Chapter 1

Skulls decorate the towering arch over the stone bridge.

Death. Brutal and absolute.

It's a promise to the humans that unauthorised magic will be met with brutality and severity.

And a blood-soaked warning to magic folk that they better behave if they dare step foot inside this village.

I stand, staring up at them all, piled atop one another, and shudder at the amount of them. There must be two hundred at least. All sun-bleached and weathered. Hints of the violence that ended their lives linger still. Sprawling cracks and deep dents. Some have long slices where their face met the blade of a warrior. Others are still stained red from deep bleeds from within. Some are black and charred from the fires that destroyed their flesh.

My kin. My family. My friends.

Slaughtered.

Bone archways mark the entrance of any sizeable human settlement and serve as a constant reminder to each and every soul of what happens when we don't behave.

I survey them with a mixture of dread and anger. Not every witch whose bones rest before me deserves to be there. The war was brutal. Or so I'm told. I was a baby when it ended, so all I have are the stories.

Stories and bones.

But the consequences live on. The skull in the far right was Lucile Frey. She taught me to swim in the lakes back home when I was seven.

All she did was try to leave our coven. Rumour was that she had fallen in love with a human.

She ran.

Humans caught her.

She died screaming.

Now, her empty eye sockets stare into nothing, and they will until she becomes dust.

Something hard hits the side of my head and knocks me to my knees. A stone rolls to a stop, coated in a faint sheen of my blood. Sure enough, when I touch the point of impact, I feel a familiar sticky wetness and blood trickles down my cheek.

Three human boys from the village laugh, pointing and pulling faces at me. The biggest boy, a fat little fuck who must be fifteen at most, has another stone which he playfully catches over and over in his palm. That sadistic glint of joy he gets in his eye says he will throw this one even harder. That he wants to see me bleed even more.

He pulls his arm back and lets it fly. The look on his face is priceless when I catch it and toss it back before he even manages to blink. It lands right between his eyes, and he falls flat on his arse, landing in the mud with a high-pitched yelp. The two other lads step back, watching between their friend and me.

As I laugh, relishing in watching him try to get to his feet but slither around like an uncoordinated drunkard, I get a sharp thump to the back of my head. Fingers knot in my hair and yank my head back.

My father looks down at me with a disgusted sneer. His dull blue eyes narrow, and he snarls in a low warning.

‘If you cannot behave yourself, I will leave you tethered up with the horses at the village border. You hear me, Ashe?'

‘Yes, Father. Sorry, Father,' I reply, peering up at him with wide eyes. His temper is not something I enjoy finding myself on the wrong side of. He pulls harder on my hair.

‘You will be sorry. We haven't even stepped foot inside the village, and you attack a human boy?'

‘He threw the first stone,' I argue, trying to take my weight from the slack of my hair.

‘Did I drop you on your fucking head as a baby? All it takes is one wrong step, and your head will be the next one to be mounted on the village threshold. Is that what you want?' Another yank. ‘Is it, Ashe?! To die? For everything in your life to serve no purpose at all, except to end up their trophy?'

‘No, Father. I'm sorry!'

He looks up at the three boys. They've managed to get the stone-throwing shithead back on his feet, and all three watch us with uncertainty. A few other men start making their way towards them, their hateful eyes on us as they crack their knuckles.

‘Apologies, gentlemen,' my father calls over with his well-rehearsed charm-filled smile. ‘It was an accident. I assure you it won't happen again.'

The human men start heading towards us. Hateful glares burn into me. They know what I am. They know what we both are.

The dark green cloaks we're forced to wear, with a black W sewn onto it, single us out as witches.

Earth witches, to be exact. Property of the human king. Servants to his vast lands.

There are rules for killing us. Procedures that must be followed. So the villagers can't kill us here and now.

Sadly, there are not many rules protecting us from a beating.

As they descend, my father delivers a fierce backhand to my cheek but keeps hold of my hair. I scream as several chunks are torn from my scalp and clutch my cheek as I look up at him. He wasn't holding back. The inside of my mouth has split, as well as my lip. He threatens another blow. His knuckles are pink from his strike.

‘One more mistake,' he bellows at me, loud enough for the men heading this way to hear. ‘My belt will meet your flesh, and you will be left unable to walk for a month. Now say you are sorry to the boy.'

He lets me go with a shove. I fall on my hands and knees, facing the three bastard boys. The men have all slowed to a stop, seemingly content with my punishment. For now, at least.

