He looked up at her. His eyes were otherworldly now, ghostly and divine in the way stars swirled in the darkness of his left eye, a contrast to the icy pale of his right. Serefin laughed wearily. “Words I never thought I would hear.”
“Where are all the Vultures?” Ostyia asked.
“Most probably fled with their king,” Serefin said.
“I guess the next question would be, where are your nobility?” Parijahan asked.
Serefin shook his head. “Waiting to see who leaves this cathedral alive, most likely. Whatever requires the least amount of dirtied hands.”
He was clutching the iron crown tight in his hands.
He doesn’t think he’s ready for this, Nadya realized. He’s scared.
It was strange to see Serefin as a boy and not as the terrifying blood mage who had been whispered about throughout the monastery where she’d grown up. The monastery he had burned to the ground.
Ostyia touched his hand. “I’ll go,” she said, voice quiet.
Serefin nodded. She slipped out of the cathedral.
Parijahan picked up the chalice lying near the king. Nadya cringed away from it when she brought it near.
“I trusted him,” Parijahan whispered, her gray eyes misty. She met Nadya’s gaze, sympathy evident.
Me too. Worse, I think I loved him.
Without thinking, Nadya’s fingers closed over the stem, taking it from her. It was made of silver and glass. There was still blood pooling at the bottom. Her fingers absently glanced across the rim.
Everything felt murky and fog-like. As if they were all waking from a dream. It was clear Serefin felt the same.
Serefin still gripped the crown in his hands, fumbling with it, face puzzled and torn. He stood and took a step toward his father’s body, a flicker of pain passing over his features. Parijahan moved to stop him, a hand on his arm.
“Let me,” she said gently.
“The ring,” he said, relief cracking his voice.
Parijahan nodded and she moved to slide a heavy signet ring off the king’s hand. She handed it to him. He thanked her quietly, the ring in one hand, the crown in the other. He hesitated before slowly sliding the ring over the littlest finger of his right hand. The crown remained clutched in his hand.
Nadya nearly tried to contact the gods again, but something held her back. She’d never been afraid of the gods before. But after nearly losing everything, and after realizing her magic was something she possessed, not a thing given or taken away at the gods’ whim, she worried they wouldn’t treat her the same. She had doubted too much, gone against their will too many times. She had loved the wrong person.
But she still believed in them; her version of gods, not Malachiasz’s, and she dearly hoped that meant something. It didn’t mean she didn’t have questions—she had a thousand—but she was willing to ask them. But … maybe not yet.
Nadya sighed heavily. Serefin glanced over at her. He lifted a hand and the moth shifted over to land on the signet ring.
A boy who is mortal and maybe a little divine, Nadya thought. He held no belief in the gods, he was still a heretic, whatever had been done to him she doubted it had changed what he believed. He was still a blood mage.
He smiled at her, though, and she wondered if maybe that was all right.
“Will this be enough?” she asked him. “To stop the war?” Malachiasz was wrong, he had to be wrong.
Serefin twitched his hand and the moth flew away. “It will.”
epilogue
THE BLACK VULTURE
He didn’t know what it wanted.
The hunger. The raw, scraping need that had hollowed him out, clawed out the core of him and left him with nothing but wanting. There was no name for it, for what the hunger wanted. For the dissonance that rattled apart and reformed and created a cacophony of words and voices and too much too loud.
He knew where to go from here. A place to hide, to recoup, to plan. Pieces to be moved and taken away and brought forth. He needed to … he needed …
(He’d never expected to make it this far.)
(He’d never expected survival.)
What he needed didn’t matter; the darkness was clawing through him. He had so little time left. More time than expected.
(Being unmade was such unpleasant business.)
A point of clarity, insistent in its rhythmic return, battered against the corners of his awareness, a single note: regret.
Regret.
Regret washed away by the intoxicating thrill of power that was greater, that was more. Swept away with the last dregs of paltry weakness that tried to force him to look back, look back.
(There was no turning back.)
It grew greater, a vastness in the switch from human, barely, to something not.
Stone doors flew open before him, leading into a darkness so complete that walking down the steps toward it would be like ceasing to exist.
(How fitting.)
Lightly he touched a symbol, roughly hewn into the stone wall, that his hands had glanced upon so many times before.
Dimly, he considered how his enemies called this place hell on earth. This place where blood flowed too freely—unwillingly given.
His hand pressed into the stone, finding it sticky with fresh blood. He hesitated; a pressing thought needled at his heart, a reminder, a mantra.
He whispered to the darkness: “My name is…” He shook his head.
It was gone.
Once there was a boy who was shattered into pieces and put back together in the shape of a monster. Once there was a boy who clutched at the remnants of what he had left as it fell through his fingers. Once there was a boy who destroyed what little there was remaining because it wasn’t enough.
