Fairydale: A Dark Gothic Fantasy Romance
Fairydale: Part 2 – Chapter 13

‘She hasn’t been herself in months, My Lady. You have to do something about it.’

I vaguely hear Mary’s voice outside my bedroom door.

‘She’ll get over it, just as she’ll get over that…thing,’ my mother spits the words, once more making her stance regarding Amon clear.

‘But she won’t! It’s been months, My Lady, and all she does is sit in her room and stare out the window. She doesn’t eat, unless we force it down her throat. She doesn’t do anything but wither away one day at a time,’ Mary adds, exasperated.

I feel bad for her. It’s not her fault. But even the affection I hold her won’t be able to move me.

‘It’s just puppy love. She’ll get over it soon. We’re leaving for London at the end of the month, whether she likes it or not,’  my mother declares before her steps become a thudding noise on the floor, slowly fading away.

A knock at my door and Mary slips inside, slowly coming towards me.

‘My Lady,’ she says tentatively as she reaches my side. ‘You need to pull yourself together. Please,’ her voice breaks, and a flicker of emotion takes shape in my chest.

But I don’t answer.

It’s been exactly three months since I last spoke. Three months of the same recurring nightmare—of waking up and seeing the blood on my hands.

Three months of living while being dead on the inside.

At first, I’d been so inconsolable my mother had forced me into a laudanum induced slumber that had lasted almost a week.

I don’t have much recollection of what happened during that time. But from the crumbs I’d gathered from Mary, I’d been in and out of it, but every time I’d regain consciousness I would go crazy with grief and I would devolve into hysterics.

That had stopped when I’d simply become numb with pain.

I’d gone from seeing my beloved bleeding out in my arms, to waking up alone and inconsolable. To make matters worse, even Mr. Meow had left me. I don’t know what had happened to him, but I don’t discount that my mother could have thrown him out while I was not able to defend him.

Amon is dead.

And Fiona Montford had killed him with her own two hands.

From the moment I’d heard the admission from her lips, I’d tuned her out, almost as if I stepped away from the present by closing myself somewhere deep within.

I can only recall her telling me it was for my own good—that she was saving my life. But can she not see that instead she all but damned me?

‘Do you need anything?’ Mary probes, laying a hand on my shoulder and trying to get me to react.

I don’t. I simply continue to gaze out the window, moonlight shining over the well-groomed shrubs, the perfect outside image hiding the rot within.

With a resigned sigh, she places a tray of food on a table, telling me to help myself if I get hungry even though she knows come morning, everything will be intact.

The seconds tick before I hear the door close behind her.

I mentally acknowledge it, my body sagging as some tension leaves me.

Still, I don’t move.

My limbs are stiff and numb from sitting in the same positions for hours at a time, yet, I relish the discomfort. It’s the only thing I deserve for getting him killed—because if it hadn’t been for me…

A sigh escapes me as I intently regard the garden that housed our first meeting, almost as if by staring at it I could undo the past—or go back to the past.

Back to that one first meeting.

That time when I could still hear his voice in my ear, feel his breath on my cheek or the touch of his ungloved hand against mine. The little things that made me fall for him.

The little things that are the only memories I have of him.

A tear makes its way down my cheek as I recall his sweet words.

Lizzie mine.

For a brief moment in time, I was his—truly his. And he was mine.

It doesn’t matter what my mother says. That he was a bad man. That he was a debaucher of innocents and the epitome of evil.

He could have been that and more. But for that moment in the maze, when he’d looked at me as if I were his entire world, I know he was mine—so irrevocably mine.

If only she wouldn’t have found us…

A whimper escapes me as the images of that night flood me. I can recall his smile perfectly. Yet, as soon as the shots ring out, I can barely make out blurry movements and red.

So much red.

On my hands. On my gown. Spattered all over my face.

One moment I loved him, ready to give myself to him in spite of the impropriety of it—in spite of the entire world.

The next, he was dead.

And I was dead, too.

Hours pass and the house becomes eerily quiet, everyone having gone to sleep. I stay a few moments longer before I release a weary sigh, slowly untangling my limbs as I get up from my seat by the window.

My stomach rumbles with hunger as I pass by the food Mary had left for me, yet I can’t muster the appetite, nor the need for self-preservation.

