Even teen evil queens need love. Right? (Or at least a handsome sword-fighting minion to do their bidding!)
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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...
"Authors are wannabe dictators, who, unable to be the actual Overlords of Earth, create our own worlds that we can manipulate and conquer. The only problem is, sometimes our characters are even more despotic than we are. In that case, the only thing we can do is drink heavily."—Brittanie Charmintine, Legendary* Author and Aspiring Overlord
Oops! Această imagine nu respectă Ghidul de Conținut. Pentru a continua publicarea, te rugăm să înlături imaginea sau să încarci o altă imagine.
Just kidding! That would suck if I died on the table with no ass-kicking, retribution, or a hot kissing sesh with my favorite swordsman! I love you readers way too much to do such a thing! So here we go!
Where were we? Oh, yes, never surrendering vs. death.
As you recall, (it was only a few paragraphs ago!) I was unconscious and dying from a lack of oxygen.
Because I was unconscious, I wasn't suffering. So that was good for a while until I suddenly woke, gasping for breath, my lungs expanding against my ribs. It was the most delicious breath I'd ever taken, even if the air tasted of metal coated with the now-familiar smell of magic—ozone. When I opened my eyes, the light in the lab was so bright I closed them immediately. Still, an ache pounded in the back of my eyeballs.
"Rowen! You're alive!" said a squeaky voice. I knew that voice.
Didn't I?
I carefully squinted one eye open only to discover my dear familiar, Vermeil, no longer made of stone, perched on my chest, bits of rope dangling from his whiskers and fur. He spat. "Those magic-suppressing ropes taste awful. Worse than rat poison. Which, now that I think of it, actually tastes kind of good. Almost everything tastes good—garbage, decaying garbage, my cousin Edna's niece's brother-in-law, overcooked parsnips. Everything except those ropes." He spat again and kicked bits of rope debris off my body like he was battling ants in a sugar bowl.
"Vermeil!" I said, my throat sore, my voice hoarse. "You saved me." I wanted to hug him or at least pat his little head, but I still couldn't move my limbs, only my eyelids.
"No. You saved me! I did not like being a lawn decoration. Let's just say I will make it my life's purpose to relieve myself on every pigeon I encounter. Vile creatures!" Who was I to argue? He deserved revenge, although I couldn't imagine how he would engineer this feat. Pigeons had wings.
"Mooooaaaannnn."
"Who was that?" I said, stomach flip-flopping. "Olivia?" Were she and Tyra waiting for me to turn back from a statue so they could suck out my magic? No, that couldn't be. They'd never have allowed Vermeil to gnaw through their precious ropes if they were here.
"Negative," Vermeil said. "Petronella."
"What? Why is she here? Petronella?" I called out.
"Moooaaannn," she repeated.
I tried to turn my head to look at her or yell at her for ruining my life, turning my dads into toads, and being such a shitty mom to Olivia that she turned into a monster, but I couldn't budge. Also, 'Mom' didn't sound healthy, so maybe now was the wrong time to tell her off. And while I'd enjoy it, it wouldn't be as satisfying to unleash my anger when Petronella sounded like a wounded animal.
