The Legend of the Eight: The Wicked (Book 2)

Epilogue: Number One Hundred & Seventy-Seven

EPILOGUE: NUMBER ONE HUNDRED & SEVENTY-SEVEN 

HE DRUMMED HIS FINGERS ON the gold arms of the throne where he sat, biting the inside of his cheek while he thought. In a matter of hours, he'd managed to invade the World of Magic and take it for himself—two things that Bartemius failed to do in the sixteen years he'd been trying. Of course it was easy—albeit, maybe too easy. He was Jeremiah Stone. He conquered.

"Sir," a round man said from below and Jeremiah glanced down to glare. The man was supposed to be with the rest, clearing the palace of any traces of the Diamonds.

"Yes?" Jeremiah asked, pursing his lips and pointing his eyebrows.

"Sh—She's h—h—here," the man stuttered before swallowing hard and collecting himself. "Sh—she would like to speak with you."

"Tell her I'm unavailable," Jeremiah replied with a smug grin. Then he began drilling his long fingers against the throne again. The star-shaped scar on his hand danced as he did. "I'll send for her later."

Just when the round man opened his mouth to object, his head took a sharp turn to the left and there was a loud snapping sound. He wriggled to the ground, lifeless, and Jeremiah's dark eyes widened. He stood from the throne and whipped his head around, anticipating the next attack.

But he knew what—rather, who—was coming. There was no need to look and there was nothing he could to stop her. She was the very person he'd been dodging since escaping to the World of Magic. She was the one he hid from in the Shadow Lands, the one who made his escape possible in the first place.

"J!"

There was an angry call from outside the throne room and her high heels clacked against the marble floors on her way to him. A beautiful woman appeared in the doorway and her sparkling eyes locked on Jeremiah's. Chills raced down his spine and he forced a hard swallow that sounded like a gulp.

Because there were few things that scared Jeremiah Stone, and he was most afraid of her.

She was shorter than him and thinner than a rail but she was absolutely terrifying. Her hair was coal black, tied into a thick braid that swung across her back like a snake. There was a rumor she once strangled a man to death with it. She had a fine jaw and a noble nose and her skin held a bronze glow—rare for someone who'd spent the last twenty years in the Shadow Lands like her.

She stopped at the door, balancing in the four-inch heels effortlessly, and he couldn't help but notice how she was dressed to kill. Literally. Once, she used the heel of her stiletto to stab a man in the heart and she could snap a man's neck without breaking a nail. She tapped one of those nails against her chin and glared at him with a pair of striking green eyes.

"Playing dress-up as the King?" she asked in a strong Aussie accent (she'd gone to primary school in Sydney before the Academy). Then she gestured to his seat on the throne. "Is that what's got you so occupied?"

Jeremiah quickly rose to his feet, stepping out of the way of the throne which her eyes darted to whenever they weren't on him. She was as lethal as she was beautiful and everyone in the Shadow Lands did well not to anger her.

All but Jeremiah.

"Bernadette," he said, trying to steady his voice and disguise his fear. "Wh—What are you doing here?"

She began to laugh and it was because she laughed that he knew he really messed up.

"What am I doing here?" she repeated and circled the room like a shark hunting its prey. "What am I doing here?"

She reached him at the throne and stopped.

"What the bloody hell do you think I'm doing here? We had a deal, J."

"Yes. But you see, Bartemius—"

"You and I both know that of all the threats to you in the Three Realms, Bartemius Thawne is not one of them." She giggled when she realized her mistake. "Oops! I meant was. He's dead now, isn't he? Heard that Alchy bitch tore his heart straight from his chest. Pity. He certainly was more tolerable than you."

Jeremiah cleared his throat. "If this is about the girl—"

"The girl?" Bernadette repeated extravagantly. She sat down on the throne, claiming it for herself, and then shook her head at him. "You're damn right this is about her."

Jeremiah eyed the exit. If he ran, he might make it before she could shoot him in the back with a curse or knock him down with the back of her shoe. He thought about it, only deciding against it because he wasn't willing to risk his speed against hers.

"I made you a deal, J," she said, watching him curiously. "And I thought I was pretty reasonable. You needed me to get you and your merry band of Boy Scouts out of the Shadow Lands—which I did. Graciously, if I may add. All I asked in return was that you bring her to me once you were out. It could not have been simpler."

She began inspecting her long, sharp nails casually. There was blood dried underneath them and along her cuticles. He wondered which of his men suffered at her hands.

"So tell me," she said. "What did you do?"

Jeremiah's head dropped shamefully, like a kindergartener being scolded for sneaking a snack before dinner. "Not that."

"Not that!" Bernadette condescended with a laugh. "In fact, not only did you fail to bring her to me, but you killed her for your own petty revenge!" She swung her legs over the arms of the throne so that she was reclining and then tightened the band in her hair. "I expected you to fail so I took precautions years ago."

Jeremiah's face felt hot. Bernadette had a flair for the dramatic and calculated every decision. He should have known she had a contingency plan in place.

"You put up a good fight, J," she chuckled. "But you were outsmarted. By children. And me."

"Bernadette, I can assure you—"

"One hundred and seventy-six," Bernadette interrupted, using a number that meant nothing to him. "That is the number of people I have killed in the protection and pursuit of—as you called her, the girl."

She said the words so casually—as if killing so many people was nothing more than a hobby for lazy Sundays.

"Luckily, your sloppy exit of the Shadow Lands gave me the chance to leave as well," Bernadette said, chuckling as she did. "You really blew the Veil to shit, didn't you?"

While Jeremiah pondered how it was possible she escaped, Bernadette rose from the throne and began to stride towards the door. "So I will be collecting her myself now."

"I—" Jeremiah tried to say but was once again interrupted.

"One hundred and seventy-six, J..." she said again. "Should I find you pose a threat to her, I will not hesitate to make you number one hundred and seventy-seven." She raised an eyebrow. "Clear?"

Jeremiah exhaled the breath he'd been holding since she arrived and tensed his jaw to disguise his relief. He was almost certain that Bernadette was coming to kill him. But she'd only come with threats.

Bernadette crossed the marble in those long strides, stopping at the threshold. As she stopped, Jeremiah felt his chest tighten with fear. Maybe she had come to kill him after all.

"And J?" she asked in a voice that was sweet, maternal almost. "One last thing. Your son would do well to stay away from my daughter, got it?"