I lift my head and lock eyes with the little prick who tossed the stone.

‘I'm sorry,' I grind out. ‘My hand slipped. It won't happen again, Sir.'

‘Keep her under control,' barks one of the men at my father. ‘Or we shall.' He points to the arch. ‘There is always room for one more.'

‘Absolutely, gentlemen. Sincerest apologies.'

The human men return to the boys and escort them back inside the village, delivering them a warning not to fuck with witches unless they are armed with much more than a handful of stones.

Sure. If we misbehave, we may be executed.

But if we choose to fight back, they'd suffer many casualties before we go down.

My father holds out his hand and pulls me to my feet. I sway, disorientated from the rock and his backhand. His grip tightens as I find my balance.

‘You good?' he grumbles, knowing it's his fatherly obligation to make sure I'm okay, but pissed that I would dare be so stupid.

‘I'm fine,' I huff, pulling my arm free.

With a tut, he takes hold of my chin and lifts my face to inspect for himself.

I watch as his brow furrows. My heart softens as he looks pained, seeing the blood sliding down my cheek.

‘He got a lucky shot in,' he says. He pulls out an old handkerchief from his pocket and presses it to the wound. ‘Good reflexes catching the second one, though. Very quick and efficient.'

I keep quiet and don't say that his hit will bruise far worse than the child's stone.

‘I'm sorry I struck you,' he says. ‘If they didn't see me punish you, they would have done so themselves, and I would be carrying you back bloody and limp.'

‘I know,' I reply. ‘I'd rather your backhand than their boots.' My gaze drifts to the decorative skulls. ‘Or their sword. Or fire. Or a noose.'

His calloused hand rests on my cheek as he pulls my focus away from the bones of our kind and back to him.

‘Will you behave?' he asks. ‘Please?'

‘I'll behave.'

His frown deepens in disbelief.

‘I will behave, Father.'

He runs his finger along my cheekbone, tracing the outline of where he struck me. His smile falters. Guilt. I actually see guilt in his features. I blink up at him, my breath held as I find myself in a rare moment of kindness and affection from him.

My father can be a hard man. We all know what happens when we step out of line. The dead gaze of hundreds of empty eye sockets burns into us as we stand beneath them, constantly reminding us. He pulls up my hood and tucks my long hair inside.

‘I wish you would wear a bonnet or scarf when we visit the village. You know your hair makes the humans uneasy.'

‘It's just hair,' I grumble. But I know he's right. I'm the only witch with the pure silver hair I have.

My father told me I was deathly sick as a baby, and after my mother took me to the woods to use her earth magic to heal me, I returned with this strange silver hair. She called it a blessing from the forest.

My father calls it attention we don't need.

‘Try not to cause any more trouble, Ashe. The last thing we need right now is human attention. Or worse. The General and his men paying us a visit. The Blood Rite makes them twitchy, and we need the ritual to go off clean and without issue. Our Coven depends on it. So behave.'

He steps away, shaking his head, leaving me deflated alone.

I feel the blood drain from my face at the mention of that damn rite. My stomach drops hard, and a high-pitched whistle rings in my ears.

I see those flames burning black and blue in the centre of the clearing. I hear the slicing of flesh. And I smell the power in the air. Feel it hum over my skin and tingle on my tongue like the moment before lightning strikes.

‘Go to the herbalist first, Ashe,' he calls back as he collects a bag from the carriage. ‘Give him the list. You do still have the list, yes?' he raises a brow.

‘I have the list, Father,' I sigh.

‘Because the last time-'

‘It wasn't my fault I lost the last one. It fell from my pocket.'

‘When you have done that, go to the Marker's Arms and fetch a bottle of my whiskey.'

‘Again? It's unsafe for a woman to go alone to a pub. Especially that one. The place is crawling with degenerates, whores and ex-soldiers who enjoy claiming which skull they planted on the bridge by pissing on them when they have drunk too much.'

‘I hope you are not asking me to repeat myself, daughter. You do know how much I loathe it when I do. And no foul language.' My father disappears inside the village, and I let out a heavy breath.

I fucking hate that pub. They hate witches, yet he sends me there every month when we visit the town.

My hands are slick with mud, as is the front of my dress right down to the hem. The pale blue skirt is faded and worn, but it was my mother's and is one of my nicer dresses. She died when I was six, and all she had to give me were her clothes. Father had to sell her jewellery to pay off debts. All except the bracelet she made for me. One she made me swear I would never take off. I swore I wouldn't, and I never have. She was a powerful earth witch. High in the coven and respected. What she saw in my father, I have no idea. He is far from powerful and came to the marriage with little to no money but plenty of charm and gambling habits.

