Page 2 of Malicent
Whenever I’m in distress, the bond we share pulls him to me. It requires no conscious thought. I have learned that much by now. His shiny eyes scan me, no doubt taking in the deep circles under my eyes and the sheen of sweat on my skin. He knows the drill already.
Ollie patters his way up to my side, settling next to me with a plop. His distended belly, round and heavy, spills well past his knees as he sits.
“Just a bad dream,” I mutter, leaning back against my headboard. A full explanation is not necessary for Ollie. He is fully aware of what haunts me.
“I don’t dream” he says simply, looking up at me with black voids for eyes.
I can’t help but entertain my little familiar. “Ah, shall I become an imp then? Maybe I’ll rest.” I offer him a smile, one I’ve shared with no one but Arcadia. Yet even then, my love for Ollie is something entirely different. He’s a part of me both figuratively and literally.
Ollie flashes me a toothy grin. I swear it reminds me of a feral, elderly dog. “Me Misses is perfect! She just needs wine!” Hissmall, chubby three-fingered clawed hand pats my leg in what he must think is reassurance.
I raise a brow, teasing, as I point out the flaw in his solution that came far too often. “You’ll make a drunkard of me.”
He looks at me, completely confused as to why this would even be an issue. I can’t help but chuckle, amused by my imp’s silent judgement of my lack of enthusiasm.
I yawn, and instantly, Ollie responds. The confusion on his face disappears, replaced by a determined focus. He’s ready to help me recover from my nightmare. Ollie rises, pushing up on his knees, and motions for me to turn my back to him. Our bedtime routine takes hold like a well-worn habit. I lie on my side, facing away from him, and out of thin air, he conjures a brush.
He begins combing through my tangled hair, humming a soft tune, the same one I often hum to myself. Each stroke of the brush is gentle, soothing, as if he is trying to brush away more than just the knots in my hair.
My gaze wanders across my room, settling on the aged bookshelves lining the walls. The books are a disarray of frayed pages and worn spines telling stories of their own.
I’m half tempted to read until I grow drowsy again, but Ollie’s ongoing war with my tangles assures me I won’t be leaving this bed anytime soon.
My gaze drifts to the large window at the center of my wall. The moon hangs high, its silver light spilling across the room. It feels as though she’s watching—alwayswatching.
A prickle runs down the back of my neck, an awareness that makes me inhale sharply. Then, it comes, a hauntingly familiar voice that I know better than my own.
Her words slip into my mind, a sensual whisper that seems to echo with an impossible duality. How can one speak so softly and sweetly yet so hoarsely and deep at once?
“Sleep, my star,” she sings, her voice a chilling caress that sends shivers down my spine.
It’s only now that I notice the tremor in my hand and the pause in Ollie’s brushing. She releases me, her laughter trailing behind. It is as much a mockery as the name she calls me.
I swallow the pain that the affectionate nickname stirs deep inside me. My star. A name once filled with warmth, a name that my mother used for me. Now, it is a reminder of what I’ve lost.
I’ve read that some animals must consume rocks to digest their food. Bearing that weight is what allows them to survive. Pain has become my stones. I consume it in gluttonous amounts to help me stomach this world from the ache it brings, to let me survive.
As Oliver resumes brushing, each stroke of the bristles glide over my scalp, soothing me deeply. The tension drains from my body, muscles loosening with every gentle pass. My eyes grow heavier until, at last, they slide shut.
GROANING, I PULL A PILLOW over my head to block the offensive sunlight streaming through the oversized window. The window feels far too large for this small room. I hate early mornings. The sun’s rays are relentless in its pursuit, ensuring I don’t get another minute of rest. Today is a sleep-in day, I decide, as the exhaustion in my body agrees after yet another restless night.
A knock at the door ruins my great plan.
The sweet, singsong voice of Arcadia floats in as the door creaks open. “Good morning, sunshine! Rise on up! Elanorawishes to see you,” she chirps, clearly for no other reason than to piss me off.
It is working.
“Lovely. I can’t wait,” I say, sarcastically rolling onto my back and finally sitting up.
Cadia smirks, leaning casually against my doorway. “Oh, yes, my queen. Duty calls.”
The teasing nickname pulls a reluctant smile to my lips and warmth to my chest, the kind only she can manage. There was little that could dampen her mood. She’s sunshine personified, with her tight white curls—thick, wild, and untamed—contrasting with the deep, rich tone of her skin. It reminded me of the soil in the gardens after fresh rain, dark and full of life.
Golden witch marks shimmer on her chest, climbing from beneath her breasts, swirling up her sternum and across her cleavage in intricate swirls and dips. If the sun could be melted into paint, then it was used to draw every mark on her skin. Her almond-shaped eyes hold the same brilliance, the golden hues swirling with vibrant life.
To showcase her marks, Arcadia had to dress rather exposed, choosing gowns designed specifically for her. The necklines of her custom coven attire plunged into deep, daring V-cuts that reached her navel, orchestrated deliberately to flaunt the intricate beauty of her markings. Despite her warm and inviting presence, her power was anything but. Arcadia was a curse user, a rarity in our coven. Her mother had fled her own coven and sought sanctuary here, an extraordinary request thatNoraonly allowed because of the devastating power her mother possessed. That same power now lived on in Arcadia.
I slide from bed, unsurprised that Ollie is already gone. The little imp is always somewhere, doing something, and never sticks around for very long.
