Prologue
Clarence
One of the rare perks of being a creature of darkness was the remarkable ability to behold the city from above, with its buildings glistening under the blazing sun like jewels strung in a necklace. If I spread my wings, I could soar above the silver streets and study the habits of the busy, distracted humans, who went about their days in oblivious bliss.
A long time ago, I had been one of them.
Unfortunately, I didn’t hold many fond memories of those days, and flying kept my mind busy enough to forget, at least for the brief duration of each journey, the misfortunes and depravities of my past. So much blood had been shed to feed the monsters―the monsters like us.
Volunteering for the search had allowed me many years of perfect distraction, for it wasn’t a light task: some in The Cloister said there were no strays left, and whined that the quest would be in vain. But I had been gifted with the patience of the immortal, and I pursued my goal until, one day, the wind brought me the bitter scent of witches’ blood. Feelings of ambivalence flooded my chest when I realized my work would soon be done.
There she was, so lovely in her humble simplicity. So ordinary, so frail. Not for long, I told myself.
I turned back to The Cloister to relay my news to the others. They would be relieved. But I? Not so much. I enjoyed the thrill of a good quest. And I hated idleness.
When I knocked on the queen’s door, she was already expecting me.
“I found her,” I said with a slight bow.
Elizabeth nodded and started to get ready for the new guest.
“We need to act fast,” she said. “Before anyone else finds her, too.”
Chapter 1
Alba
“I want a divorce,” Mark said, smoothing the silk tie which peeped out of his perfectly tailored blazer. “Actually, I just filed the paperwork this morning.”
Despite the warm summer morning, I felt something turn to ice inside my chest. Divorce had been on his lips many times before, but I hadn’t expected him to just go and file the paperwork without telling me first.
Not that he hadn’t mentioned it before―he used divorce threats as the ultimate approach to get his way. But Mark was an attorney, after all, so I had always thought that marriage termination must be a natural and intrinsic part of his life; a singular kind of small-talk reserved for those who paced the halls of courthouses with coffee in paper cups and watches which cost more than an average person’s car.
Still, it took me by surprise because the pressure had dropped for a while, as I had tried really hard to please him, foregoing my own wishes and naively believing we could reach a truce and be happy again.
Although again was a bit of a stretch. I couldn’t really recall one single happy day in this doomed union of ours. And somehow, I sensed it was my fault for not being the beautiful, patient, sexy creature he had expected. I had fooled him with my ephemeral youth and carelessness, and he was good at reminding me about it every single day.
Mark left the room, closing the door carefully. Things should be treated with respect, he used to say.
A cool draft swept across the room as the door clicked into place. It carried the smell of freshly cut pinewood and rusty iron. A raven had been sitting on a branch of the magnolia tree in our garden while Mark spoke. I closed the window, feeling cold and somehow spied upon by the silent dark bird. I had seen it before, and it had bizarre eyes. Too profound and bright for a simple bird, so much so that it made me think of grandma’s stories about ghosts and demons inhabiting foreign bodies.
I tripped on a naked, legless Barbie, then bent down to pick it up, mulling absentmindedly about how much Mark hated finding toys lying on the floor. He always got edgy and raised his voice, or worse. A good way to keep our frail, homely harmony was to find bothersome items before he did.
So that was it. Mark had finally thrown the dreaded D-bomb at me, not caring that I stood in front of an ironing board holding one of his luxurious French couture shirts, the one he would wear tonight in order to impress his boss. My hand lingered on the iron for a couple of seconds too long, and the satisfying smell of burned fabric filled the room, as a brownish triangular mark formed on the back of the garment. It had cute, symmetrical rows of dots on each side: almost too nice. I wished I could just breathe fire like a dragon and burn his whole business wardrobe at once, forcing him to present himself in front of his colleagues wearing a greasy paper bag. My fingertips started to tingle with excitement at the thought, as they usually did when I held back my anger.
In my late twenties, I was almost too young to grow gray hairs. Still, I had a few: a mute testimony of the hundreds of arguments it had taken to remain sane in my better half’s company.
I could envision Mark’s fury when he found out about the shirt later that evening, and my pulse accelerated, fearing his reaction.
Breathe, Alba, breathe.
He’s just a man. An ordinary human, just like you. The law doesn’t allow him to harm you. And you know that Law is his only true love.
I counted up to eight with each exhale.
There were other forms of torture which didn’t leave marks, and my darling husband excelled at all of them.
“I’ll find a way,” I told myself.
I sat on the bed, reaching for my phone, just to throw it back among the pillows as I realized I had nobody to call. I was about to divorce an attorney at law, and one who wanted to destroy my life at that. My worst nightmares looked like fairy tales in comparison.
Just as I was digging through a drawer in search of a tissue to blow my nose―not that I was crying, but the magnolias were in full bloom and spreading nasty pollen all over Emberbury―my five-year-old daughter, Katie, came into the room. Her arms were full of the remainders of a torn book, and she was followed by a black stray cat that she and her sister had found a couple of weeks ago, roaming in the garden.
The animal had gold and purple eyes, an uncommon trait in black cats. I figured it must be a very rare and expensive cat breed―like that hairless beast my neighbor, May, had bought her son for the price of a spa weekend in Bali―and someone must be searching frantically for it in our fine neighborhood.
“Mommy, Iris tore the cover of my favorite book. Can you glue it back?”
“Let me see, maybe I can,” I said, caressing my girl’s head as I inconspicuously wiped my nose right after hers, with the same tissue.
The book was a glitter hardback monstrosity, full of pink and purple illustrations of witches and fairies. I found some glue in a drawer, put the pieces together and pressed them firmly. “Now we wait for it to get dry, okay?”
I eyed the black cat, which had jumped on Mark’s shirts and was purring and kneading them. Hopefully, it would leave plenty of claw marks all over the costly Egyptian cotton.
“Did you name it already?” I asked, telling myself we had to adopt that animal, if only to upset Mark.
“Yes, mommy! She’s Miss Jilly now. Like the witch from my book.”
“Great name!”
“Thank you, mommy,” Katie said, kissing my cheek. “You know,” she said, giving me a mysterious look. “I think you are just like Miss Jilly. The witch, not the kitty.” She pointed at the cat, who was now trying to remove a button from one of the shirts with its bare teeth. I considered the possibility of stopping her, but I was enjoying the sight too much.