Filed To Story: Cursed Legacies Series Free PDF by Morgan B Lee
Crypt sees that and shouts in helpless rage. Silas starts screaming again nearby, and as the asshole releases my hair, I realize my blood fae is being tied to the stake beside me. Not-
Baelfire is still a laughingstock, and somewhere high above, Everett is being forced to watch all of this.
More holy power pumps through my veins, screaming at me to harness my fury and do something.
I will.
I’m just waiting for the right moment.
The fake judge bangs his gavel again to be heard over the excited legacies.
“Furthermore, as is our duty as legacies, and according to the landmark Sacredness of Life Act of 1742, the former blood fae known as Silas Crane is hereby found guilty of successful necromantic metamorphosis. To cleanse the world of his vile death magic, this necromancer shall also be exterminated expeditiously through traditional means.”
That explains the wooden stakes.
The security asshole releases my hair and pulls out a key that finally drops the chains before loosening the arms of my straitjacket just enough to lift them high above my head. He starts tying my wrists to the stake using the ends of the straitjacket arms.
I don’t fight it. Instead, I breathe at a measured pace, preparing for the right moment to unleash hell. Still, my stomach dips and twists with each minor brush of his skin against mine.
I’m fighting like hell to disassociate through this, but it catches me by surprise when cold gasoline crashes over my head, dousing me immediately. It starts to burn my skin, the pungent chemical scent searing my nose and throat. I sputter, spitting out the turpentine flavor. My eyes burn.
They must have doused Silas at the same time, because his nonsensical screams worsen. When I look over, he’s thrashing despite his bound wrists, his blood-red eyes unseeing as his fangs descend. His blackened fingertips are on display, his hands tied over his head just like mine.
“Silas,” I cough, desperate to comfort him even as the audience claps and cheers. Cameras are flashing again, but the jackasses who just tied us up like this have finally stepped back.
“
Ei’thu leamsah head devil!
Thu occidere a’sai!”
he shrieks, choking on gasoline.
Most of that makes no sense, except the part where he might’ve called me a head devil.
“I’ll fix this,” I reassure him. Whether he can understand me or not, I can’t take his panicked, paranoid screaming anymore. It hurts me more than the acrid gasoline burn in my throat. “I’m real. This is real, and it’s about to be over. I promise.
Tha galeath.”
He stops fighting so hard for a brief second, rolling his head from side to side as his screaming turns into a prayer. It’s the first time I’ve heard Silas pray, and I don’t miss that he’s praying to Arati.
It’s fitting. We’re in front of her temple. She’s the goddess of fury, revenge, love, combat…pretty much everything we’re about to need.
I glance at the sky, deciding it’s not a bad idea. “From what I remember, you were a bitch. But so am I. Maybe we parted on good terms, so feel free to make yourself useful.”
Nothing changes, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t need her when vengeance continues to rage inside me.
By the time a fire elemental moves to stand in front of the stakes, holy power is pumping so vigorously in my veins that I’m nearly shaking. Ravens look on. Ghosts are restless, drifting ever closer until the furious dead hover behind me, waiting.
Finally—fucking finally
—the blue haired ghost appears nearby with my etherium dagger in her hands. Only a couple of people in the audience notice the dagger floating toward me, and their eyes round in confusion.
“Maven Oakley,” the judge booms, calling everyone to attention as cameras pan to me. “At the foot of Arati’s temple, we now end your infernal existence as an offering to the gods. Say your final prayers to Syntyche, for the Reaper is known to be merciless and?—“
I don’t mean to burst into laughter.
Really, I don’t.
It just bubbles up uncontrollably as everyone else falls quiet, uncomfortable with my humor. The jury and judge look annoyed. Photographers snap more pictures of my accidental bout of amusement as the fire elemental waiting to execute us looks around, unsure of what to do.
Crypt starts to smile as he watches me spook the audience. Not-Baelfire has stopped chewing on his leash. Even Silas has stopped screaming, leaving this colorless, crowded street quiet except for my laughter.
I was a fool, trying to keep my identity a secret until I was ready for the world to know. I thought it would give me time to adjust, but now?
Everyone watching needs to know exactly who they crossed.
“If you think Death is merciless, you haven’t officially met her daughter,” I warn the frightened onlookers as my laughter tapers off. I toss gasoline-soaked hair out of my face and smile as dark, murderous anticipation hums in the cold air around me. “Let’s change that, shall we?”
The blue-haired ghost swipes my etherium blade through the straitjacket arms tying me to this stake in one fluid motion. The knife promptly falls out of her no-longer-solid grasp—and just like that, I’m free as my weapon transforms into a scythe in my hand, as ready as I am to reap.
Ghosts pour through me in a deluge, turning tangible as they flood into the mortal realm. Ravens descend as holy magic swirls around my fingertips, unleashed with my lost temper.
I smile as the beautiful screaming begins.
BAELFIRE-
My dragon likes all the screaming.
He also likes chewing on his stupid fucking leash, which means that from the corner of our dark, shared mind where I barely manage to exist, all I get is a vague view of this moron chewing on leather.
Hey, Scales for Brains. Where the hell is Maven?
I try to demand.
He ignores me easily.
Ever since my mate’s scent started to make its way to me through the control of my dragon, she’s all I can think about—besides trying to fight for dominance in my own head. But according to everything Everett told me earlier, that’s been a losing battle for six months.
Six whole motherfucking months without her.
I push against my inner dragon, desperate to take over so I can look around for my mate and figure out what just happened to start all the screaming. I see some of what my dragon sees, but he sucks at paying attention to details. And his listening skills? Forget it.
The one and only thing I can thank the scaly alphahole for is his unique ability to sense Maven, no matter the distance. It’s something to do with us being marked as mates, but only he picks up on it. Not to mention, it must not be a perfect skill, because the big scaly pain in my ass went and sniffed around an abandoned temple for hours on end before he went to hunt for Maven days ago.
Despite my inability to see or sense much trapped in my own head like this, I can still identify a barrage of smells. Gasoline. Smoke. Blood.
But most of all, the sour smell of fear, so fucking thick and powerful that it makes me think I’m missing something big.
Someone screams loudly in terror nearby before their pleas cut off.
“T—they’re all ghosts!” another legacy shouts. “No! Mercy! Please, have mer?—“
His voice cuts off as birds shriek somewhere nearby.
Ghosts? Are we in danger again?
Shit—is she in danger?
Godsdamn it, I need control. I need to get to her.
My dragon is suddenly restless and angry about something, but I can’t get a fucking grip or sense anything happening in my own body until something slams into my head. I topple, pain rocking down my neck and spine as the world spins.
New Book: Returned To Make Them Pay
On her wedding anniversary, Alicia is drugged and stumbles into the wrong room—straight into the arms of the powerful Caden Ward, a man rumored never to touch women. Their night of passion shocks even him, especially when he discovers she’s still a virgin after two years of marriage to Joshua Yates.