The Dread Descendant (The Dread Descendant, #1)

by Lauren Cate Leake

Maeve didn’t look at her wrist. Where three small pointed stars were Magically branded in black ink.

One finger. A symbol of Mal’s power. The symbol of a Supreme. A Supreme far ahead of his time.

“In a desperate hour, your Prince of Darkness will return. Through a broken line of Magic, into unsuspecting veins. His life will call like to like in those where Magic blood remains. The Descendant of Dread will conquer the plague of the Promised Land, with a single finger,

not a sword. Rejoice, child of golden blood, freedom shall be yours. On backs and broken necks will balance be restored.”

The desire for his fixation, his attention, for his dark eyes to be on her alone was enough.

Something in her stomach flipped over as his button-down slid up, exposing his skin. She shook it off and closed her book, which landed her a stern face from Mal.

And Gods. He was captivating. His features were so bold, his lips perfectly sculpted and full.

Mal was the Dread Descendant. He was her savior. But none of that remained in her mind. All she knew was his hands on her body. His lips on hers.

He was well over six feet, as most Immortals were, with skin kissed by the sun and shining black hair. Tattoos peeked out from his velvety ornate tunic up his neck. They ran across his knuckles as well. They weren’t sleek or elegant. They were harsh, jagged marks of ancient Magic. Familiar and unfamiliar to her all at once. Vexkari. He looked to be in his thirties. But Immortals were gifted eternal beauty. They stopped aging in their second or third decades. “I think I may faint,” said Abraxas. Reeve and Ambrose embraced happily. “That may be the most attractive man I’ve ever seen,” Abraxas said under his breath.

Where Mal was the most gorgeous boy she had ever laid eyes on, Reeve was pure man. Even the thick velvet of his suit couldn’t conceal the muscles underneath. His tan tattooed hands gripped his goblet in such a way she was certain he could shatter her whole with one movement of those fingers. Her eyes snapped away from his frame as he spoke with one brow raised.

He had not introduced her. She was no High Lady or Queen. She was just his date. The High Lord’s mate died centuries ago, according to her Father.

Maeve’s smile relaxed. She looked up at him solemnly with a soft expression. He was not at all like she assumed. “How about as a lady showing respect for a powerful Immortal? Or perhaps warrior to warrior, as you would call it.”

“So the ring, the locket, the dagger, the goblet, the spell book, the stone, and the crown,” said Maeve.

Mal looked out the window. “I’m thinking my priority needs to be finding these objects so I can be who I claim to be. They aren’t just symbols. They are power. They are me.”

It didn’t take long for Emilia to spill what little she knew about her father’s search for the Dread artifacts. But the tiny lead she did divulge was a start.

If you want a place at Larliesl’s table, then take it. Demand it. But if you think you do not stand at my side, then you are not at all the clever Witch I thought you were.”

“Yes,” admitted Maeve, playing with his ring around her neck. “Did we go to the same Summer Solstice Party or not?” “What?” Abraxas shook his head with a laugh. “And you’re supposed to be the cleverest of us all.” Maeve snatched Spinel away from him and walked away. “Everyone needs to stop saying that,” she muttered to Spinel.

Maeve squinted, certain her eyes were deceiving her. Reeve stood between two spiraling maple trees. The High Lord was there. At Vaukore.

Reeve’s warrior front fell only for a moment when he looked at her like he might smile at her. Truly smile.

Reeve watched them with narrowed eyes as she spoke. “It screams from him. His Magic. Dread Magic is engraved in my memory.”

Reeve stepped towards her. The mountains beneath them trembled. The sky darkened, and the temperature turned hot. Flaming hot. But her blood ran cold. She glanced aside as the trees in the courtyard seemed to yearn for escape. Loose fragments of stone rolled beneath their feet.

Mal would die before she did. It was now written in Magic. Unbreakable Magic sealed in an unbreakable bond between them.

Mal took a deep breath. “I will end each and every one of them that tries to take what is mine.” “The Dread Lands?” she asked as his hand pulled out from between her stomach and her pants. A darkness formed on Mal’s face. “You.” His eyes bore into hers with a lethal rage so calm it should have been unsettling. “You are mine.”

Walter spit at Mal’s feet.

“You should fear her,” he said. “I don’t want stupid men in my court.”

His second. That’s what she was. That night in Albania was for Magical purposes, that much was clear. They hadn’t spent a night together since.

Something about the motion sparked a fire in her stomach.

“Someone thinks highly of himself, doesn’t he?” asked Maeve dryly.

Reeve licked his lips and leaned towards her. “I can show you exactly how far it extends.”

“You are a magnificent creature,” he said slowly.

“So pretend all you want, but I know that deep, deep down, buried beneath your delusion and pride, that you are afraid of him . . . deep . . . deep down. And you should be.”

He had said she was the third most powerful being alive.

“So, I am assuming Ophelia’s Great-Aunt what’s-her-name took a liking to you?” “I’m meant to have tea with her tomorrow morning.”

“I know the Museum has sent you here to persuade me to sell some of my treasures,” said Vetus, eyeing Mal.