Even teen evil queens need love. Right? (Or at least a handsome sword-fighting minion to do their bidding!)
***
Bad things happen when Rowen is around and the worst part is, she has no idea why until a massive family secret sends her on a fantastica...
"But I rescued you," I said, a whine tinged in my voice.
"Maybe. But look what you've done to yourself."
"I had no choice."
"You did."
"No good choices."
"If you were half the evil queen I know you are, you'd never settle for the choices you were given. You'd tell those choices to scram and create new ones you liked better."
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"You're real," I breathed. (You can't blame me. None of us thought she was flesh and blood. Or whatever demons are made of.)
Xiri leaned in and sniffed my neck. I took a step backward. "You're real," she countered. "And you smell delicious."
I took another step back, trying my best not to look like a delivery from Uber Eats. "You're not going to devour me, are you?"
"No, just ate," she said, wiping away the blood on her chin with her palm. "Thanks anyway."
Phew! Should I ask her where she got her meals? Hello Flesh? Butcher Box? Demon Feed? Naw. Better not to know. "Good, I mean, I'm sorry I didn't think you were real. It's just Ash said he modeled you after his ex, and I assumed you were, I dunno, um, software?"
"Honey, there's nothing soft about me!"
I gulped. She was correct. She was very firm. I mean muscular. Whatever.
Dozens of computer monitors encircled Xiri's high-tech tomb chamber, like the control center in a heist movie. Soundless images flicked across the screens, displaying a myriad of locations in and around the castle—the dungeon, the banquet hall, the entry, the gardens, the moat, and more.
Ghosts haunted the dungeons. Giant spiders patrolled the halls. Witches stirred boiling cauldrons and weeded the gardens. Fairies danced around the dining hall, festooning the table, that now looked as if it could seat a hundred people in ribbons of sparkly magic that transformed into glasses, platters, candles, and bowls of gleaming fruit. In the kitchen, minions were hard at work, peeling potatoes and deveining shrimp while the Queen's French chef, Jacques, loomed over them. (Fortunately, no frogs' legs were in sight.)
I scanned the screens, looking for my dads. No luck, but the furthest screen was a flurry of activity. Petronella sat upon her throne wearing her usual white suit and pearls, receiving a horde of supernatural creatures—giants whose gnarly heads scraped the 30-foot ceilings; fairies, each more gorgeous than the last; trolls, as ugly as the fairies were beautiful; the occasional hint of a shadowling lurking in corners: dragons spewing fire way too close to the antique tapestries; unicorns leaping in arcs across the chamber, leaving trails of sparkly rainbows in their wakes; merfolk in tanks, splashing water across the marble floors. And many more. Though there was no sound, they all seemed to be displeased with the queen based on all the splashing and spewing and lurking and fist shaking. Well, the creatures who had fists were shaking them.
