Queen of the Night (Witchfire 1)

PROLOGUE - Arthur

The Night Market squatted in the concrete carcass of Queen Victoria Square, taking on a life of its own. Hawkers boasted of one-of-a-kind wares while lines for popular food stalls wound around in spirals. Giant, cloudy globes hung between the awnings on sagging black wires, bathing the pavement in a soft, amber glow that reminded Arthur Nightshade of his sister's eyes.

He cut through the crowd easily, using his height to scout the best path, putting his bulky shoulder forward to drive apart those too rude or oblivious to get out of his way. It was strange, sometimes, to come out to places like this; back home, everybody treated him like royalty, but here Arthur was just like anybody else. A guy looking for his girl after they split up to save time.

Sophie was a slight thing, easily lost in the crowd. It happened more often than he liked when they were out together; sometimes she even disappeared for hours at a time. The wolf prince frowned, pausing by the photobooth she said she'd meet him at. The locally brewed beer he'd just bought sloshed dangerously in the plastic cups as he turned this way and that, hoping for a glimpse of chestnut hair and flashing hazel eyes.

He wasn't prepared for the hand that seized his arm, dragging him into the photobooth. It was only his supernatural reflexes that prevented him from spilling the fermented brew all over himself, but they also lengthened his canines automatically, his skin crawling as the Change threatened to take over his pale, human form and warp it into something darker. Deadlier.

"Cheers," the witch said, snatching a cup out of his hand. She had to be a witch; she reeked of iron, and her eyes were like black holes, threatening to crumple him into a ball and shit him out in another timeline. "I really needed this."

He blinked, stupefied, as the witch fisted the drink and gulped it all down in one go. There was something familiar about her dark skin and the angles of her face, a curious blend of strong bones and delicate lines. Her accent was unusual too, as if she had lived in many places and taken sounds from all of them, making something entirely new.

"Midna Everclear?" Arthur asked abruptly, squinting in disbelief. "What's the Prophet of the Council of Thirteen doing here?"

She grimaced, pressing the red button for the camera. "Committing treason. I don't have a lot of time, so I need you to –"

Somebody parted the curtain, sticking their foot in the gap. "The booth is occupied!" Midna shouted, yanking the curtain closed. "Wait your damn turn."

Arthur heard the girls muttering a few choice words beyond the veil, but thankfully Midna's hearing was too poor – or she was too preoccupied – to pay any attention to the vitriol they spat. "As I was saying, I need you to listen carefully. I am only going to say this once."

Click. The screen froze, showcasing their first portrait; not a particularly flattering one. Arthur looked like a lost puppy, his dark hair in disarray and his blue eyes wary, bordering on fear. Midna, on the other hand, looked like she was going to spew up every last drop of that stolen beer.

"I'm listening," he said gravely.

"The one you love most is going to betray you," she began, "setting in motion a series of events that will shape the fate of the very universe. But before it all snowballs, you are going to be presented with a choice."

"What choice?" he asked.

Click.

This time they looked focused, like paramedics working to save a critical patient.

"If it is you or your sister that will live to tell the tale."

Click.

This time Arthur looked like he was going to be sick.

Midna grabbed his other drink, too. "Both of you possess the capacity to destroy or save the world. I know not which path either one of you will take,  but take it you shall before the night is out."

There was no point arguing about what-ifs. Midna was a Prophet of the Council of Thirteen. The highest-ranking witches in the world. "When will I know that it is time to choose?"

"When you come face to face with your greatest enemy. Let him live, and Chance will lead, and one day even love. Let him die, and her fate shall become yours."

Click.

"I'm sorry," Midna said, her eyes softening with pity. "I do not envy you this decision."

The curtain peeled back a second time, but the prophet was already disappearing through the other side, taking the freshly printed photo strip with her.

Sophie pushed into the photobooth. Her cheeks were an adorable shade of pink, lightly flushed from the cold. She'd never been good at regulating her own body temperature, often accosting Arthur with her cold hands and feet in the middle of the night, when he snuck into her room to be close to her.

"I thought I heard you in here," Sophie said, but the cheer in her voice sounded off key. "Was there somebody else with you?"

The one you love most is going to betray you.

Arthur shrugged. "I was on the phone to Chance. She seemed pretty upset."

Sophie grimaced. "Did she find out about the tournament?"

He shook his head. God, he was an awful liar. It felt like forcing himself to drink bleach, but in reverse. "No, but I think she suspects something is up. Father's been extra controlling lately."

She pursed her lips, rubbing his arm. "Sorry baby."

"It's okay."

It wasn't. Nothing was ever going to be okay again.

"I know what'll cheer you up," she said, pressing the red button and reaching down for the prop bucket at their feet. Suddenly Arthur was glaring at himself from beneath the stiff brim of a cowboy hat, while the girl he loved most in the world was posing in a cheap feather boa, pursing her lips and pressing them against his cheek.

She didn't ask about the beer he was supposed to bring. She didn't even have the pastries she left him to grab in the first place.

Click.

As Arthur stared at the fading image on the screen, he couldn't help but wonder if he was looking at a dead man.