Chapters 1-4

Of Bones and Skulls

Prologue

King Cyril Vandever III was killed in early spring, on a night when the full moon shone brazenly across the sky.

It had been an ordinary day, full of boring meetings discussing the kingdom’s economy, military, et cetera, et cetera. In the evening King Cyril dined with his wife, Queen Andrielle, and his son and daughter, the Prince and Princess of Rhodan. After dinner, the royal family played a game of cards while enjoying a vintage mead. After all, it was a time of peace, and had been for decades; there was nothing to keep them from taking their leisure.

It was nearly midnight when the king and queen retired to their bedchamber. As always, two guards flanked the doorway to their rooms, and as always, the king merrily wished them goodnight. A lady-in-waiting helped Andrielle undress and brushed her hair while King Cyril readied himself for bed. The servant blew out the candles in the room before leaving the happy couple to their slumber. She was the last person seen exiting the room.

The guards kept their watch as servants and courtiers retired for the evening, and the palace quieted. The candle wax that dripped lazily down the dwindling tapers was the only movement, silent and placid.

A sinister feeling crept through the corridor, sending shivers up the spines of both guards who stood watch outside the royal bedchamber. They met each other’s stares, eyes wide and faces pale. Slowly, one of the guards let his gaze slip to the floor. Through the dim candlelight, he could see something oozing out from under the door. A puddle of something—a dark red liquid.

The other guard noticed it too. They exchanged frantic glances before bursting into the room, their swords drawn.

Nothing but darkness and stillness greeted them.

Their footsteps splashed along the floor as they ran to the canopy bed where the king and queen lay sleeping.

“Your Highness!” they shouted. One of the men put a hand on the king to shake him awake, only to draw it back quickly. The king was soaked in the same liquid that covered the floor.

The other guard ran to the curtains and threw them open, letting the moonlight illuminate the room.

The king lay on his back, every inch of his body drenched in blood. There were no cuts, no wounds, only blood bubbling from his lips, seeping from his eyes, nose, and ears—so much blood it had flooded the bed, spilling onto the floor and spreading across the room.

“Dear gods,” the guard breathed, while the other moved to inspect the queen.

She was breathing—the calm, slow breaths that accompanied sleep. The guard tried to rouse her, shaking her violently, sending blood sloshing across the bed, but she hardly stirred, a dreamy smile tugging at her lips.

The first guard tore from the room, calling for help as he rushed down the corridor. He returned moments later with a bucket of water and a dozen more guards, all of them ashen and wide-eyed. A few of the men carried candles, and the flickering light only made the scene more horrifying. Someone vomited in the corner of the room.

“Stand back!” ordered the guard holding the bucket. He splashed the water across the queen, waking her in a dreadful panic.

She opened her mouth to curse whoever had just doused her, but the sight of so many men in her bedchamber made her pause. Yet no one, not one single guard, knew what to say to her.

“Cyril?” she whispered, her voice quivering. She reached a hand toward him—and it was then that she noticed the bedding was soaked with more than just water.

She turned to face her husband, the king, and a scream erupted from her lips.

Chapter 1 - Elyse

Elyse glared at the paunchy man who had spent the last ten minutes trying to decide if he should buy a rabbit’s foot or a crystal pendant. As she used her mortar and pestle to grind up herbs for a potion, she imagined it was the man’s head she was smashing.

He had been so rude to her from the moment he walked into her shoppe. She didn’t appreciate the judgmental way his eyes had lingered on the shelves full of potions and hex bags, nor the way they had lingered on her. Still, she’d politely asked him what he was looking for and pointed him toward a table of good luck charms. She’d held back her grimace when he asked, “Is this it?” And when he balked at her prices, she’d even refrained from telling him where he could shove his money. Instead, she reminded him that she was the only reputable vendor of magic paraphernalia in the capital city of Sevhella, but that he was more than welcome to make the twenty-mile trek to Foxboro. That was when she’d excused herself and returned to her workstation.

The stocky man finally made his way over to Elyse and held up the rabbit’s foot as evidence of his selection.

“That’ll be six and twenty gold pieces,” she told him.

“Six and twenty?” the man groused, his pock-marked face contorted into a snarl. “You said it was only two earlier.”

Elyse set the mortar and pestle aside and laid her hands flat on the haggard old worktable.

“It is,” she explained coolly. “But the vial of poison in your pocket is worth much more.”

