Kingdom of the Cursed (Kingdom of the Wicked, #2) (28)

I shook my head. My first day in House Wrath had been a disaster. Arriving with hypothermia, an enchanted skull, arguments with the prince, secrets my family might be keeping about my magic, a maimed member of Wrath’s army, and the new threat of the Feast of the Wolf looming above it all.

The last thing in the world I wanted was to offer up my worst fear to a realm that would torture me with it. But perhaps if I learned how to harness my power, I could solve Vittoria’s murder and be back home in the mortal world well before that happened.

I collected the grimoire, pushed myself up, and retreated back to my rooms, needing to prepare for tomorrow. Given the information regarding the felled mountain, I had little doubt dinner would be its own sort of wicked battle. One I’d be lucky to escape from unscathed.





I didn’t end up back in the Crystal Wing. Curiosity got the better of me and I decided to investigate Wrath’s version of Hell. Know thy enemy… and his reading habits.

I found a circular staircase near the back of the rainbow library and carefully descended into the darkness yawning below. My initial guess of ebony, gold, and leather wasn’t that far off from the reality of his personal library. Dark, butter-soft worn leather chairs were placed before a fireplace that took up a wall made of stacked stone. I could easily stand upright in the opening and stretch my arms above my head and still not reach the top of it. Several rugs in various shades of charcoal and black with gold thread details were tastefully laid around the room.

Here, the shelves were obsidian gemstone, the books all bound with dark shades of leather. A circular chandelier with thin iron arms hung from exposed beams and cast an enticing glow over the room. It was the perfect place to curl up and read in front of a crackling fire. There was even a plush throw blanket tossed casually across the back of a reading chair.

In an alcove off the main reading space a set of manacled chains hung from the wall. Wrath hadn’t been teasing. My mouth went dry and I quickly averted my gaze.

Torture wasn’t the first thing that had sprung to mind. And I did not want this realm working its devious magic on any more fleeting emotions. I moved through the rest of the space, devouring as much as I could.

Books and journals on war strategy, history—both demon and human—witch rituals, grimoires, and even a few handwritten notes were placed in neat stacks on a large, imposing desk. Latin and a language I couldn’t read. Nothing incriminating or useful. Nothing of goddesses or their magic, or demon fables about the Maiden, Mother, or Crone. No spells on reanimating skulls or other bones.

Just pens and pots of ink. A rough stone I imagined was used to sharpen a blade.

On a shelf behind the desk were seven volumes of journals dedicated to each demon House. Eight journals, actually, if the pattern in the dust was any indication. Perhaps one House was so prolific it had taken more than one book to get all the information down. Whatever the case, the text was missing now.

Apparently, the titles were the only things written in Latin. I thumbed through a few but couldn’t read the language within. Frustration built behind my breastbone as I shoved the journals back in place. Nothing was ever easy.

A decanter partially filled with lavender liquid and a matching crystal glass caught my attention. Curious about what Wrath indulged in, I splashed some liquor into the glass and sniffed. Notes of citrus and botanicals blended together. I took a careful sip and hissed through my teeth at the burn. It was strong. Almost like human brandy but with a sweeter, vanilla undertone. If I smoothed it out with some cream and ice it would be divine.

And might help get me through tomorrow evening. I’d send for a glass before the meal.

I set the liquor aside and sat at the desk, rattling the drawers. Locked, naturally. Tucked below a copper serpent sculpture I assumed was used as a paperweight, was an envelope with elegant script. Not feeling guilty at all, I read the message.


Brother,

They have been found.

VIII

G





I read it over again, not that it helped decipher the single line. I imagined the G stood for Greed. But it could also be Gluttony. They have been found. VIII. Envy and Greed had both been after the Horn of Hades, but Wrath never showed much interest in the amulets. Not to mention, he was now in possession of them until Pride allowed us into his territory.

“So what, then, were you searching for, dearest, secretive, Wrath?”

I picked up the serpent paperweight and rolled it between my palms. “Ouch.”

I turned it over; little sharp ridges in a geometric design poked out from the bottom. It was a wax seal, not a paperweight. Or maybe it was both. I set it aside and scanned the note again. Something stood out this time. It didn’t address anyone by name. Which meant there was no way to know if Wrath was the intended recipient, or if he’d intercepted it.

Maybe this message was meant for the devil—to let him know his horns had been recovered. Maybe the G symbolized Wrath’s true name and he was the one sending out the correspondence. Or maybe there wasn’t anything important about this at all and I was so desperate to find clues, I was inventing them.

It was also missing a date, so there was no way to know if this was recent news or ancient history. Unless that was what the VIII portion meant. I had no idea how the demons tabulated time. It was the late nineteenth century on earth, but it could be eight eons here. Or maybe it was indicating the missing eighth journal. I could spend eternity guessing.