His walking cane taps into the cobbled street, and those he passes give him a wide berth despite how he nods and greets them all politely.

I wipe away the last trickle of blood with the back of my hand and head into the centre of the village.

The streets are bustling. Horses pull carts piled high with goods. Men push barrows overflowing with crates. Women yell and barter at their stalls, flogging food, clothing, fabrics and anything else you can think of.

The poor mix with the wealthy here, but it's clear to see who is which.

The deeper into the village I go, the busier it gets.

The air fills with bartering voices and argumentative discussions. And the shrill shrieks of the caged creatures set me on edge.

The forest fairies. The imps. The sprites. They're the worst with their ear-piercing screams that carry on and on. They slam themselves against their little cages, spitting and hurling shit at anyone that gets too close. They're small and ugly little creatures. The forest fairies are pale blue with stringy little bodies. Imps are dark green, stockier and shorter. Sprites are grey and similar to fairies, but have four arms instead of two. I watch a human woman reach into the cage holding ten fairies and grab one in her gloved hand. She lays it down on a slab, picks up a hatchet and SLAM!

I wince at its screams of agony. She tosses it into a second cage filled with other de-winged critters and adds the wings to a bubbling concoction. A remedy for chills and fever.

‘Watch it, witch!' bellows a man.

I step aside, narrowly missing the horn of a wilderbore as it pulls an iron cage on wheels. The driver spits at my feet as he passes.

Inside are goblins. They're strange creatures, the same size as a toddler but built like a brick shit house. Their fingers curve into long talons, toxic to almost all living things. One scratch and you'll die vomiting up your liquified insides.

Many goblins and most faeries were part of the Unseelie court in the war. The survivors still pay the price for that treason against the humans. Following the orders of the Blood Coven that decimated this land for power almost two decades ago, all in the name of their dark Goddess Hel, doomed their species.

It doomed us all.

We're all paying the price for what the blood witches and their Unseelie court did during the war. Even us earth witches, who fought against the blood coven and sided with humans.

For all the good it did us.

These goblins have been de-clawed. They all have stubs at the end of their hands, but they could still pound your skull to mush. Some look sick from infection. Others look half-starved or void of life after spending their days in captivity.

As the carriage passes, I narrowly miss one of them vomiting through the bars.

I swallow dryly as I see another staring ahead into nothing, cradling a tiny bundle close to its chest. There's a small limp arm dangling out from the folds.

A baby goblin.

When I'm sure no one is looking, I unbolt the cage, moving quickly and quietly as I pass it. The mother goblin's gaze catches mine, and she holds the door closed with her elongated finger.

They're not completely stupid creatures. Once they are beyond the village and on the road beyond, she will open the door and run into the forest.

Hopefully, they all will. When I see the baby's finger twitch, I offer a silent prayer to the magic in the forest to provide something to heal the child.

Then, I turn away from the carriage and carry on down the busy streets, keen to get to the herbalist.

Nothing has been the same since the war ended with the Blood Coven. The blood witches drew their power from blood. Death. Decay. Pain and suffering. They were powerful beyond anything ever believed possible. It took a lot of strength and will to control the dark realm of power they tapped into.

Touching such darkness made them wicked and as dark as the devil's soul. As twisted and cruel as they were seductive and tempting.

Death was their true love. Death and pain. Blood and despair. And their Goddess Hel, a queen of the damned, rewarded their depravity with power.

The Blood Coven and its Unseelie Court didn't only seek to subdue humanity, but everyone. All creatures. All folk.

They almost succeeded, too. Now, the humans take their revenge on those who are left.

The creatures dwelling in the marshes, woodlands, lakes and seas are no longer tolerated or trusted after so many joined the Unseelie court, a collection of creatures that believed a human's place was in a cage or dead. After the blood queen, Neve, was executed and the war ended, the Fae folk began to be hunted and used for their properties. It doesn't matter that most never joined the Unseelie. That many fought for humanity, just like the earth witches did.

We were no longer trusted. So they kill and harvest the creatures and keep us on an extremely tight leash.

If we didn't work the fields and maintain the village soil and crops, bet your life we'd be amongst those bones back on the bridge.