To his credit, the man hardly blanched at her accusation. With a grumble, he reached his hand into his tattered cloak and pulled out the vial. He set it on the table and slid it toward Elyse, followed by two gold pieces.

“Thank you for your business,” she crooned. She even managed a smile.

The man rolled his eyes and waddled toward the exit. As he reached for the doorknob, Elyse gave a delicate flick of her fingers. The latch slid shut, locking the door.

The man cursed and tugged at the latch, but no matter how hard he tried, it didn’t budge. Watching him struggle gave Elyse a flutter of satisfaction. She rounded the worktable and slowly, silently on her bare feet, strolled toward the door while the man continued to yank fruitlessly at the handle. She stopped just behind him and let out a quiet, sinister laugh.

“You didn’t think you could get off that easy, did you?”

The man leapt at the sound of her voice. He spun around, and his bloodshot eyes widened, frantically taking her in.

“Let me out, you witch,” he spat, his voice trembling slightly.

“Unfortunately, I can’t let you wander off just yet. No one tries to pull a five-finger discount on me and walks away in one piece.” She crossed her arms and tilted her head, pretending to be contemplating her next move.

“It won’t happen again,” the man sputtered. His back was against the door now, and Elyse watched with delight as his throat bobbed.

“What’s a fitting punishment?” she wondered aloud, drumming her fingers along her chin. “Ah, I know. How about I take one of your fingers?”

The man whimpered.

“But not just any finger,” she taunted, savoring every word. “A thumb.”

“No, please,” he cried, spinning back and trying once again to work the latch. The clank of the metal, his blubbering, it was all so terribly pathetic.

“Enough!” Elyse demanded. “Pollexes aut remotatem.”

She knew she didn’t have to speak the spell aloud for it to work, but she enjoyed the way the words struck horror in her victims.

The man started shouting, flailing like an injured animal and crashing against a nearby shelf. The skin on his thumb swelled and puckered, like a string had been tied around it and was being pulled tighter, tighter, tighter—until the thumb was cut off completely, quick and bloodless, leaving a stump of shriveled skin.

The severed thumb fell to the wood floor with a quiet thump—though it was hardly audible over the man’s screaming.

“Don’t be so dramatic, the spell doesn’t hurt that much.” Elyse stooped and picked up the thumb. “I’m keeping this,” she added as she pocketed it.

The man was holding his wrist, staring at the hand that now only had four fingers. “You bitch! I thought the rabbit’s foot was supposed to be lucky,” he screamed at her.

Elyse couldn’t help but laugh. “It is,” she called over her shoulder as she sauntered back to her workstation. “You still have one thumb, don’t you?”

The man took a step toward her, his good hand balled into a raised fist. “You cu—”

“I suggest you think carefully about what you say, or your tongue will be next,” Elyse warned.

The man’s nostrils flared as he leveled her with his gaze, but he lowered his fist. He took several heaving breaths before he finally pivoted back to the door. Elyse opened the latch with another flick of her fingers, and the man stormed out of the shoppe, slamming the door behind him.

“What a piece of work,” she muttered to herself before returning to her work. The thick, leather-bound ledger already lay open on the table, and Elyse confirmed that the sale had been magically recorded, as all her transactions were. Then she scooped up the gold pieces and deposited them into her black velveteen coin purse, the one her mother had given her so many years ago.

As she so often did, Elyse found herself missing her mother. The Enchanted Emporium had been her pride and joy. Her mother had made it seem so easy—doting on customers, always smiling and telling people to come back and let her know how the love potion or lucky pendant worked out. No one ever haggled with her mother or complained that the spells were too complicated—a grievance Elyse had already heard twice that week. But Elyse didn’t have the patience to grovel over customers, to make them feel good about themselves as they bought another vial of tonic that kept them looking young. If they wanted to buy her wares, they’d have to do it on her terms.

Even with all the headaches of running the Emporium, she couldn’t imagine her life any other way. Selling potions and relics during the day, practicing magic in the evenings, and retiring to her bedroom above the shoppe each night—it was all she’d ever known. There was too much tying her here, too many memories and responsibilities, to ever dream of anything else.

It was another twenty minutes or so before the chime of the bell hanging over the shoppe door signaled the arrival of another customer.

“How can I help you?” Elyse asked, trying her best to sound friendly toward the man who strolled inside.

This new customer, he was too much. Too tall, too clean, too well dressed. His dark hair was curled in short ringlets with a crisp part along the side, and his face was clean-shaven, revealing smooth mahogany skin. When he smiled at her, he had a dimple on one cheek.

