Kingdom of the Wicked (Kingdom of the Wicked, 1)

“Soon” turned into a week. I hardly noticed the passage of time. I stayed in bed, locked the sunlight out, and refused to bathe. I had little energy and less reason to care. I didn’t visit my family, or the restaurant. I didn’t look for my amulet, or think about the gates of Hell. I barely slept. When I did, I kept hearing a strange voice. When I awoke, the urgent message was forgotten.

I didn’t care. It didn’t matter.

The world felt like it was caving in around me, and sometimes I’d gasp for what felt like hours, unable to draw in enough breath. Life hurt. All pleasure was gone. Anything that once held meaning was long forgotten, buried deep in a void I couldn’t break through. My sister was a faraway memory. Vengeance was rooted in passion, and therefore I had nothing left of it, either.

If Wrath was angry or annoyed by my inability to shake off the last vestiges of his brother’s power, he didn’t let it show. At least not in the ways I expected.

He wasn’t always the most gracious or patient nursemaid. But he was never far, always prowling around near my borrowed room in the ruined palace. Sometimes, when I was in that foggy place between sleep and wakefulness, I saw him camped out in a chair beside my bed. His hair and clothing both rumpled. Once, I thought he held my hand. But when I roused myself from that near-impenetrable haziness, he was gone. He brought food three times a day and when I refused to eat, he’d sit there, glowering until I did. Fighting him took too much energy. So I ate.

Sometimes I’d stare at the careful lines of his tattoos. Up close, the metallic snake that started on his right hand and curled up and around to his shoulder was a masterpiece—each scale shimmered. It was more than gold, there were bits of silver and charcoal—shadows and light. I stared blankly at it while he brought my next meal. I wondered if our matching tattoos would evolve with intricate details over time. I stopped caring.

He held out more food.

Globes of plump red grapes. Hunks of hard cheese. Warmed milk sweetened with honey and spices. Cured meats and other things I stopped paying attention to. He was a mighty hunter bringing home spoils of war. I wondered when he’d give up and let me be.

“When you start doing it on your own.”

I didn’t think I’d asked aloud. I didn’t care if he read my mind. I pushed his handful of grapes away, rolled onto my side. And let the world around me fade.

Somewhere, in the distance, I thought I heard Wrath speaking. He was telling me a story about a witch. One day her heart had been ripped from her, not physically, but emotionally. The void was only filled when she went out hunting for vengeance, and even then her grief was never far. Then, when she’d been close to discovering some long-forgotten secret, she met a terrible prince. He delighted in taking what little pleasure she’d clung to, leaving her empty and vulnerable.

I tuned out the sound of Wrath’s voice. I didn’t care for this story. I knew the ending.

Vittoria was gone. I’d been fighting grief over her loss with all I had, gripping my pursuit of justice like it was my only tether to the world.

Now that my will to cling to it was gone, there was nothing left.

Two weeks was where his patience ended, apparently. One morning, or evening—I’d stopped paying attention—I was scooped from bed and unceremoniously dumped into a waiting bath, clothes and all. I bobbed up from the water, pushed tangles of hair from my face, and glared at the demon. He glared right back and a tiny spark of anger finally ignited.

“Have you completely lost your damn—”

My scolding died when I took in the peculiar scene around us.

Candles set in a circle on the floor dripped waxy tears, their flames offering a soft glow against the twilight streaming in. I couldn’t tell if it was dusk or dawn. The windows were thrown open, allowing fresh air to glide around the bathing room. At some point, during my convalescence, Wrath had hung window coverings. Beautiful gauze panels fluttered in the wind.

He hadn’t stopped redecorating there.

A line of sand circled the tub along with dozens of fragrant orange blossoms and plumeria. My favorite flowers. My gaze shot to him in accusation. “What is this?”

“Representations of each element.” He nodded to the items in question. “Earth, air, fire, and water. I take it I don’t need to explain further.”

He didn’t. I knew exactly what it meant. They were offerings for the goddesses to help guide a moon daughter back from darkness. I glanced around the chamber again, my pulse soothing. Adding orange blossoms and plumeria was a bit much—the sand would have done just fine for the earth portion of the ritual. I didn’t point that out, though. I was . . . surprised the demon even knew this much of our ways. I relaxed against the lip of the tub and closed my eyes, letting the magic of the elements seep into my soul. A drowsy peace settled deep within me.

I heard retreating footsteps and waited until he was almost gone. “Thank you.”

He must have heard me. I didn’t whisper and—even with the windows open—there were no other noises drifting up from the streets. But the only reply he offered was the soft click of the door closing behind him. I inhaled the pleasing scent of orange blossoms and drifted off. Later, I’d pick some of them up and weave them into my hair. As I slipped deeper into the water, I finally understood why he’d brought the flowers. They weren’t meant for the ritual. They were for me.

Their fragrance was the first bit of true pleasure I felt after mine had been stolen away.