All the Queen's Angels

Ch. 32: Quiet Like a Fire

"THEY BUTCHERED HIM."

My screams pry at the corners of the walls and cause the glass chandeliers to shiver. The guards hoist me up to my feet and drag me into the hall kicking and screaming. Malcolm is already in battle armor, directing palace security. Wrestling myself from the guards' grip, I rush toward him and grab his shirt.

"Malcolm they c-cut off his wings," I gasp through overwhelming sobs. "He's been tortured and it's my f-fault."

He stands frozen at first, caught off guard by my sudden hysteria. Then his eyes darken. "They delivered his severed wings to you?".

"Yes," I breathe, noticing the red smeared on my hands and his chest. "Oh gods, his blood—."

"Guards, prepare my troops," Malcolm shouts suddenly, before turning back to me. "No one threatens me and my wife and gets away with it. It's time we take back Gardenia and make those Forsythians pay for their crimes."

In my rage, I barely remember getting dressed or geared up for battle. All I remember was the red swirl of Ambrose's blood flushing down the metal drain.
...

Malcolm and I are in matching royal battle armor: black leather suits with metal reinforced corsets and knee-high boots. Wicked knives are strapped to every inch of Malcolm's body, along with a flamethrower and a massive battle axe. My uniform is mainly for show, designed to protect and defend, not fight. Since I've never trained for war, I carry just two daggers and a pistol. No sane person would attack me with the intention to kill anyways.

Such is the blessing of this twisted curse.

Everyone in the Infernal Army wears a battle mask, covering everything above the lips. Everyone except me.

Instead, I wear a sheer black veil covering everything below my eyes, which I requested be adorned with a dramatic black winged liner.

When we storm the gates of Forsythia, they will know whose revenge thirsts for blood.

As I mount my horse, Malcolm grabs my wrist.

"You ride with me."

And so my husband and I lead the Infernal Army of the continent's most wicked and merciless criminals to the Forsythian border.
...

Thunder splits the sky open as we cross the border, eerily devoid of military checkpoints or guards. The first two hours are spent in quiet apprehension as we anticipate an ambush in the dark thicket of the forest. However, it's clear the Forsythian troops are gathered elsewhere. A chill runs down my spine.

Something terrible is happening here—something worse an invasion of the Infernal Troops.

Malcolm makes me take refuge in the carriage but he refuses to come with me, riding in the rain like a madman. Through the window, I watch him revel in the fury of the thunder and lightning. It occurs to me that he hasn't seen rain in a long, long time.

I wonder if Ambrose likes the rain. When I see him again, I'll ask.

Hours later, Malcolm bursts into the carriage in a sopping heap, running his hand over his face. He collapses onto a seat and I realize his nose is red and his lips are blue.

"Are you a masochist?" I sigh, grabbing a towel from the first aid kits. He flashes me a wicked smile, satisfied that he lasted that long in the storm.

"Maybe," he replies, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

"As your wife, I'd be so embarrassed if you died of a cold because you were too busy jumping in muddy puddles."

"Well, as my wife, you should be happy to know that only a strike of lightning could take this devil down."

I scoff as I place the towel on his head and begin drying his hair. Malcolm's eyes suddenly fly open, his carefree demeanor hardening into surprise.

Determined to avoid more awkwardness, I hand him another towel so he can dry off. Then, as I sit on the other side of the carriage, I realize I basically told him to strip down.

I keep my eyes glued to the window, watching the rain pummel the forest. Unfortunately, I still catch glimpses of his reflection.

He is a work of art.

No. Focus.

As I stare at the trees passing by, I spot something in the distance.

"Stop the carriage," I call, running outside to take a better look. Posted throughout the forest are imperial flyers, announcing an upcoming event. I tear one down, clutching it until it rips.

Prince Leander Vincenzio's funeral.

And it's today.

I turn and hand it to Malcolm.

"Good thing we're wearing black," I smile, vengeance dripping from my teeth. "Looks like we're crashing a funeral tonight."
...

Natalia's POV:

The sky weeps as Leander's casket, carved from a cold slab of emerald, is drawn to the seashore beneath the cliffs. A carriage awaits to draw his body to the ocean. Deep in a trench rest the bodies of the fallen Forsythian royals.

As the waves swirl sand around my ankles, I look away down the beach to the cliffs.

Penthia died not far from here.

I dig my nails into my palm and raise my chin, performing the tedious ceremonial ritual to cleanse Leander's soul.

Meanwhile, no one will remember the Angel murdered on this beach.

The ocean rises as the ritual concludes, and the carriage prepares for sendoff. Around me, courtesans and royal guests gather to bid Leander a final farewell.

I will not miss him. For years, I was shackled to his family, his name, his crown. But today, I'm free to claim it all as my own. Today, I'm whole again.

I suppose I have Evangeline to thank for this.

But I stand alone at this new horizon because the Fallen Heathen extinguished my only light.

An eye for an eye.

I follow the carriage into the vicious waves as deep as I dare, watching it sink below the surface. Closing my eyes, I savor my first seconds as a true Queen. I exhale slowly, releasing the weight of Leander's shackles around my willpower. Then, the water grows warm as it slithers around my legs.

I look down and find the ocean filled with blood.

Shouts from the beach cause me to turn my attention to the cliffs above the shore. Evangeline stands at the edge, screaming something. She locks eyes with me before the a clap of thunder brings down a shower of arrows. She screams again:

Ambush.