir took a generous pull of his wine, eyes narrowed. “Your turn. What did you do to him?”

“I’m not sure I follow your meaning. What happened?”

“He went out and brought down an entire mountain on the western edge of the Undying Lands. We’ve got letters pouring in from House Lust and House Gluttony so far. They believe the end days are here and want to know if we’re preparing for war.”

“Why is it whenever a man throws a tantrum a woman is blamed for his poor behavior? If Wrath acted like an idiot, he accomplished that all on his own. I don’t see why his temper is so shocking. He is the living embodiment of wrath. I’m sure you’ve seen him angry.”

Anir smirked over his glass. “You’re certain he was mad?”

“What else would he be?”

“Pick another emotion.”

“Does being a prideful bastard count?”

“Your room, your rules. But I don’t think he was angry or prideful.” His dark eyes twinkled. “You know, in all the years I’ve known him, he’s never personally escorted anyone into the City of Ice.” Whatever question he saw in my face, he clarified, “It’s what House Wrath is known as within the Seven Circles. The more powerful the House, the colder the circle.”

Explained all the frosty glass and crystal décor in my bathing chamber.

“I wouldn’t read too much into his supposed good deed. He had to escort me because of the contract. He needed my soul to settle his debt.”

“That was accomplished the instant you crossed into the underworld. He could have left you alone in the Sin Corridor. He should have.” Anir abruptly stood and headed for the door in the antechamber. He tapped his fingers on its frame and glanced back at me. “He’s on the seventh-floor balcony now. In case you wanted to fight some more. I think it’s good for him. Being challenged. You certainly get under his skin.”

Like a poisoned splinter straight to the heart, no doubt. It was tempting, and I might have done just that, if I hadn’t noticed an object placed on the edge of the bed.

Something that didn’t belong and hadn’t been there a few moments before. I bid Anir good night and pressed myself against the closed door, silently counting the increased beats of my heart as I stared into the other room.

Fear. This realm thrived on it. And I would deprive it in every way I could.

I exhaled slowly, counted to ten.

Then I stood up straight, pulled my shoulders back, and marched over to the human skull.





SIX


“Angelus mortis lives,” the skull crooned the moment I got within inches of it, its voice eerily similar to my twin’s. Fine hairs rose along my arms. It was as if Vittoria crossed the barrier between life and death to send a message, except it was slightly off, wrong. “Fury. Almost free. Maiden, Mother, Crone. Past, present, future, find.”

“Vittoria?” The fleshless jaws went slack, and whatever dark magic had fueled the skull vanished. I swallowed hard, unable to take my eyes off the cursed messenger. “Goddess above.”

How someone had snuck an enchanted skull in without Anir or me noticing was almost as troubling as the magic used to power it. I’d never heard of a spell that commanded the bones of the dead. Sure, there was necromancy, but that’s not what powered the skull. This wasn’t even il Proibito. This was something other, something more terrifying than the Forbidden.

I left the skull where it was, plopped onto the glass chair, and took a healthy sip of wine, my mind racing. I thought about Nonna’s lessons on dark magic, specifically spells using objects touched by death—how both should be avoided at all costs. Never, not once, did she ever tell us a story about a witch who could manipulate life into something long dead. If that was even what happened. It had to be demon magic. Which meant the sender was likely a prince of Hell.

The question was which one and why.

I replayed the message in my mind. The angel of death lives. Fury. Almost free. Maiden, Mother, Crone. Past, present, future, find.

To simplify, and to keep from panicking over the macabre messenger, I decided to pick it apart line by line, starting with the angel of death.

Claudia, my best friend and a witch whose family openly practiced the dark arts, used a black mirror and human bones in her last scrying session, and her mind had been taunted with the voices of the dead. She’d also mentioned something about the angel of death.

I did not believe in coincidences.

I got up and paced around the room, struggling to recall more from Claudia’s scrying. That night was filled with terror, and the details were fuzzy. I’d found her on her knees in the courtyard outside the monastery, her nails broken to the quick, as she recited nonsensical messages from the cursed and the damned. She told me to run, but there was no way I’d leave her with the superstitious holy brotherhood. She’d said something about a cunning thief stealing the stars and drinking them dry. That he was coming and going.

That it should have been impossible…