He looked like a do-gooder, and in her line of business, that always meant trouble.

Chapter 2 - Killian

Killian hated magic.

Of course, of all the lieutenants in the Royal Guard, he was the one assigned to investigate the mysterious assassination of King Cyril Vandever. He knew it was an honor to be chosen for such a prestigious task, and having known King Cyril well, Killian was determined to avenge his late king. Anyone deranged enough to murder such a benevolent ruler as Cyril deserved whatever punishment the courts imposed on them.

He just wished that finding the king’s murderer didn’t involve dealing with magic wielders. Although most forms of magic were legal as long as taxes were paid and regulations followed, there was still a taboo around it. Normal, everyday people didn’t usually indulge in such things as potions and spells. They left those sorts of perversions to the occultists, who preferred to conduct their business in back alleys and seedy taverns.

Of course, witches and sorcerers and the like were human beings—they were just humans who chose to dabble in unnatural pursuits. They were all wicked at their core, a lesson Killian had learned early in life and was only reiterated by King Cyril’s murder.

Over the past two days he’d interviewed four warlocks, two fortune tellers, and one medium. They had all told him that if he wanted to know about the ins and outs of spell work, he needed to travel an hour’s ride north of the capital to a little shoppe that sold every magical item imaginable. Apparently the shoppe’s owner was a very powerful and resourceful witch—the last sort of person Killian ever wanted to meet.

So, there he was in the middle of the forest, hoping to get answers so that he could avenge his beloved king.

The shoppe wasn’t as desolate as he’d expected. Flowers lined the stone walkway leading to the entrance, and a wooden sign declared “The Enchanted Emporium” in a quaint scrawl. Still, Killian shuddered at the eerie feeling that seemed to emanate from the property.

He glanced over his shoulder and drew comfort from what he saw: a dozen soldiers on horses were gathered fifty yards off, partially hidden by foliage, ready to spring to action if he didn’t come out of the shoppe. This witch he was about to meet was not a suspect—at least, not yet—but one could never be too careful around occultists. He had ordered his men to raid the shoppe if he didn’t come out unharmed within twenty minutes, though he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Killian closed his eyes and let out a long, slow exhale before turning the knob and opening the wooden door.

The inside of the Emporium was a myriad of mismatched tables and shelves, every inch of which was covered in elixirs, jars of teeth and hair, worn leather books, and antique jewelry, among countless other items. The odor of burning incense assaulted him, and he heard the crackling of a fire. He looked to the hearth at the back of the room and found a cauldron that boiled with some sort of putrid green liquid.

It was all so much worse than he’d thought it would be.

He just needed information. Five minutes, maybe ten at the most, and then he could be back outside riding far, far away from this place.

“How can I help you?” called a woman’s voice.

Killian turned his gaze to the corner and saw the shopkeeper for the first time. No wonder he hadn’t noticed her. She was a petite woman, and her oversized jacquard tunic practically blended in with the disarray of the whole place.

“Just browsing,” he said. He pretended to be inspecting whatever was on the table before him—an assortment of jars holding bones of various sizes and shapes—but he continued to watch her from the corner of his eye.

She didn’t look like a witch, or at least not like what he’d imagined she’d look like. Her hair was silky and silvery blonde, not coarse and black like he’d expected. She had no warts, no cleft chin, no wayward eye that followed him around the room.

“Nobody travels all the way out here to browse,” the shopkeeper said. Though she was a good foot shorter than him, she carried herself in such a way that made her seem much taller. She wore an arrogant smile as she asked, “What is it? Wife caught you cheating again? Need a memory charm to make her forget?”

“No,” Killian replied sternly. “I need some information on a spell.”

“Ah,” the shopkeeper answered as she crossed her arms and leaned against the wall beside her. “Let me guess. You need something to protect your stash of gold. No—” she said with a glance toward his trousers, “something to help below the belt.”

So that was how this was going to play out.

The witch’s near-black irises glimmered with amusement, and Killian felt the heat of anger burning in his chest. He glared at her, but that only seemed to enthrall her more. Fucking witches.

“Are you always this impudent?” he snapped.

“Are you always this prudish?” she snapped right back.

He steeled his expression into an apathetic facade. Don’t let her get a rise out of you, he scolded himself. Just get the information you need and go.

That was easier said than done, though. Just being in this shoppe had him on edge.

The shopkeeper hadn’t moved from where she leaned against the wall, her gaze still sizing him up, still calculating just how far she could push him.