Starvation is both an act of rebellion and one of pure disinterest when it comes to my wellbeing, especially as I know what will happen next.

My mother will find me a husband to keep things quiet, and I’ll be locked in another form of terror. At least like this I’m still master of my own fate.

The mere thought of someone other than Amon touching me has disgust rolling deep inside of me, goosebumps of revulsion covering my entire skin.

People might think I’m ridiculous for doing this, for hanging on to something that was barely real—for what they call puppy love. But they can judge me all they want. I know what’s in my heart, and what was between us. I am the one who has to live with this heartbreak, with the memory of what he made me feel both at the height of happiness, and at the lowest of the low—when his blood stained my body.

Slipping the gown over my head, I stand in front of the full-sized mirror, letting my eyes roam over my figure—or what’s left of it.

My stomach has sunk in, my ribs poking through the skin. My hip bone, too, is protruding, as seemingly are all the bones in my body.

In just a few months, I’ve become a shell of myself.

The only question is…how long will I be able to go on like this?

For fear that I would do something stupid, my mother has ordered the servants to ransack my room for any sharp objects or anything I could use to harm myself. She’d noticed the dullness in my eyes from the moment I woke up, and she realized that with one pull of a trigger, she hadn’t just killed Amon.

She’d killed me, too.

Releasing a tired breath, I drag myself to my bed, that one small movement taking all the energy out of me. My lungs are as tired as my limbs and as soon as my back hits the mattress, my eyes flutter closed.

The only light in the room is coming from the fireplace, the embers flickering with the life I wish I had—with the fire I wish still burned within me.

Yet it’s that warmth that reminds me of him—of the heat of his body.

It’s only in times like this that I can still hold on to him—with my eyes closed, my mind drifting to the past. Or, maybe, the potential future. The one I know I’ll never have but the one I yearn for, nevertheless.

In my dreams, Amon is with me—as my friend, lover, husband and father of my children. And as I turn in bed, keeping to one half of it, I imagine it’s him on the other side.

‘I miss you,’ I whisper, the void swallowing my words and never delivering anything back.

As a tear falls down my cheek, I picture the alternative.

I see us running in the garden, smiling at one another while playing with our children.

We’re…happy.

God, but we’re happy.

One tear eventually becomes a hundred, until I curl inwards, hugging my legs to my chest and sobbing my heart out for the future that will never be.

Yet just as I find myself lost in my grief, a strong gust of wind blows the windows open, cold seeping into the room.

Immediately, I stand up, though it’s not the easiest thing to do. It’s even harder to get out of bed and trudge my way to the window to close it.

The wind blows in my face, a shiver going down my back from the cold. Wincing, I drape a red shawl over my shoulders in an attempt to warm myself.

With slow, even steps, I reach the window, my hands on the wooden frames as I struggle to close them. A storm is brewing and the wind picks up strength as I do my best to push the windows closed. Yet before I manage to seal them shut, something floats inside the room.

I don’t pay attention to it until every latch is in place.

Still shivering, I pick up the piece of paper, short of breath from the mere effort of bending down.

As my fingers brush against it, I don’t look at what it is, my first instinct is to dump it in the fireplace—anything to get the room warmer.

It’s by chance that I gaze down at it. And two words capture my attention.

Lizzie mine.

I blink in confusion, my pulse speeding up just as a foreign feeling blossoms in my chest—hope.

It can’t be, can it?

With hurried movements that my body can barely withstand, I borrow some fire from the fireplace, lighting up a candle and taking a seat at my table.

Taking a deep breath, I slowly unfold the piece of paper, my eyes quickly scanning the contents of the letter at first. Gulping down, I note the key words and phrases—all belonging to Amon—and I can’t help the happiness that takes shape within me.

My fingers tremble as I bring my gaze to the beginning, reading everything with slow exactitude so I don’t miss one word.

Lizzie mine,

Forgive me for not writing to you sooner. The road of recovery has been long and harrowing. For days on end I did not know whether I would be able to utter your name out loud again.

Against all odds, I prevailed.

And it is only because of you, my love.

Because of this love that burns inside my veins, this want that threatens to suffocate me.

It’s because my desire for you is stronger than any weapon, or any roadblock I may encounter—in this life or the next.

Please know that I am alive and well. And I will soon come for you.