Fairie wings mixed with salt water and crushed seashells are excellent elixirs for illness. Goblins are fantastic miners, seeking out gold and jewels in the dark. Wilderbore are strong. They are stronger than horses and far cheaper to keep. Unicorn rump is supposed to be the most incredible meat to exist. One steak costs three hundred gold coins.

I turn away from the carriage, away from the screams and stench, and carry on down the busy streets.

My first stop is the apothecary. The merchant takes my list, and ten minutes later, I have left with everything my father desired. The satchel over my shoulder is heavy and has a tempting aroma of herbs and spices. When I step outside, the sky rumbles, and rain falls hard and fast in the blink of an eye.

Everyone ducks for cover, darting under doorways or inside the many pubs. The rain, however, never bothers me. I prefer it. The streets are clearer, and the water will help wash away the mud on my dress.

I walk leisurely, feeling the cool water trickle over my skin, and use it to wash off the mess from my hands and the blood from my cheek.

I pass down the side streets and alleyways until I reach the threshold of the pub my father has sent me to.

Peering up, the sign sways overhead, the rust making it creak in the wind.

‘Behave,' I remind myself, taking a readying breath as I face the door. ‘In and out, Ashe. Grab the whiskey and leave.'

I step inside and choke on the oppressive heat. Three fires burn in wonky fireplaces made of soot-stained brick. A pig is on the largest, turning atop the flames. The smell makes my belly grumble and my mouth water.

I should have asked my father for some money for myself. Not that he would have given it to me.

It takes me a moment to realise that many of the men sitting here, playing cards or betting coins, have stopped what they are doing to stare at me.

I attempt to smooth my hair and pull my green cloak tighter around my shoulders, very aware that my dress is ill-fitting, low cut, and my cleavage is sopping wet.

With my head high, I walk through the men and go to the bar.

I stand for many minutes, waiting to be acknowledged by one of the bartenders. I even clear my throat. Nothing. I wave my hand, and they walk straight past me to one of the men propping up the bar, demanding more ale or a shot of liquor.

On my tiptoes, I search for Liza, the barmaid who tolerates me better. But I can't see her.

With a groan, knowing I won't be seen for some time more to prove a point than anything else, I rest my back against the bar and wait for Liza to appear.

I take a look around.

It's all men. All swaying under the weight of too much booze. The stench of sweat, stale beer and desperation is disgusting. The clink of silver as bets are made and lost. The lazy chewing from open mouths.

I look again at that pig. Fuck, I'm hungry.

I cringe at the high-pitched wail that travels across the room.

What is that?

I rise on tiptoes once more to see better and spot a group huddled by the furthest fire. Another squeal, and they all laugh and cheer, whacking each other on the back for some unseen victory.

Another whine, and I know something living is suffering.

Curiosity calls me. My greatest weakness. I walk over, weaving between the men, until I see a table in the middle of the group. On that table is a fire pixie.

Where the hell did anyone find a fire pixie?

They're vicious and sly little things, no bigger than a rat, and known for being spies for The Unseelie Court and the Blood Coven during the war.

I thought they were extinct. They're stupid things. Completely unaware of what's good or evil. Right or wrong. All they want is something shiny they can melt in a fire.

How these men have found one, I have no idea.

But what they're doing to it is fucking diabolical.

A nail has been driven through its hands and feet, which are spread out as far as they will go. The pixie writhes and struggles as everyone around it watches. Silver blood stains the table, and I see that one of its arms has been severed. Its wings have been burnt off with a cigar, which still smoulders beside them. One of its eyes has been cut out and left on its stomach. And disgustingly, an iron nail has been forced upwards between its legs.

Blood pools around its groin, and it sobs and whimpers.

‘What kind of sick, twisted shit…' I whisper.

A man faces the fire, holding another iron nail in the flames. His broad shoulders are hunched over. His dark hair hangs loose and messy at his shoulders.

The pixie watches him heat the small weapon.

Small to us. The size of a dagger to the creature.

‘Put it up its arse,' one of the fuckers surrounding it cheers, slamming a mug of ale down on the table and laughing like a drunken fool.

Beside him, a man sits back leisurely in a leather winged-back chair, taking a long puff of a cigar. He's not watching the pixie. Nor does he seem remotely interested in what's going on.

No. He's watching me, his brow slightly furrowed as he slowly pulls in a mouthful of smoke.