Finally, he raised his chin and said, “I’m looking for information on a particular spell. One that causes a very nasty, agonizing death.”

The shopkeeper raised one eyebrow. “I’m sorry I ever doubted your manhood.”

Killian sighed, already tired of her games. “I’m not looking to use it,” he explained. “I’m looking for information about how it’s conducted, maybe the ingredients used or a list of individuals capable of such magic.”

The shopkeeper seemed to consider this request, then asked, “Who was murdered?”

Gods above, he was never going to get his answers.

“That’s confidential,” he said flatly.

The woman stood straight and sauntered through the shop, wending her way past a tattered armchair and a bookcase that held various household items along with a sign that read “CURSED OBJECTS—BUYER BEWARE.” She stopped when she reached the hearth and stirred the simmering liquid, which was now a deep shade of purple.

“Word travels, even all the way out here,” she said, condescension coating her tone. “Would this have anything to do with King Cyril’s death?”

It was an effort not to flinch at her words. Killian wanted to tell her that confidential meant none of her damn business. He wanted to tell her to keep that man’s name out of her wicked mouth. But he needed her to cooperate, so he ceded a single, cool nod.

“I should’ve known you were in the Guard,” she said as she tapped the spoon on the side of the cauldron then set it atop the mantle. She returned to her slackened posture, crossing her arms across her breasts in what appeared to be her usual stance. “Sergeant?”

“Lieutenant,” Killian corrected.

The shopkeeper looked him up and down again, no doubt trying to discern his age and how a man so young had risen to the rank of lieutenant.

“How’d the king die?” she asked casually.

“Suffocated by his own blood.”

The witch cocked her head to the side. “Like a slit throat? That doesn’t exactly sound supernatural.”

“No.” Killian cleared his throat. “The amount of blood in his body multiplied until it filled every organ and he drowned, all while his wife slept peacefully next to him. There was no one in or out of the room, no sounds, nothing unusual at all until the guards standing watch in the corridor noticed the blood spilling out from under the door.”

The shopkeeper shuddered—actually shuddered. Killian couldn’t help but furrow his brows. Who was this witch who paled at the mention of blood?

“I know of a spell like that,” she said, strolling to a nearby bookshelf. Her fingers traced the spines down a row of books until she found the one she was looking for and plucked it from its place on the shelf. She thumbed through the pages as she walked back to her workstation, then grabbed a piece of blank parchment, scrawled four lines on the paper, and handed it to him. “It doesn’t take many ingredients, but they’re incredibly rare. And you have to be in close proximity to conduct the spell. So the killer would have been in the room.”

“Thanks,” Killian said, a bit shocked that he was actually getting some answers. He took the parchment from her and looked it over, reading the ingredients aloud.

Blood of an ogre

Fae dust

Molten rock

Bones of a virgin

“And not just any bones,” the shopkeeper clarified. “Her ring finger bones.”

Killian held back a sigh. “Do you sell these things?”

“Of course,” she scoffed.

“Have you sold any… fae dust lately?” Gods, this whole thing was ridiculous.

The shopkeeper bit her lip as she thought. “I haven’t sold any of those things lately.” She tapped her fingers on a book that lay open on her worktable. The book was enormous, nearly as big as her. “I could check my ledger, though. It goes back six months.”

“Actually, Miss…”

“Elyse,” she said curtly. “I don’t have a family name.”

“Okay, Elyse,” Killian said, curbing his annoyance. She was being helpful, he reminded himself. “I’ll be needing to take that ledger into evidence.”

She laughed, a cocky sort of chuckle, and slid the book across the worn table toward him. “You’re more than welcome to, but it’s all written in code. Witch’s tradition.”

Killian peered down at the massive book. Sure enough, the letters were scrambled, making it completely indecipherable.

This time, he did sigh. “Well, I’m going to have to insist that you review the transactions and let me know of any individuals who have purchased any of those items.”

“Do I have a choice?” Elyse asked coolly.

“No,” he said with a smile. He relished telling her no.

She folded her arms again, but her face conveyed resignation. “Is that all?”

“Have you heard anything suspicious lately?”

She scoffed and shook her head indignantly. “My whole business is suspicious. But no, nothing treasonous.”

“What about two nights ago? Did you see or hear anything treasonous?”

“No, nothing at all.”

He could tell by the acid in her tone that she was growing tired of his company. He didn’t care.

“And where were you two nights ago?” he asked, his eyes pinning her down.

