They stood in a clearing, thankfully, where Mal had made his entrance. He stepped out of the crater, his eyes widening as he looked around to find dozens of other similar dents in the ground. ‘You’re standing in the Entrance,’ the Queen explained with a little exasperation, as if it should be obvious.
Malachai nodded. ‘Yes, My Queen. I am honoured to be here.’
‘There’s nothing honourable about it,’ she snapped. ‘You were beaten in battle. Here, you will train harder, and next time you will win your fights, warrior.’
He had not been reprimanded like a child in hundreds of years. ‘Yes, My Queen.’ He tried to bow, but his chest and back were in agony.
‘Yes, you still feel the pain of your death,’ the queen said, noticing his grimace. ‘And you will, until you train. Come, angel. We have work to do, but first you will meet the king. Odin will want to assign you to your quarters himself. Malachai, the great warrior.’ He could hear the smirk in her voice. ‘Fallen so far.’
With a twist in his chest, Malachai followed his queen through the dense forest, trailing after her as quickly as he could. The queen began to chuckle to herself as she led the way through the forest thick with trees unlike any upon Earth. ‘Oh, little angel. Welcome to Valhalla. There’s much work to be done. You have failed in your mission. This time, you will get it right.’
Epilogue, Part Three
Hella
Hella lay on the couch in the remains of the Witches’ Wares bookstore, her legs crossed to give the sleeping warlock at her feet more room. Tommy snored lightly. Hella sighed heavily. The main room was entirely destroyed; the ceiling caved in, bricks, mortar and dust covered everything. Hella suspected almost all of Remy’s stock had been broken or ruined. Remy herself had been sent to be cremated, as Hunter had informed her was the custom.
Hella smiled as Tommy snored, deeply asleep. At least he can sleep, she thought, unable to think of closing her eyes. It had been the longest two days of her life. She felt weak and tired. Even her magic dwindled inside of her, recharging. But even now that the battle was won, nothing was over yet. Azazel’s bold attack on her and Nerretti, in broad daylight in the street had made that clear—Hella surmised that demons had no weakness to sunlight.
The demons were feeling brave now, and the former-angel tried not to show his concern but, being newly human, wasn’t very good at hiding his emotions yet. Hella had gone home and freshened up, checking in with her mother and brother, but decided to return to the store to rest. She didn’t want to feel alone.
She watched Tommy sleep peacefully, naturally in his warlock form, all shining green in the firelight, his hair ablaze. Hella wanted to lie down and sleep endlessly, but too many things were plaguing her mind. The angels were gone now, and a relief that was, certainly. But no one had foreseen the ambitious plans of the demons. Azazel made it very clear that she, her friends, and in fact all of the humans on the planet, were in danger.
She looked up to Harrow who dozed in the armchair closest to the fire, his tail swishing in his sleep. She had brought him back from the dead and, as Remy’s book warned and Net had interpreted, all magic comes with a cost—this spell more so than most. This time, it would cost a soul. But whose? Her own?
Or Harrow’s?
Hella crept silently off the couch and settled herself down in front of the fire. Tommy didn’t even stir. Hella crossed her legs. Would she know if her soul had been taken? Would she feel different? Hella looked inside herself, beyond the layers of stress, exhaustion and anxiety. She reached for her powers—would she still have them without a soul? Instead, she reached her hand into the open orange flame inside the hearth, crackling and feasting on the kindling and thick logs of wood.
Something inside her glazed over as she reached out her hand, into the warm embrace of the fire. She felt the fire begin to sear her skin; unlike her own magical flames, she was not immune to this heat. Then she heard something shift behind her and pulled her hand back. She was startled to see Harrow standing over her, still in his warlock form.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked measuredly, his face a blank canvas.
Hella shook her head, blinking in confusion. ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I guess I’m just tired.’ She rubbed at her sore eyes.
Harrow frowned, only slightly. ‘No, I don’t think so. You wanted to see if you’d feel it, right?’
Only Hella and Nerretti knew the price the spell would demand. They had kept it a secret. Hella frowned up at him. ‘What are you talking about?’
Harrow gestured down at himself. ‘I was dead, Hella. And you brought me back. But something is wrong. I can feel it.’
Hella got tiredly to her feet. ‘What do you mean?’
He swept her up and pressed her against the wall beside the fireplace, his grip a vice around her throat. ‘I mean,’ he whispered, ‘that you changed me when you brought me back. This is how I felt when I was younger and more dangerous.’ She froze. ‘Look at me,’ he said, his voice a dangerous whisper. She looked into his eyes and choked a scream. Where they used to look like human eyes, or slit vertically, now they were entirely blue, with no white or discernible iris or pupil.
‘You broke me, little witch,’ he hissed down at her. ‘I fought so hard against my demon-nature, and you’ve brought it right back. You shouldn’t have brought me back.’ His grip tightened on her throat and she gasped out, but could not scream.
I was trying to help you, she thought desperately, as the edges of her vision began to darken. I felt so horrible. You died for me. I was trying to do the right thing. Feebly, she tried to pry his fingers away, but could not budge them. She even reached out to swipe at his face, but could not reach.
He ignored her attempts. As if reading the thoughts on her face, his own changed to an expression darker than she had ever seen. ‘You did it for you, Hella. Not me. You felt bad, and you wanted to make yourself feel better.’
This isn’t you, Harrow, she wanted to scream. It’s my fault, you’ve lost your soul, you’re not thinking right. Don’t do this. Hella’s head ached as blood rushed through her body and oxygen was cut away from her organs. Then her vision went black and her hands fell by her sides. Her head lolled and thud against the wall.
‘I know what you’ve done, Hella. I know what the price was,’ Harrow snarled into her ear. ‘But it’s you who should have paid it, not me. I only loved you. And now you’ll love no other. You can’t love if you’re dead.’
She felt him kiss her cheek softly. ‘Goodbye, little witch.’
The End of Book One
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The second book in The Promised Witch Series is out now!
Hella battles the consequences of her spell: one soul lost, another broken, as the demons rise to claim the earth as their new hunting ground. No witches, Cambions, or humans are safe.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dionnara Dawson knew she wanted to be a writer at fourteen years old. She spent most of her formative years with her nose in a book (and getting in trouble for it!), and even walked around school while reading. As she grew, Dionnara read as much as possible, and took delight in studying English more than her college recommended (four units of English is perfectly normal, right?).
At twenty-one, she enrolled in a Bachelor of Writing and a Bachelor of Journalism at university—while working as a bartender—and met her affable boyfriend in one of her classes, who she now lives with in Australia.
Dionnara writes in local cafés, at her desk, and in her wingback armchair.
ils & Broomsticks
Feathers, Tails & Broomsticks Page 34