His eyes are the deepest brown I think I have ever seen. I look harder, thinking they are almost black. His hair reaches down beyond the back of his chair in countless braids. He's cleaning his fingernails with a dagger. As his wrists move, they jangle from the many bracelets, beads and charms secured around them.

‘Cut off another arm!' implores another, jarring my focus back to what's happening.

This man laughs wildly, nudging those around him to encourage more cheering. More laughter.

When his gaze lands on me, his face falls slightly, and he just… stares. His hand still half raised from where he was about to drink from his ale before he became distracted.

His white hair falls to his shoulders, and his eyes are pale blue like ice on the river. One of the louts beside him staggers and jolts him, spilling his drink and pulling his attention away from me.

The pixie chitters and slumps back to the table, its little body shaking.

It's dying. I know it. The pixie knows it.

And the evil bastards surrounding it are intent on making its demise a lengthy, agonising and degrading experience.

Pixies live three years at most. This one had nothing to do with the war, but they're making it suffer just the same.

Its head turns and looks right at me.

To the only one in the sea of smiling and deviant faces that holds any ounce of horror at what's happening.

Not even a rat would be subjected to this cruelty. And everyone knows that pixies do feel, although not on the same level of reasoning or understanding as a human by any means. But just the same as a dog or a cat would.

Its eyes lock with mine.

‘Shall we see how long it lasts with its guts on the outside?' calls a deep voice, causing the crowd to cheer and stamp their feet.

The terror on that creature's face. The utter terror… it's too much.

As the brute by the fire begins to turn with the nail in hand, I charge towards the table, swiping the dagger from the one picking his fingernails as I pass. He doesn't even react. He just watches in curiosity.

Before another horrific act can be inflicted on the creature, I sever its head, ending its suffering.

The blade strikes the tabletop so hard it becomes embedded, so I leave it there, swaying from the force I wielded it with.

‘Be at peace,' I whisper, closing its eyelids. ‘Child of magic, may the power of the earth and land protect you on your journey.'

I offer a silent prayer for the tormented critter, as is tradition back home in my coven.

It only takes a few seconds to realise the crowd around me has fallen silent. The atmosphere becomes thick and tense. All I can hear is the crackling of the fire.

I look up, past the glowing red of the iron nail, to the man holding it. Piercing green eyes meet mine. They shine so bright and clear they steal my breath for a second. The rugged and handsome face that looks at me has me stunned and utterly terrified.

There's a long scar across his lips, from beneath his nose to the edge of his jaw. His brown hair is a tousled mess that falls over his brow.

‘Ronan Shaw…' I breathe, knowing him instantly. ‘Shit…'

Everyone knows him.

‘That's General to you,' he replies, picking at the green collar of my cloak with his finger as he looks it up and down. ‘Witchling.'

The General. Ronan Shaw.

He led the human king's army against the Blood Coven and their Unseelie Court. He and his men executed the three most powerful blood witches ever to exist, Neve and her two sisters.

The only thing more legendary than him, is his sadistic cruelty to the witches he's killed.

I heard he skinned one alive, cooked her flesh and force-fed it to her as she lay dying.

I stare at the man, mouth open, as he glares at me.

But Shaw is not a mere man.

He's a cursed one.

A fucking vampire.

Humanity offered him and his men an endless supply of willing volunteers to feed from and endless wealth to enjoy if and only if he swore to lead their armies.

So he led them. And he won.

He stands. The stool beneath him slowly grinds against the floor, and I watch as he rises. Higher and higher until my neck is craned fully back as he peers down at me.

‘You killed my pixie, girl,' he says. His words vibrate through me. Right down to my very core. His lip curls, showing the slightest tip of a razor-sharp fang. ‘I should have you spread upon my table instead.'

I swallow hard, looking up at his intense gaze, utterly shrouded in his frame.

Of all people… why him? Why?!

I step back, only to feel the solid frame of another. With a gasp, I turn to see the male whose dagger I stole standing behind me, peering down with interest. His lips part.

He has fangs too.

‘Dorian Tierney,' I whisper, looking at the tattoos snaking up his neck from beneath his loose shirt. He has to be.

‘You whisper my name nicely,' Dorian says quietly, still looking down at me. ‘I bet you would sound even better screaming it.'

My eyes widen even further, imagining that scenario. Me, screaming for mercy. Pleading with him.

There are only three vampires.

When the white-haired male steps forward, his childlike smile pulling his lips, I see his fangs too. A very intentional act by all three, I would guess.

‘Archwin Orion,' I gasp.