She was an obvious suspect. She certainly had the means to commit the murder. For a moment he let himself fantasize about arresting her, and wiping that damn smirk off her lips. But truly, he could think of no motive she would have for killing the king. And the way she had shuddered at the details of his death…

“Why don’t you just come out and ask me if I did it?” Elyse spat. “I was at the same place I go every full moon, in the woods outside the city with my friend, Madam Sera.”

“Doing what?” Killian pressed without missing a beat.

“A ritual if you must know.” Her dark eyes never left his as she spoke.

“Very well,” he said. “Write down her address and I’ll verify your alibi.”

Elyse obliged, though she huffed as she scribbled down the address on a piece of parchment.

“Anything else?” she asked in a fake simper.

He hated what he was about to ask, hated that he would have to crawl further into this grimy world of magic wielders.

“Yes, actually. If you were investigating a supernatural murder, where would you go to learn more information? Perhaps a pub, or a meeting?”

Elyse rolled her eyes, then gave him a look as if to say he couldn’t be serious. When Killian didn’t change his expression, she said, “Black Cat Tavern. All the loose-lipped scumbags go there.”

Killian was about to say thank you when she added, “But they’d never let you in.”

Her gaze told him that he irritated her just as much as she irritated him—which was very, very much. If he was going to have to suffer, then maybe he could at least find joy in her suffering. Misery does love company.

“What if I was escorted there by an esteemed member of the occultist community?” he asked.

“No” was her immediate response.

Killian took a step toward her and stood tall, letting himself tower over her. His fingers grazed the pages of her ledger.

“This is quite thorough record keeping,” he drawled. “And it looks like business has been good.”

“What’s your point?” she grumbled back.

“Well, Ms. Elyse Crenshaw.” She shivered at the mention of her surname, and Killian let a smile grace his lips. “Before I came here, I checked the auditor’s records. It appears you’ve paid a mere forty gold pieces in taxes over the last five years.”

“Ten percent, just like everyone else,” she said calmly, though her eyes drifted toward the ledger.

“I’m sure,” he purred. “Let’s say you accompany me to the tavern tomorrow, and I won’t drag you and this monster of a book down to the dungeons for tax evasion and let you suffer in a cell until the auditor is able to decipher this code of yours and confirm what you say is true.”

A long, tense silence passed. Elyse’s nose wrinkled as she glowered at him, and Killian swore he could hear her teeth grinding. He was certain she was imagining ways to torment him, trying to decide which of the hundreds of potions and cursed objects she owned would cause him the most anguish. He couldn’t help but delight in her blatant frustration.

“Fine,” she eventually growled. “Now buy something and get out.”

He had won their little pissing match, and she knew it. Her insistence that he buy something, that he compensate her for her time, was a petty demand. But he had won, so he didn’t mind indulging.

He picked up the nearest bottle—a vial of black liquid labeled “ANTI-HEX POTION.” As much as he loathed the idea, the potion might actually come in handy someday. Maybe even someday soon.

“How much?” he asked, holding the bottle for her to see.

“Four silvers.”

Killian let out a low whistle as he fished a gold piece out of his pocket. He tossed it to her, and she caught it, then quickly set it on the worktable as if it carried a disease.

“Keep the change,” he mumbled over his shoulder. He was almost at the door when Elyse called out.

“Lieutenant?”

He stopped, taking his time as he turned back to face her.

She looked every bit like the witch she was as she shot him a cunning glare. “Next time, leave the cavalry at home.” Her voice was gruff, her annoyance visceral.

How had she known? He did indeed have a small cavalry of soldiers waiting outside, but they were far off, scattered behind trees and brush.

He realized the futility of his wonder. Of course she would know. She had probably known who he was the entire time but played along, letting him think he had the upper hand.

“I’ll meet you tomorrow outside the tavern at sundown,” he said, no longer bothering to mask his disgust.

Then he strode to the door and flung it open, all too eager to leave.

Chapter 3 - Elyse

The door slammed shut behind the lieutenant.

“Bat-brained twat,” Elyse muttered under her breath.

She flipped through the pages of the ledger. It would take hours to go through it all, and she was almost positive no one had bought any of the ingredients needed for the spell in the last six months. No, she certainly would have remembered that.

She scratched absentmindedly at her forearm, and when the itch didn’t subside, she stomped across the shoppe to the door at the back that concealed a staircase. Up the wooden stairs she went, grumbling and scratching until she reached her small bedroom. She trudged to the bedside table where she kept a jar of ointment, and rolled up her sleeve, revealing an angry patch of red, festering skin. The ointment soothed and cooled the nasty papules, but she knew it was only a temporary relief. The itch would return, a constant reminder of her disease.