Yours Eternally,

Amon

I read the letter again. And again. I read it until I memorize each word, and still I cannot believe this to be true.

‘Amon,’ I whisper, my chest bursting with the most pure happiness there is. ‘It’s really you, isn’t it?’

The candle burns out and I’m still staring at his words, committing to memory the curves of his letters, the hoops, and the little particularities. All so I can convince myself this is real.

Amon is alive.

He’s not dead.

Dear God, he’s not dead!

I stand up—albeit a little too sudden. A wave of dizziness assaults me, all the blood rushing to my head. Yet I can’t find it in me to care. Not when I’ve been given a new purpose—to live.

What could he possibly think if he saw me like this? All skin and bone and almost expiring on the spot? Not only would he find me entirely unappealing, but he would worry.

I know he would.

Pursing my lips, I drop to my knees by the bed, searching for a little box that holds my dearest possessions. Pulling it closer, I carefully fold the letter inside so no one would find it.

Then, I bring my gaze to the tray of cold food.

My stomach rumbles again.

Yet this time—and this time only—I know I can keep the food down. I know that I can eat, if only to survive another day and see him again.

That day signals the start of my own recovery.

Though my appetite doesn’t magically return, I do my best to eat a little more each day. The efforts are soon visible, in the new fullness of my cheeks and my figure. My hair too, slowly regains its previous luster. And with a perpetual smile on my face, things start looking up, my hope for the future growing daily.

Amon’s letters continue too. Every couple of days, I find a new letter on my windowsill.

I don’t know how he does it, but he never fails to surprise me with his words, promising me a future together whether my mother approves of our relationship or not.

Knowing he has plans in store for us—that at one point my dreams would become reality—I can’t help the giddiness that suffuses my being.

So much so that soon everyone notices.

Including my mother.

‘You’re looking well, Elizabeth,’ she notes one morning as she sees me come down for breakfast. ‘You’ve been eating, too.’

I nod dutifully.

‘You were right, mother,’ I give her a small smile. ‘It was puppy love. I now realize that. But you can’t blame me for being crushed. You saw how handsome he was,’ I do my best to explain, masking the distaste that assails me at those lies.

My mother’s eyes widen. Placing down her fork and knife, she studies me intently.

‘Do you mean that, dear?’

‘Of course,’ I murmur. ‘I was courting death and for what? Because some gentleman decided to pay me attention for five seconds? I realize how naïve I’ve been,’ I sigh. ‘I can only blame it on my lack of experience and the fact that I was an easy prey.’

My mother nods, a satisfied smile pulling at her lips as she undoubtedly thinks I’ve finally seen reason.

And if I am to succeed in my ruse—at least long enough for Amon to come for me—then I must convince her I am cured of my silly infatuation.

‘That is good to hear, dear. You are a clever girl. I knew you’d see reason.’

‘I do have one question,’ I add as I pile my plate with food.

Her eyes sparkle with approval as she sees me eat, nodding encouragingly at me.

‘You killed a man. A nobleman. Why is no one inquiring about that? Why is there no magistrate knocking on our door’

Her smile doesn’t wane.

‘I think it’s high time I let you in about our family secret, Elizabeth,’ she says, watching me closely as I bring a piece of ham to my lips.

‘Family secret?’ I frown.

‘Well, there are several reasons why I could go ahead with the murder—as you call it. At such a public event, too,’ she chuckles. ‘And that is because no one knows. No one saw, and no one heard.’

‘But the shot… It was so loud. Everything was so loud…’

Fiona shakes her head.

‘Amon d’Artan doesn’t exist, dear. He never did. There was no Marquis d’Ombre. No such title was ever created.’

‘You mean he was a charlatan?’

I narrow my eyes at her. It’s the first time she’s mentioned that. Before, the only thing she’d said about Amon had been that he was a bad man and that he was trying to take advantage of me and lead me astray.

‘Oh, along those lines,’ she laughs. ‘Only much, much more dangerous. But I reckon you’re finally ready to learn the truth.’

‘The truth?’ I blink. What sort of truth could she be speaking about?

‘Join me,’ she says as she rises from her chair,

Curious about this family secret she wishes to share with me, I grab a scone on my way out, popping it into my mouth before following her. She enters the main library, going straight for a shelf and plucking a particular volume. I don’t get to see the title before a sudden noise makes me jump back.