Great. Not just one witch-killing lunatic, but all three.

‘You make a habit of sticking your nose into other people's fun and shitting all over it?' Shaw asks, pulling my focus back to him as his two men block any hope of a retreat.

He leans in and sniffs. His eye twitches.

His words stoke the dwindling fire of courage that had almost diminished.

That word. Fun.

It's fuel, turning my embers of bravery into an inferno.

‘Torturing creatures smaller than you is fun?' I snipe, forcing as much derision into the question as possible.

‘Everything is smaller than me, girl.' He steps closer, further accentuating the height difference. I keep my feet planted, craning my neck higher as he descends. His eyes shamelessly leer down my cleavage, which I know is still beaded with the rain. His lip twitches. ‘Earth witch, yes?'

‘Yes.'

He holds my chin, ensuring I don't look away. Ensuring he can see every bit of emotion I try to hide.

‘It is "Yes, My Lord" when you address me and my men. Understood?'

I swallow the insults I would simply love to throw at him and try not to choke on the words I say next.

‘Yes, My Lord. I am of the Earth Coven.'

‘Your coven leader?'

‘Girdon LeSaint,' I reply. ‘Of-'

‘Of Whippet woods, in the Crescent Valley,' he says, knowing my village. Of course, he does. It's his job to keep us all in line. And it's his job to give the order to kill if we don't obey. Humans have soldiers to protect them. We have three vampires and their army of madmen to protect them from us. ‘Who is your escort today?'

‘My father, My Lord. He is running errands.'

‘Father's name?'

‘Jameson Nectan.'

He takes my left hand and inspects my palm. His skin is cool to the touch and softer than I expected. Years of holding a sword and killing should leave its mark. Rough skin, perhaps. Scars. A lingering of the brutality and death that these hands have delivered. His thumb runs the length of my palm. The goosebumps that ripple forth and spread up my arm are a surprise. A cold shudder, I know well. But a tickle of pleasure is something new.

He watches my reaction, his thumb halting as he spots the little bumps spread. His gaze flicks up to mine, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

‘You have no scar. You have not yet performed your Blood Rite,' he states. ‘You have not yet become their property? How old are you? You look as though you should have been claimed by now.'

‘I'm not anyone's property.' I try to pull my hand back, but he doesn't release me. ‘Nor am I anyone's to claim.'

‘I asked you a question. Age?'

‘I'm to join the coven this full moon. My birthday is tomorrow. I'll be of age.'

‘Twenty, yes? That's your coven's Blood Rite age for the females.'

I nod.

‘I never understood why they wait until the girls turn twenty before they get them with the Rite,' Archwin muses before swigging from a bottle of dark liquor. ‘It used to be fifteen when I was a boy.'

‘You would subject a fifteen-year-old girl to that?' I snap, utterly disgusted and finally getting my hand back. ‘Savage.'

‘It was pretty brutal,' he admits. ‘But there's something sad about a twenty-year-old virgin, too.' He steps a little closer, pinning me between him and Shaw. Those icy blue eyes flick side to side as they look into mine. ‘So you're a virgin, huh? Bet there are many pricks excited for you to join the coven. That's when you become theirs, right? When all the males of the coven can dip their wick in the virgins? When you can never leave? When your magic is tied to theirs like one big melting pot of power?'

I feel my face flush with heat as he says those words loudly across this extremely full and quiet pub. It's not just embarrassment but utter repulsion and fear because that's precisely what will happen in two nights.

‘Excuse me,' I mutter, lowering my gaze and attempting to squeeze through the gap between them.

Archwin sidesteps, blocking my exit.

He nods to Shaw. I turn.

‘You killed my pixie and took my fun,' Shaw says. ‘You better be willing to replace it before you leave.'

‘Do you intend on nailing me to the table and taking me apart bit by bit with iron weapons, too?' I ask, attempting to sound as brave as I can. ‘Or is it just helpless creatures you enjoy tormenting?'

‘Oh. I would very much enjoy tying you down, girl. Though my weapon wouldn't be of iron, I assure you, it would be just as hard and considerably larger than a nail.'

Everyone around us erupts in a disturbing chorus of laughter, and the circle of men close in a little.

I'm the one they now surround. I'm the entertainment.

I sidestep, but that's not what Shaw wants. His hand rests on my lower back, keeping me from my retreat. Not content with that, he steps closer and presses me to his front. His scent surrounds me. Smoke and cedar wood mixed with a musky sweat and a hint of lavender.