The boy was gone. The monster had swallowed the heart that beat in his chest.
He let the darkness take him.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, all gratitude to my lovely agent, Thao Le, plot wizard extraordinaire. Thank you so much for seeing the spark of something good in my mess of an early manuscript, giving me a chance, and pushing me to be better. And also thanks for using Kylo Ren to get me to figure out Malachiasz. I can’t believe that worked. Here’s to working together on many more books.
To my editor, Vicki Lame, for getting this weird little book and my ridiculous Monster Children so totally and completely. And also for all the Kylo Ren gifs. There’s a bit of a theme here.
Thank you, thank you, thank you to the Wednesday Books team for welcoming my book and me with such incredible enthusiasm. To DJ, Jennie, Olga, Melanie, Anna, and Meghan.
Thanks to Rhys Davies for bringing this strange world to life.
Thank you to Mark McCoy for the most black metal illustration a book cover has ever had.
Many thanks to Allison Hammerle, who survived living with me while I was writing this book. Thanks for all the nights of talking out my plot issues and dealing with me lying on the floor and agonizing relentlessly. You’re the real MVP.
To my amazing early readers: the evil queen of consistency, Phoebe Browning (yes, there’s finally a wall around Grazyk), Basia P, Revelle G, Jennifer A, Angela H, and Vytaute M. You’re all so wonderful and I don’t know if this book would exist without your feedback and encouragement.
To my Tumblr crowd: Diana H, Hannah M, Marina L, Chelsea G, Dana C, Lane H, Jo R, Sarah M, Ashely A, and Larissa T. I can’t believe you watched me publicly draft this book. We have all been on that blue hell-site for far too long.
To the fantastic writers I’ve met along the way: Lindsay Smith, R. J. Anderson, Rosamund Hodge, Melissa Bashardoust, Alexa Donne, June Tan, Kevin van Whye, Margaret Rogerson, Rosiee Thor, Emma Theriault, Deeba Zargarpur, and Caitlin Starling.
To Leigh Bardugo, publishing coven leader and all-around wonder. Thanks for supporting an earnest young writer on Tumblr and for all the timely, sage advice. But really for being the person I can shout at about that ridiculous Dragonlance musical.
T
o Christine Lynn Herman, my witch queen, thanks for crashing my DMs and proclaiming us friends. Rory Power, I probably won’t fight you in a parking lot. And Claire Wenzel, I aspire to be half as bitingly witty as you; also, finish writing your book.
Thanks to the phenomenal artists who have already shown my book so much love: Nicole Deal, Therese A, and Jaria R, especially. To the booksellers who gave this book a chance and so many kind early words.
And, ultimately, thank you to my family for their lifelong support of my weird interests and hermit ways. Thank you for letting me be secretive about my writing until I was ready to show it to the world.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
EMILY A. DUNCAN works as a youth services librarian. She received a master’s degree in library science from Kent State University, which mostly taught her how to find obscure Slavic folklore texts through interlibrary loan systems. When not reading or writing, she enjoys playing copious amounts of video games and Dungeons & Dragons. Wicked Saints is her first book. She lives in Ohio. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Map
1. Nadezhda Lapteva
2. Nadezhda Lapteva
3. Serefin Meleski
4. Nadezhda Lapteva
5. Serefin Meleski
6. Nadezhda Lapteva
7. Serefin Meleski
8. Nadezhda Lapteva
9. Serefin Meleski
10. Nadezhda Lapteva
11. Serefin Meleski
12. Nadezhda Lapteva
13. Serefin Meleski
14. Nadezhda Lapteva
15. Serefin Meleski
16. Nadezhda Lapteva
17. Serefin Meleski
18. Nadezhda Lapteva
19. Nadezhda Lapteva
20. Nadezhda Lapteva
21. Nadezhda Lapteva
22. Serefin Meleski
23. Nadezhda Lapteva
24. Serefin Meleski
25. Nadezhda Lapteva
26. Nadezhda Lapteva
27. Serefin Meleski
28. Nadezhda Lapteva
29. Serefin Meleski
30. Nadezhda Lapteva
31. Serefin Meleski
32. Nadezhda Lapteva
33. Serefin Meleski
34. Nadezhda Lapteva
35. Nadezhda Lapteva
36. Serefin Meleski
Epilogue: The Black Vulture
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
WICKED SAINTS. Copyright © 2019 by Emily A. Duncan. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.wednesdaybooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Map by Rhys Davies
Cover design by Olga Grlic
Cover illustration by Mark McCoy
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-19566-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-19568-5 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250195685
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: April 2019
Wicked Saints Page 31