Right before my eyes, the entire wall opens up to reveal a secret room.

‘What’s going on?’ I whisper, my eyes widening in shock.

‘Come, dear,’ she urges me on, taking me by the hand and inviting me inside.

The moment we’re in the secret chamber, the wall moved again, closing itself behind us.

It’s only then that I manage to take in the room around me.

‘What…’ my mouth opens and closes in wonder.

The room is almost the same size as the main library, and it seems to house another collection of books—and other items.

There are shelves upon shelves of ingredients, and odd contraptions that look strikingly similar to drawings of items I’d seen in scientific treaties.

An enormous book rests in the middle of the room, protected by a glass box. Even from where I’m standing I can tell the pages are made out of vellum, not paper.

‘What is this, mama?’

‘This is your legacy, Elizabeth,’ she declares, clasping her hands together as she invites me to look around the room.

‘I don’t understand. Did papa know about this?’

‘Your father?’ She frowns. ‘Of course not.’ She waves her hand in the air as if he were not in the least of importance. ‘Some of these items have been in my family for centuries, and the knowledge for millennia.’

I take a step forward, walking around the room and studying its contents, more questions arising in my mind. There are odd looking symbols drawn on the walls, and every single book I see is in Latin, or Gaelic.

‘Mother,’ I look up, my tone serious as I address her. ‘Tell me this isn’t some type of witchcraft.’

Though the aristocracy refuses to acknowledge such pagan notions, the rumors still float around. Usually among the servants who are more susceptible to superstitions. But with the past waves of witch hunting, even they are wary not to say too much.

Parliament officially passed the Witchcraft Act in 1735, thus ending the official witch hunt. That didn’t stop various clerics, particularly in more remote regions, from accusing and punishing individuals. Sometimes, even a home remedy could be labeled as witchcraft, its maker branded a witch and castigated to the full extent of clerical law.

Fiona merely smiles. She doesn’t deny it.

I freeze, my heart ramming in my chest as I look at the mother I’ve known my entire life, yet now I’m seeing someone different.

Someone with secrets.

Someone…who wasn’t quite who I thought she was.

‘You must realize this is madness. There’s no such thing as witchcraft,’ I try to tell her in the nicest way possible.

Not only is my mother potentially insane, but she’d attacked my beloved based on some inane assumptions.

‘You’re new to all of this. I understand it might be hard for you to understand, but I’ll do my best to explain everything,’ she smiles.

‘I think I’ll retire for the day,’ I murmur, giving her a forced smile as I take a step back, turning and assessing the mobile wall. Surely if I find the right title, it’s going to move and…

‘Not so fast, dear,’ my mother calls out.

Before I can even contemplate my exit, I feel myself being dragged backwards.

Frowning, I try to fight the pull, focusing all my strength in my legs as I place one foot forward, then another.

But it’s all in vain when I get pulled once more—this time with enough strength that I fly.

I…fly.

‘Whaaaat?’ I squeak as I find myself floating in the air.

My eyes find my mother’s knowing smirk, and somehow I know this is all her doing.

‘There’s no such thing as witchcraft, dear?’ she asks, a smile on her face.

I blink repeatedly.

‘Put me down, please,’ I beg, flailing my arms around as panic overtakes me.

With a wave of her hand, I’m back on the ground. My feet meet the floor and I swear I could kiss it with the amount of fear still running through my veins.

‘What. Was. That?’

My features must be pale, my entire countenance mirroring the terror I feel on the inside.

‘I’m dreaming,’ I whisper to myself. ‘I must be dreaming. That’s it…’

‘You’re not dreaming, Elizabeth,’ my mother assures me, taking a step forward and planting herself in front of me.

She reaches for me, and instinctively I flinch away from her touch, thinking she’s going to do another odd demonstration and actually hurt me.

‘You’re safe,’ she says softly, no doubt seeing the distress written all over my features. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘I don’t understand…’ I whimper in shock, rubbing my arms in a gesture of self-soothing. ‘I don’t understand what’s happening.’

‘I know,’ she sighs. ‘And I’m going to explain this to you. Come.’

She takes me by my hand, leading me to the table in the center of the room that houses the vellum manuscript.