It was spreading more and more quickly. A few months ago, the rash was nothing but a spot of dry skin. She hadn’t given it much thought until her skin had begun to swell and discolor, and she realized the gravity of the situation. Every day she checked her forearm, studying it to see if the disease had spread overnight. And every few days, she was disheartened to find that it had.

She knew how it would progress. Eventually the disease, known as widow’s decay, would make its way to her internal organs, eating away at them, until she would die, just as her mother had several years ago.

Her mother had given her everything–life, companionship, the shoppe. It was only fitting that she passed along her cause of death as well.

When her mother had first noticed the rash, she and Elyse sought out every healer in the Sevhella. They’d all said the same thing, that there was no cure for widow’s decay. Even her mother’s vast collection of spell books couldn’t offer any help, and eventually she succumbed to the disease, leaving Elyse alone.

And now, it seemed Elyse would suffer the same fate. The fear of the unknown hung over her every day, as much as she wanted to ignore it. She tried to take comfort in the fact that her troubled soul might finally be at peace, or that she might be reunited with her mother. But most of the time she was in denial, rejecting the notion that her life would soon end.

When the ointment was completely absorbed into her skin, she put the lid back on the jar and walked to the window. Pushing back the mossy green curtains, she peered outside to the surrounding forest. There was a whole world out there, and she had experienced only a tiny part of it. Yet if the customers that tramped into her store day in and day out were any indication of how the rest of the population carried themselves, she wanted nothing to do with it. If people had half the arrogance of that lieutenant, barging in with his accusations, she would stay right there in her cozy cottage.

Her mind wandered back to the conversation with the lieutenant, replaying every quip and jab. How dare that man bring a dozen soldiers onto her property. And when he’d blackmailed her for tax evasion, she’d had to stop herself from throwing every hex in the book at him. But she knew it would only cause more trouble. Those soldiers outside would have retaliated, and though she probably could have taken them easily enough, she would have had to flee, to leave her shoppe behind… It was easier just to spend one evening with him at the tavern. One wretched evening.

Besides, the look on his face when she’d revealed she knew about the soldiers, that she’d known who he was all along, was worth more than the most expensive spell book in the whole shoppe.

Chapter 4 - Killian

Killian checked the address of the building in front of him against the address Elyse had written down. They were the same.

Calling it a “building” was generous. The exterior wood was rotting away, and the entire two-story structure had a lean to it. None of the other housing complexes on the shabby dirt road were any better, and there was not a soul to be found. Just a gentle stirring of wind that fluttered the laundry that lay drying in the windows.

“Freaky,” said the man standing next to Killian. Manny was Killian’s second in command. They both wore the uniform of the Royal Guard—black boots, black trousers, black jerkin—but otherwise they looked nothing alike. Where Killian was tall and lean, Manny was several inches shorter, and his muscles were more pronounced. His blond hair was pulled into a hastily tied bun while Killian’s dark curls were parted and neatly combed. Manny’s green eyes held a sense of whimsy, whereas Killian’s held nothing but disdain.

“Let’s get this over with,” Killian growled as he marched toward the entrance. His meeting with the witch had left him in a bitter mood, and if the building’s tattered appearance was any indication, this next meeting wouldn’t likely be much better.

Inside, the building was at least somewhat nicer. Sconces lit the walls, casting flickering shadows in every direction, and an oversized damask rug welcomed their footsteps. Directly across from the entrance was an oak door with a metal number “1” affixed to its front.

“We need apartment thirteen,” Killian groaned, glancing at the rickety staircase to the left.

“There are thirteen apartments in this place?” Manny asked. He sounded more intrigued than skeptical.

They made their way up the wooden stairs, each step creaking louder than the last. When they reached the second floor, the landing held another damask rug and a single door labeled “2”. Across the landing was another wooden staircase ascending to another floor.

The men exchanged a look.

“Didn’t this place look like it only had two stories from the outside?” Manny wondered aloud.

Killian didn’t bother responding as he trudged across the landing and up the stairs.

Eleven stories later, the men arrived at the top floor. They breathed heavily, resting their palms on their thighs as they took in the landing.

There was no number labeling the apartment. There wasn’t even a door. Instead, iridescent beads dangled across the threshold. Killian could smell incense wafting into the hallway.

Great.

