Page 1 of Devoured

PROLOGUE

THE STARS DO NOT ABIDE BY RULES. THE STARS CREATE them.

As such, one could consider it a curse, to exist above all, so far out of reach, to witness regrets and expect mistakes and anticipate evil without ever being able to touch, feel, help, or change it. But the stars tried. They spent thousands of years preparing for this moment. In hopes of stopping the ruin before it could spill across the land as if a blight. But this blight would not be an accident. It would not be an infestation or disease from anything other than a werewolf’s own manipulations. And so the stars found themselves, all of them, hopeless.

The end of days had finally arrived.

Once upon a wretched slaughter, when a new queen stood on the precipice of life and death and despair while drenched in the golden rays of another winter’s dawn, the stars’ carefully crafted rules shattered forevermore. The remains of that tether—the power linking the stars to these wolves—snapped and then fell limp atop a blood-soaked earth.

Queen Cora Severi abandoned her gods in favor of power.

Thus, the gods had no choice but to abandon her as well.

1

VANESSA HART

I DO NOT SLEEP ANYMORE.

Instead, I wander the halls of Castle Severi and try to remember what it used to look like before. Starry tapestries hung from the ceiling, billowing in a magical, sugar-sweet breeze, while flowers exploded from cracks in the walls as if the Realm of Superiority were erupting from stone in an effort to reclaim the werewolf stronghold. At first, I’d loathed the sight. Detested the newness with every fiber of my human-born being. And then, weeks after being Bitten and transforming into a werewolf, I grew to appreciate the little moments. Bursts of beautiful magic here and there. An enchanted infirmary. A bed carved into a tree. A bubbling bathtub hidden behind a portrait of cresting waves.

Those things no longer exist.

Queen Cora Severi killed them. Just as she killed everything—everyone—else.

My hand drifts over a wrought iron banister as I cross what used to be the third floor’s sitting area. Black flames swallow baroque settees and chairs, the contained, alchemically created fire blowing smoke in thick, suffocating clouds throughout the rest of the hall. I cough roughly, painfully, but smoke will not harm me. It will not harm any of us. So I stay.

I stay, and I watch it burn.

Cora’s favorite werewolves rip ancient tapestries from hooks and nails, shredding them with sharpened claws before pitching the ribbons into the fire. More tear flowers from crevices and stomp them under hasty boots or paws. Windows are broken with rocks. Enchantments are set ablaze. It’s burning. All of it is burning.

And I—I cannot do anything about it. I am just Vanessa Hart.

To them, I am still just a girl.

To them, I am not planning their demise.

I tilt my head, eyes narrowed, and count the exact number of werewolves surrounding me. Twenty-six on this floor alone. I count the newest faces—Bitten and turned by Cora in the days after the slaughter. Eight. I swallow hard. My claws threaten to descend, to slice through my fingers. Emotion roils inside—so much emotion over the last week, I feel as if I’ve been dragged to the bottom of the sea. I can’t breathe. I can’t—

“Do they really think themselves better for not wearing uniforms? Aprons or no, they’re still prancing around like eager pups. Utterly embarrassing.”

My lungs threaten to explode at the sudden lilting tone. A thick Irish accent sounds on my right, and Oona glances at me with amusement twinkling in her whiskey-colored eyes. She wipes her hands against a muted brown apron, shaking bright orange curls away from her round face. “Inane, aren’t they?” she asks with an indelicate snort. “Cora must not have chosen them for their wit.”

She’s not wrong. Cora’s new werewolves haven’t been sorted as servants or nobles. Instead, they think they’re above the old hierarchy. Queen Cora Severi has claimed birthright and nobility do not exist inside this castle any longer. Which is, frankly, ridiculous, but not unbelievable.

What’s unbelievable is Oona. Standing beside me. Smiling.

I stare at her, desperate to memorize every errant curl and freckle before it vanishes. Sure enough, between one blink and the next, Oona flickers in and out of focus. She looks like the blur of a photograph, captured in the dark with a flash far too bright, and the gaping hole in the center of her chest—it begins to ooze.

I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming.

I glance up at the sconces flickering blue flames along the walls. Then at the tiled floor. The burning chairs. I blink. Again and again and again. Clench my fists until my nails break through my skin. Wake up. Wake up, I command my subconscious. Please, God, let me wake up.

I open my eyes, but—Oona is still grinning at me. Only now my old Combat instructor, Shepherd, stands directly behind her. He places a gentle hand on her shoulder and presses a reverent kiss to her temple. All the while, blood pours like tears down his cheeks.

Not a dream.

A tragedy.