‘I’ll start at the beginning,’ she gives me a tight smile. ‘I’m sure you must have a preconceived notion about witchcraft—though we prefer to call ourselves the Coven of Light. The church has done a marvelous job of putting all of us in the same basket and call us devil worshippers. Yes, it is true that there are those out there who choose the dark side, and their power comes from the dark. But just as there is dark, so there is light.’

She pauses, checking with me to see if I’m following.

I give her a slow nod, though my mind is still reeling with confusion and disbelief, anxiety coursing through my veins. How can I possibly believe what she’s saying?

Despite the evidence staring me in the face, I have a hard time reconciling what I knew of my mother with what she’s telling me—that she’s some type of magical being with the ability to move objects with her mind.

I’ve always considered myself a rational individual, using facts to form an opinion. And though magic seems too far removed from reality, I cannot deny that my mother is presenting me with facts.

‘There are six main families scattered around the world that fight on behalf of the light. And we are part of one of them,’ she says as she brings forth an old scroll with a snap of a finger.

Laying it on the table in front of me, she unfolds it with her powers. The material is yellow and worn out. As I tentatively reach with one finger, I find the material smooth and silky.

Vellum.

‘This is our family—Stuart,’ she points to a huge genealogical tree that starts at the top of the scroll with the first Stuart, going down until I can find my mother’s name at the bottom, too. The scroll has a striking feature though—it only traces the female line.

‘Only women?’ I ask, tracing the ancient lineage.

She nods, a bright smile appearing on her face.

‘The Stuart abilities are passed down only through the female line. Usually they are manifested through an innate talent, like my telekinesis. But we also have the ability to do rituals and spells that require different incantations, ingredients, and of course, different degrees of difficulty.’

She goes on to tell me a little about the other families. For three families, the powers are passed down through females. For the other three, it’s through the male line.

Most importantly, major rituals require one member from each family to perform forbidden spells.

‘What do you mean by major ritual?’ I frown.

‘Come here,’ she motions me to follow her to the glass box that houses the vellum manuscript. Using her telekinesis, she removes the glass, placing it on a faraway table and giving me a direct view at the manuscript.

Up close, I can see the exquisite penmanship and the beautiful illustrations on the first page.

‘This is the Codex Stuartorum. It dates back to the sixth century A.D. and it represents our oath to the light.’

Waving her hand over the surface of the first page, she whispers, ‘Revelate,‘ and the Latin text becomes legible in English.

My eyes widen in awe, but I don’t comment on it. I’ll have plenty of time to digest the information later. For now, I give the document my full attention as I read its contents.

‘You swear to use your powers not for personal gain, but only for one purpose—eradicating evil entities,’ I quote aloud from the codex. ‘Demons?’ I suddenly burst out.

Fiona nods grimly.

‘Since we all possess these unique abilities, the elders were afraid that we would use them for nefarious purposes. As such, they came together with a solution. Each family would sign a blood oath to only do good. And to further limit abuses of power, each family’s codex is incomplete,’ she recounts as she flips the pages of the codex, showing that many of the pages contain only a few paragraphs.

‘There are spells out there that are far too powerful to belong to only one family, let alone one individual. As such, the elders broke apart fragments of the most dangerous and forbidden spells and split them among the six families.’

‘But what if there is an emergency? You said the families are scattered across the globe. How could you get all the fragments assembled in time?’ I ask pensively.

A mischievous smile pulls at her lips.

‘There is at least one teleporter per generation. It’s their job to gather everyone once a year during our annual meetings,’ she explains.

‘That’s a lot to take in,’ I admit.

‘I know,’ she sighs. ‘And it’s just scratching the surface. You see, like with all aspects of life, with good comes bad. Just like there are those like us that belong to the light, there are those who belong to the dark.’

‘Do you mean there are similar families that belong to the dark side?’

My mother purses her lips.

‘Not quite. There are those that acquire power through dark means—by selling their souls to the devil, so to speak—but they are usually solitary beings. Power is too intoxicating to share,’ she shakes her head in disapproval. ‘Our main enemies are those dark beings that encroach into our world—where they do not belong—and prey on those weak men hungry for power.’

She gives me a short biblical explanation about the origin of demons and fallen angels and the fact that the coven of light is purported to derive its powers from divine origins.

