Page 110 of Malicent


Font Size:

It grows wilder, louder. It’s maniacal.

I hardly even recognize my voice anymore.

I rake my fingers into the dirt—deep, desperate—over and over again, clawing through the earth until my nails snap on jagged stones buried beneath the surface.

I don’t feel it. Pain is meaningless now.

“I’ll kill you,” I whisper, still laughing. “I will fucking kill you, Cage!” I scream, throwing my head back and howling into the tree line where he vanished.

“Eat me!” I laugh. “Feed me to the fucking lizard! As If either of you could stomach me!” I shove myself upright to my knees.

The sky yawns open above me, and I laugh up at it.

Finally, I look down. The deep, jaggedCburned into my skin glares up at me, carved just under my left clavicle and down a path to my breast, soaking the shredded remains of my gown crimson.

I drag a battered finger along the path of blood, lift it to my mouth, and suck it clean. I swirl my tongue slowly, tasting every bitter drop. A low groan escapes me, and a giggle follows as I pop the finger free from my lips.

Finally, I rise.

Sheep for thee to slaughter.

SHEEP FOR THEE TO SLAUGHTER.

The Nightmother’s chanting crackles with a shrilling laugh, encouraging me to go further and take it all. It’s my right. It’s the law of nature.

The grass withers around me—curling, blackening—as my magic rolls off me in thick, suffocating waves.

I let it build—let it throb.

And then I release it.

A black cloud explodes outward—life devouring. Trees groan, and branches warp and snap as nature itself tries to recoil from me, but there is no escape; there never is.

My magic floods the earth like the coming darkness at the end of all things. Thick, living tendrils of smoky blackness race across the ground, coiling between the trees, crawling toward the one thing I seek.

Him.

The world warps around me, the earth turning into something dark, writhing, and alive with my hate.

And there will be no mercy—not anymore. I walk leisurely through the trees without ever losing my smile.

Tonight is a wonderful night. I get to kill my mother’s killer.

Birds plummet from branches as I pass, quiet, heavy thuds filling the woods like a symphony of decay.

I don’t follow death. I am death.

Frustration flares when I can’t immediately locate him. No. This simply won’t do. I raise both hands. Power collects in the spaces adjacent to me—thick and writhing—before ripping the very air apart.

Two oval voids tear open with gaping maws of endless darkness, their edges rippling like fine black silk. A sudden chill pierces through the air, and the faint scent of burning iron permeates the greenery. From within, they prowl forth.

My hounds—four of them—are terrible, skilled hunters, birthed from my hatred and hunger. Each is a nightmare stitched from shadow and bone. Six eyes burn atop their skeletal wolf heads, glowing a vibrant, blue. Their bodies ripple with shifting fur—tones of deep violet, dark sapphire, and blood red—like bruises painted across their monstrous frames. Their heads are bare bones. When they open their jaws, it’s not just one row of fangs but many—spiraling rows of teeth meant for nothing but to rip things apart.

They inhale in unison, air whooshing through the slits atop their skulls; their bodies catch fire from the inside out.

Blue flames lick up their spines, casting the trees in eerie, flickering light.

I smile wider. “Kill for mommy,” I say sweetly. My voice drips with vicious affection. They don’t need names. They don’t need direction. Each beast is a pure manifestation of my will—an extension of my hunger.