I have never been touched this way before. Not by a man. Not by anyone, and certainly not by a goddamn vampire who spent two decades murdering my kind for money and sport.

‘You have sympathy for pixies, do you?' he grunts. ‘Forgiven them for their allegiances in the war?' He looks me up and down.

‘I just hate bullies who torture creatures that can't defend themselves.'

‘You calling me a bully, girl?'

‘No.'

He laughs victoriously.

‘I'm calling you a pig-headed piece of shit.'

I hear the entire place take a collective gasp. If it was quiet before, I think everyone just dropped down dead. His cocky smirk falters, and anger stirs there instead.

This is not behaving, Ashe! Not-at-fucking-all.

When I step back, he grips my upper arm. Hard.

‘What is your name, witchling?' he asks.

‘M-my name?' I whisper.

‘That's what I asked. What's. Your. Name? You do have a name, don't you?' He leans further, towering over me until our noses almost touch. He takes another inhale, and his emerald eyes dilate in response to whatever he smells. ‘If I'm to tie you down on my table, I think I should know your name first.'

‘I think you'll find I'm not as easy as a pixie to restrain or frighten, Bloodsucker.'

‘Oh. I hope not,' he smirks, his hand firming on me. ‘Name. Now.'

‘ASHE!' bellows Liza from across the room.

I see her holding up a bottle of my father's preferred whisky.

‘You here for this? Take it and get lost, will ya?'

I turn. Gladly so.

He pulls me back, forcing me to crash into his chest.

His hot breath lands on my skin as he towers over me.

‘Where do you think you're going?' he snarls.

‘I've committed no crime. It's not illegal to kill pixies.'

‘It was my fucking pixie.'

‘I'm sure the humans pay you well enough to buy more.' I try to get free, but he tightens his grip further. ‘Let me go.'

Both his arms snake around my middle. Our fronts press firmly together. I stop struggling. There's no point.

‘Do you think your pretty face will spare you my retribution?' He slams his fist into the pixie's body, turning it to paste. Slowly, he turns back to me. ‘You think you can insult me and just walk off? You,' he scoffs. ‘A little mud witch from a backwater village?'

He's angry. I know when a man is angry, and this man is fuming.

I put on a defiant smile.

‘You think I have a pretty face, My Lord?' I ask, my eyebrows raised. ‘Me? A little mud witch?'

Another twitch of his eye.

Slowly, he leans in, his face getting closer and closer to mine.

I run cold as his mouth goes to my neck.

‘You're not allowed to feed off anyone unwilling!' My words tumble out of my mouth as I cringe, waiting to feel him tear at my throat.

‘You owe me a pixie,' he whispers. When I feel his tongue run along my cheek, right over the spot the stone split my skin, I explode in a wave of goosebumps as my stomach tightens. ‘Hmmm,' he moans, letting out a heavy breath. ‘It's been a long time since I tasted your kind.'

‘You can't bite me. The law. The treaty.'

His fingers grip tighter as he leans in even closer. ‘No law or treaty will help you if you insult me again.'

‘I would be cautious of where you place your fangs, General.' I slump, my entire body relaxing at the voice carrying over the dingy room. ‘Or you may find yourself in trouble with your king.'

Shaw actually growls. I feel his entire body vibrate, and his hot breath ripples down my neck. When he moves back a little, he glares at me. As if blaming me for the threat.

‘She has broken no laws, and if you hurt or bite her, my father will hear of it. So will the king you serve.'

‘Cole. What a delight.' Shaw turns to face the man standing by the doorway. His fingers are still encircled around my upper arm and have tightened instantly. ‘What brings a little boy like you to a place like this?'

Cole's baby blue eyes land on mine. His soft smile is firmly in place, and his blonde hair hangs over his brow. He's far from a boy. He turned twenty years old two weeks ago, but Shaw is right that he certainly doesn't fit in here.

Not with his elegant clothes. Blemish-free skin and perfectly groomed hair.

And neither does Thalia, my closest friend, who stands behind him, her hands gripping the tail of his coat. Her head is low and her shoulders high as she tries to remain as small as possible. Both wear the same cloak I do, marking them out as earth witches.

Despite being surrounded by brutes and the formidable vampire general looking at him as if he is to be his next meal, Cole continues smiling his soft smile.

‘Well. I saw my fiancé walk in and had the desire to follow her. She has that effect on me.' Cole holds out his hand, his eyes remaining on Shaw. ‘Ashe. Come.'