I nod along, though I can tell she’s giving me the abridged version of everything—making me wonder what she’s not telling me.

‘When earth teemed with demons and fallen, God realized he needed to protect his creations. So he bestowed gifts upon six families—gifts that would help them fight against evil and keep humanity safe,’ she pauses. ‘Or so the legend goes,’ she chuckles.

I narrow my eyes at her. Or so the legend goes?

The more I listen to her, the more I have to wonder why now? Why tell me now when it’s clear that she should have done so years ago—if I believe that mothers should pass down their knowledge onto their daughters.

‘Let me understand this. You’re saying magic is real—that our family has magic. And now you’re telling me there are angels and fallen, and demons, and evil entities?’

‘That is exactly what I’m telling you, Elizabeth. And what’s worse is that those evil entities live among us, wreaking havoc wherever they go. They thrive on chaos, destruction, war and suffering. And they love watching humanity lose itself.’

‘And of course, you’re there to stop them,’ I roll my eyes at her.

She nods.

‘I’m aware I haven’t been the best mother to you, but know that I’ve always had your best intentions at heart. And all I’ve done has been to create a better world for my children—for you.‘

Growing up, both my parents had been rather absent—not that it was anything out of the ordinary since nobility often let the staff raise their children. My father had lost himself in his vices, and my mother had had her commitments—which, if I’m to believe her, had included slaying demons all over the world.

‘Why are you telling me this now?’ I demand.

As I’d seen the trajectory of her story, I’d intuited how this all related to me and…Amon. Even so, I’m almost afraid to hear it from her lips.

But more than anything, I’m afraid it could be true.

It couldn’t, could it?

‘Because you need to know why I killed that man. You need to know what he was,’ my mother replies staunchly, setting her steely gaze on me.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask softly.

Flicking her wrist, she turns the codex to another page—one that has the illustration of a woman’s body. My eyes go wide with disbelief as I stare from the manuscript to my mother and back to the manuscript, the question written all over my face.

‘All your life, I’ve told you how special you were, Elizabeth, did I not?’ She gives me a soft smile—one that is quite rare to see on my mother’s face.

‘What is this, mama?’ I ask, almost afraid of the implications.

‘My mother, your grandmother, had the gift of foresight. When I was pregnant with you, she knew you would be special—so special that the entire world would covet your gift.’

‘What gift?’ I whisper, an ominous shiver going down my body.

‘The gift of healing,’ my mother says, wiping a tear away.

I frown.

‘Why is that so precious?’

‘Because,’ she comes closer, bringing her hand to my chest, right on top of my birthmark. The same mark is illustrated in the codex. ‘Yes, there are other people that can heal injuries to a degree. But what you have,’ she shakes her head, pure emotion shining in her eyes. ‘This doesn’t just heal physical wounds, Elizabeth. It heals the essence of the soul.’

My brows pinch together as I try to understand what’s so great about it—aside from the fact that I’ve never in my life healed myself, or others. How is it that I have this gift but I’ve never felt its presence?

‘Though demons can live forever, they are not invincible. And in order to kill them, we need to destroy their essences. A demon is considered dead only once its essence is nullified,’ she pauses, biting her lip. ‘For them, your gift is like a fountain of immortality. They can drink out of it, and preserve their life forever.’

‘But I’ve never seen evidence of any such gift,’ I protest.

‘That’s because of me,’ she immediately answers, a sad smile tugging at her lips. ‘There was only one other confirmed case in history. A woman who died before she reached her majority because of that ability. She was a beacon for demons, and she was killed by one of them—drained of her power. I never wanted that for you, so I bound your powers at birth.’

‘What…’

‘I thought if I did that you could lead a normal life. That you would grow to your majority, marry someone and have your own family. But I never imagined they would still find you. That he would find you.’

‘By he you mean… Amon?’

She nods grimly.

‘You can’t possibly think he’s a demon,’ I shake my head, taking a step back. ‘No, I refuse to believe that.’

‘He is a demon, Elizabeth. I don’t know what kind, and frankly, I do not care. I’m only concerned about you and the fact that you were so close to…’ she chokes on a cry. ‘He could have killed you. He could have drained you…’

Yet as I look at her and her emotive display—one I’ve never seen her display towards me before—I can’t help but wonder if she was concerned about me, or about the fact that Amon could become invincible because of me.