He knocked awkwardly on the door frame, unsure what the protocol was. “Madam Sera?” he called. When no reply came, he passed through the jangling beads and into the apartment.

The room was… spacious. And bright. The walls were intact, every surface immaculate and delicately decorated with stylish trinkets. Rich cerulean curtains framed a window on the far wall, where colorful potted flowers stretched toward the sunlight.

A woman emerged from a door on the right—or rather, from a threshold decorated with more beads. She was slender and tall, with silky, straight black hair that hung to her waist. Her features were soft and kind, and so different from the shrewd witch he’d just endured. If Killian had to guess, her family hailed from Otsuk, a lesser kingdom known for its beautiful women with dark hair and hooded eyes.

“Hello, gentlemen,” she called almost dreamily.

“Madam Sera?” Killian asked.

She smiled, and he interpreted it as affirmation.

“I’m Lieutenant Southwick and this is my second in command. We’d like to ask you a few questions about the other night.”

Madam Sera padded to the round table that served as the centerpiece to the room, her long pink dress trailing behind her. She seated herself in a velvet tufted chair with tasseled trim, all the while gazing at Killian through her black lashes. Every movement she made had a sense of both drama and leisure.

“Please, be seated,” she offered with a wave of her alabaster hand.

Killian turned to Manny with a look of irritation at the woman’s flamboyance, but Manny was already pushing past him to sit at the table. Killian sank into the chair across from Madam Sera, and begrudgingly admitted to himself that the upholstered cushion was actually quite comfortable.

“Madam Sera, where were you—” he began, but she interjected.

“I will tell you everything you wish to know,” she said, “after your reading.”

She produced a deck of tarot cards from somewhere within the many layers of fabric that enveloped her frail figure.

She can’t be serious, Killian thought. What was it with these people? First the witch had made him buy something, and now the clairvoyant was making him sit through… whatever this was.

“Let me guess,” he said with a sigh. “This reading isn’t free.”

She tilted her head to the side and looked at him the way an adult might look at a child when they’ve said something ridiculous yet endearing.

“Why would I give such valuable information away for free? It will be three silver pieces,” she told them. “Each.”

Every person in this gods-damned city was going to drive him mad. But he needed her cooperation, and his encounter with Elyse had drained him of any fight. At least Madam Sera was pleasant. She hadn’t challenged his manhood.

“I’ve got this one, boss,” Manny said as he pulled a handful of silver coins from his purse. He slid them across the smooth table to Madam Sera, who winked at him in return.

She spread the cards across the table, her fingers lovingly caressing each one. The cards were a gradient of lavender and baby blue, and though they were worn, they radiated with the same beauty as the rest of the apartment. Manny lifted his hand to select a card, but Madam Sera tsked at him.

“The lieutenant first,” she demanded, giving no further explanation.

Killian rolled his eyes and selected the card directly in front of him. He flipped it over and tossed it across the table where it slid, bumping into its siblings. Depicted on its face was a man clad in leggings and a puffy jerkin, his leg kicked back and arms spread wide, like he was dancing. Beneath the illustration, “The Fool” was scrawled in swirling letters.

Manny snorted a laugh.

“Oooh, the Fool!” Madam Sera cried, sounding all too delighted.

Killian frowned. There was nothing foolish about him. He had been top of his recruitment class when he joined the Royal Guard, though that didn’t say much considering the brawny buffoons that usually joined the Guard. Still, he was a lieutenant, a capable man, a man who saved his money and handled his ale and occasionally even read books.

“Wait ’til I tell the guys about this,” Manny laughed.

“The Fool is nothing to joke about,” Madam Sera urged him. “It signifies the start of a journey, the naïveté of what is ahead. We are all Fools many times in our lives.”

Killian was grateful he didn’t believe in such things. The only “journey” he wanted to take was a promotion to Captain, but that wouldn’t come for another few years at least.

“My turn,” Manny said. His hand hovered above the cards, his fingers dancing with anticipation. He slid his hand to the left, to the right, back to the left—

“Just pick one,” Killian barked.

Manny closed his eyes and blindly felt the cards until he selected the perfect one. Slowly, he turned it over.

“The Queen of Swords,” he announced.

Killian looked at the picture. A beautiful and dignified-looking woman sat on a throne, a crown atop her head and a long sword across her lap.

“And a very pretty queen you are,” Killian said with a smile.

“Thank you, Fool,” Manny replied in a sophisticated lilt.

“This speaks volumes about your maturity,” Madam Sera explained.