I outwardly gasp as Ronan's fingernails pierce my skin. Warmth seeps from the crescent-shaped slices.

Ronan, Dorian, and Archwin all sniff, and their eyes glance at me, their heads unmoving.

‘Ashe,' Cole repeats, a little firmer this time as he sees their primal reaction to my blood's scent. ‘Come here!'

When I make the slightest move, Shaw keeps me exactly where I am.

‘I look forward to seeing you again…' he says in an almost seductive promise. ‘My… little pixie.'

The men below with laughter, as does he.

Fucker!

Feeling my cheeks redden, I push past them all and head straight to Cole and Thalia.

Shaw's laugh carries clear over them all, and each one makes a point not to move aside for me.

I take the whiskey the barmaid offers. Her eyes are full of warning, as are her words.

‘Steer clear of The General and his two men. Girls tend to last as long as pixies around them.'

I pay her, take Cole's hand, and get the hell out of there without daring to look back.

Outside, the rain continues to hammer down. When the door slams shut behind me, I flinch at the thud.

‘You should not have gone in there alone,' Cole scorns. ‘What the hell were you thinking?! If I weren't who I am, he could have kept you for as long as he pleased.'

‘I know. My father told me to get his bloody whiskey.' I look back as another bout of laughter erupts from behind us. ‘I've never met a vampire before.'

‘They're vulgar, aren't they?' Cole says.

‘They are grotesque,' Thalia agrees keenly, her wide eyes staring at the door as if waiting for it to explode and all of us get dragged back inside. ‘And so frightening! We should go before they come out. I hate the human villages.'

‘Then why did you come?' Cole asks a little sharply.

I know why she came. The same reason she always comes when he does.

Images of me tied down on a table before Shaw and his men flash through my mind.

Me, his helpless… pixie.

Their dark smiles.

Their firm hands on my body.

Their fangs. Their mouths.

Their… Shit! Stop that!

Cole nudges me as I continue staring at the door. ‘Hey. Are you listening to me, Ashe?'

‘Hmm?'

‘I said they're monstrous, yes?'

‘Yeah. They're awful,' I mutter, still transfixed on the door and the muffled voices beyond it. ‘Utterly disgusting…'

Cole tucks my hair behind my ear. I get lost in his eyes every time I look into them. I've memorised every dip of colour. Every deep blue streak that darts through their soft counterparts. Our fathers may have arranged our marriage, but he is not a bad partner to be promised to. He's gorgeous. Kind. Funny.

That's better than most will get after the Rite. Most coven members cannot have only one partner after the Rite. Each witch belongs to the magic that we serve. The magic of the land. Sex is one of the many types of fuel that charge it, so why limit it?

But Cole is the next coven leader, and he gets to choose.

For some reason, he chose me years ago. My father was more than happy to agree to the match.

‘You okay?' Cole asks. ‘Did they hurt you?' He wipes the blood from the cut on my head.

‘No. That's from a stone a village boy threw. I'm fine.'

‘You were so brave, Cole,' Thalia swoons. ‘Wasn't he brave, Ashe?'

‘Very brave.' I smile as he softly rolls his eyes. ‘Thank you,' I tell him. ‘I owe you one.'

‘Marry me, and we'll call it even,' he winks.

‘Well then, we will be even very soon.'

Thalia shuffles her feet. Her crush on him is well known. Even though Cole and I are… close, she still throws every compliment and piece of praise she can at him.

I don't mind. I know Cole is not interested in her, and she would never risk our friendship by trying anything with him. But I step away and take her hand in mine to lessen her jealousy.

‘After the Rite, you will never enter such a place again,' Cole declares. ‘That's a relief, isn't it?'

That warm fuzzy feeling soon becomes ice cold.

Forbidden. Controlled.

Owned.

That's what awaits me after. I'm permitted limited freedoms now. But after the Rite, that will be gone. A magical tether around my fucking neck, never mind the title of wife to the future coven leader.

It's the better of the choices, I remind myself. I just have to get the Rite over and done with. One night. I can deal with one night.

The village clock tolls four times.

‘Shit!' I step back. ‘I'm late to meet my father.' I bundle up the hem of my skirts, ready to sprint to the town's border.

‘I will come with you.' He offers his hand, ever the gentleman, and doesn't wait for me to argue. He grips me tight and runs from the shelter of the doorway, laughing joyfully as we step into the torrential rain, Thalia following close behind.