Today is the most animated I’ve seen my mother in…forever.

‘How do you know?’ I inquire, keeping my tone even though all I want is to scream to her that Amon is innocent. That he could never…

She purses her lips, her features tight and for a moment I don’t think she’s going to reply.

Then, the codex pages suddenly flip again.

My eyes widen, my entire being assailed by disbelief.

‘That…’

‘That is your Amon, dear,’ she says, and even through my veil of shock I can detect a hint of smugness. ‘A demon we’ve been hunting for centuries.‘

Bringing my eyes back to the codex, I peruse the drawing of a man with long, white hair and equally white eyes. The artist had done a phenomenal job, every line and every stroke matching Amon’s features.

So much so that I find myself speechless.

‘Every member of the Coven knows about his existence. He is one of the most powerful demons we’ve ever come across. And it’s only because…’ she pauses, her teeth raking over her bottom lip as she scrunches her brows in worry.

‘Because?’ I inquire, almost certain I’m not going to like her answer.

‘He was the demon who killed the other girl—the one with your birthmark. He’s the one who consumed her essence. And the moment he did that, no one could measure up to him. Even with all the six families involved, he was too powerful,’ she sighs.

Suddenly, things are starting to become more clear—like why Amon had survived. But there is one thing that keeps bothering me.

If Amon was so powerful, if he was so dangerous, why not cut our sojourn short at the Duchess’ house? If she thought he would become so invincible if he got access to me, why did she not take me away the first chance she had?

Unless…

I swallow hard, hating that I’m doubting her, or Amon, or my own damn existence. Yet how can I not be a mass of confusion when I’ve just been told that my entire life has been a lie? That nothing is as it seems?

‘You said to kill a demon you need to nullify his essence,’ I suddenly add. ‘What did you do to him? After the shooting? If he is so powerful, I doubt he would have died just from a few shots.’

‘You’re clever,’ she clicks her tongue against her teeth. ‘You’re right. The shot didn’t kill him. It merely wounded him long enough so we could get our hands on him—so we could contain him until all six families were present to nullify him.’

‘And?’

She shrugs.

‘He’s dead.’

But he’s not. I know he’s not. And she must know he’s not.

That means my mother is lying to me.

Is it to protect me? Or is there something more?

She continues to talk, droning on about the family legacy and the fact that my sister had already been initiated into it, and she is to become the next Stuart matriarch.

Once more, I have to wonder why she hadn’t told me any of this earlier—why she’d waited until I met Amon to do so. And because of that, I can’t help but feel there are more things she is hiding from me.

‘I really thought sealing your magic would keep you away from this life. I’m sorry, Elizabeth. But it’s better that you now know. It wasn’t my intention to make you suffer. I was just protecting you.’

Nodding, I listen to everything more she has to say before I retire for the day.

It’s close to midnight when I get to my room, closing the door behind me and managing to remove my simple gown without ringing for Mary.

At this moment, I’d rather be alone with my thoughts.

The story my mother told me is…ludicrous at best.

Yet I can’t deny her ability to move things with a flick of her wrist, or the items she houses in that secret chamber of hers—including the Codex Stuartorum. Though a part of me may believe there is some truth to her words, I’m still skeptical about many things.

After I’ve removed all my clothes, I stand in front of the mirror, my attention focused on the tear-shaped mark above my breast. According to my mother, this is the core of all my problems, because it designates me as someone with the power to heal…demons.

It makes me a beacon for demons, and the reason Amon had pursued me in the first place.

But while the things I’ve learned cast doubt about everything that’s ever happened in my life—including Amon—there are still unanswered questions.

And one still bothers me.

For all my mother’s explanations about Amon being the epitome of evil who wants to leech on me to become even more powerful, some things don’t fit.

That time at the Duchess’ house hadn’t been my first encounter with Amon. And during the first one, he could have very well done anything he wanted to me and I wouldn’t have been able to stop him.

He’d been in my room. He could have easily taken advantage of me, yet he hadn’t.

He hadn’t even been improper.

Moreover, why had my mother not insisted we leave the house party as soon as she saw him?

Why let me be under the same roof as a dangerous demon if it weren’t because…

I was bait.

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