Killian started to laugh but stifled it with a cough. He didn’t think anyone had ever applauded Manny’s maturity before. Having grown up on the streets of Sevhella, Manny had been forced at a young age to steal for survival, conning anyone who would listen to him. He was only caught stealing once, when he was eighteen. Killian’s own father, a captain in the Royal Guard at the time, told Manny he could either go to prison, or put his wits and covert skills to use by joining the Guard.

Manny had happily joined. He’d said he’d always loved conning the wicked, tricking them and taking that which they didn’t deserve. He’d told Captain Southwick that being in the Guard would be the same, just with a sword and a uniform. And while he was damn good at his job, he’d never conducted himself with any sort of dignity. Killian often told him he’d missed his calling as a court jester.

Sera ignored Killian’s snide laughter and continued explaining with enthusiasm. “The Queen of Swords signifies someone who acts rationally while acknowledging the desires of their heart. Someone who has severed ties with things that bring them pain. Someone or one who is progressing forward.”

“Well,” Manny said. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, a smug grin meeting his lips. “I can’t argue with that.”

Killian shook his head at his friend, then turned his focus on Sera. “Will you answer our questions now?” he asked.

Madam Sera gathered the cards and shuffled them idly in her hands.

“You wish to know about my evening two nights ago? On the full moon?”

Was she merely putting the pieces together? After all, two members of the Royal Guard had shown up at her apartment two days after the death of the king. Or was this a display of her talents?

“Yes,” Killian answered. “How did you know?”

Sera continued shuffling the cards. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Everyone knows the king was murdered that night. Anyway, I was doing the same thing I do every full moon—performing a ritual with my blessed sister, the one you called on earlier today.”

Blessed sister? There was nothing blessed about Elyse. And Killian certainly didn’t like the way she spoke knowingly of his own whereabouts.

“What is this ritual?” Manny chimed in.

Madam Sera smiled from one side of her mouth. “It is a beautiful ceremony. A ritual of gratitude to the divine mother, the one who grants us our powers. We cover ourselves in lamb’s blood and dance naked.”

Manny’s mouth hung slack while Killian rolled his eyes. He knew his friend was calculating the number of days until the next full moon.

“So, Elyse was with you for the whole night?” Killian asked.

“Of course,” Madam Sera replied. “The ritual lasts from dusk until dawn.”

Killian kept his face neutral as he contemplated her words. There was, of course, the possibility the fortune teller was lying, that she was covering for her friend, but Killian doubted it. For all his worth, he couldn’t think of any way these two women would benefit from the death of the king.

Manny leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Have you heard anything unusual lately? Anything that might be related to the king’s death?”

“I hear things of an unusual nature nearly every hour of the day,” Madam Sera said. Her eyes glazed over, as if she was visualizing the strange encounters. “I hear souls calling to their loved ones. I see futures segmenting into infinite possibilities. But I do not see anything that will assist you.”

What a load of shit.

“I think we’re done here,” Killian said, standing from his chair.

Manny cleared his throat and stood as well. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Madam,” he said with a bow.

“Don’t be strangers, boys,” Madam Sera called as they led themselves back through the curtain of beads and into the rundown hallway.

Killian gave Manny a look that told him not to say a word until they were outside the building, so down, down, down the twelve flights of stairs they went.

“You don’t think it was that witch—Elyse—do you?” Manny asked once they were back on the street. It was still as empty as before, but now thunder rumbled overhead.

“No, I don’t.” Killian answered as he flipped up the collar of his jerkin and headed down the street. “She has no reason to kill the king. That alibi was enough to confirm her innocence in my mind.”

Manny didn’t say anything. The two men rounded a street corner and found themselves back among decent society, with children running through the dirt road and mothers bustling after them.

“Is she blonde?” Manny asked, skepticism in his voice.

Killian leveled his gaze on his friend. “Who?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Elyse,” Manny obliged him. “Is she blonde?”

Elyse’s silvery-blonde hair and the way it framed her haughty face flashed in Killian’s mind. “What are you getting at, brother?”

Their eyes met but Manny quickly looked away. Killian didn’t appreciate the insinuation. Her hair color meant nothing. Yes, he may have a soft spot for blondes, a soft spot that Manny had picked up on after many nights spent at the tavern together chasing maidens. But he hadn’t made it to lieutenant by letting pretty girls—no matter their hair color—distract him from his job. And never, ever a witch.

“Nothing,” Manny said, staring straight ahead. “Nothing at all.”