Page 1 of The Rat King
Part 1
Chapter 1
Avery
“You’resurehe’saking?” I asked, swallowing the knot in my throat.
Naturally, I was skeptical. Who could blame me? Real kings didn’t exist anymore. Only figureheads, relics of human history like the Queen of England. As far as I was concerned, the concept of a monarchy was a thing of the past. An oligarchy, sure. The patriarchy, yes, obviously. But in South Beach, a king wasn’t a thing unless you counted the Tarpon Kings or Michael Jackson, the King of Pop.
Aunt Esmerelda raised two dark eyebrows as she eyed my reflection in the mirror hanging over the black bathroom vanity we sat before. Her brows resembled little half-moons arching over her deep umber eyes in an almost cartoonish way. She nudged her round reading glasses which were adorned with little silver stars at her temples back into position further up her nose as she spun my stool so I faced her. A little chain that had metal suns and moons every few inches hung down from either side framing her face. That, her signature black lacquered nails, and her belted black dress gave her a classic witchy vibe.
She even had a cool witchy name unlike me. But I wasn’t a real witch, so I guessed I didn’t deserve one. The magic gene had activated in her and my mother. Mine lay dormant as it occasionally did throughout the matriarchal lineages. I was still an honorary member of the coven, however, and had their protection. I was also subject to their laws, which superseded those of our government, not that they knew anything about the witches, our laws, or traditions. They didn’t even know we resided amongst them shaping our lives according to our own priorities, magically bound agreements, and guiding principles, one of which was coven first.
That’s how I found myself promised, according to an eighteen-year-old coven agreement with the realm of the warlocks, to wed a king from a plane most ordinary humans didn’t know existed.
Aunt Esmerelda flicked a wayward strand of her bottle-red hair out of her face. The rest of her bright locks cascaded in waves down her back as she leaned over the worn marble surface to fish out an eyeshadow compact from my makeup pouch.
“Yes, baby, a real king. We’ve been over this—”
“A million times, yes, yes. I know.” It was true, we had, but it was still hard to believe, and the doubt rose to a crescendo the closer it came to becoming my reality.
I studied my aunt. Something about her usually cool countenance was off. A fine sheen of perspiration appeared over her deep golden brown skin her mixed heritage gave her. She said she and my mother weremelting pot witchesand had a little of many races from around the globe in their heritage, but mainly Afro-Latina. My father was an Irish Catholic man from Michigan with an unruly shock of red hair and unusual amber eyes. All of which resulted in my medium gold coloring and the amber flecks enlivening my muddy brown irises, a trait I played up with cosmetics.
When I called Dad to tell him my plan to leave this plane and marry a king, he murmured, “That’s great honey,”then something about needing to take my half-sister Kelsey to soccer practice. He gave me an absent, “Love you,”and hung up. I wasn’t sure he’d even been listening, but it didn’t matter. I was used to it.
My mother died when I was barely a year old. Dad fell into a deep depression, and Aunt Esmerelda took over raising me. I saw him occasionally, but he eventually found a new wife, had children with her, and that became his family. I was a reminder of his loss.
Being raised by my aunt, who was a full-blown powerful witch, kind of made up for not having either parent around. She never missed an opportunity toguide me, as she’d call her lessons. So, while I didn’t have magic, I had a number of other skills. One being an uncanny ability to read people. Or maybe I got that skill from the four years I spent bartending at one of the busiest nightclubs off the beach.
Either way, my aunt’s wan skin alerted me to her anxiety level about this hand-off. The spell which would take us to this hidden land took quite a bit of power, but I knew Aunt Esmerelda could do it. And soon six other witches would come who would bind their energy to hers, so they could draw her back to this side of the plane once her work was done.
She noticed me watching her, my gold-flecked amber eyes meeting hers in the mirror. “Don’t be nervous, baby. The king will love you.” She ran a hand through my ashy locks, twirling a section around one of her ringed fingers. When she dropped the piece, she’d tamed it into a loose beach wave that fell with the other strands to the middle of my back.
“Should I pack a curling iron?” I asked her. “Or will they have those?”
Her thin lips pressed into a frown. “Darling, you will have people to help you with your hair, dressing you, and taking care of your every need. You know this. I don’t think a curling iron will be necessary.”
“Okay…” I said. “What about my makeup? You said they don’t have a Sephora there, and I cannot live without my mascara.” To my surprise, the knowledge of our counterparts wasn’t much. The planes had been separated as long as anyone could remember, and information rarely passed between them. I supposed our limited knowledge was to be expected.
A warm smile spread across her face, making the apples of her cheeks into tight balls of joy. “I got you a present.” Aunt Esmerelda shuffled away, then came back with an elaborately wrapped gift box. She set it on the vanity and motioned for me to open it.
My eyes widened as I opened the package. “Wow.” It was as if the Mac counter exploded into the purple quilted travel pouch, which was inside the gift box. Except everything had been taken out of its box or the sealed plastic, which was handy because those little perforations on sticks of eyeliner never came off as easy as the manufacturer intended, but it all appeared new. “This is amazing. Thank you!”
“It gets better,” she said. I leaned forward, ready to accept whatever better would be. “Me and some of the other witches have spelled these cosmetics, so they will never expire or need to be replaced.”
“Wait, what?” I stammered. “You mean to tell me you could have given me never ending mascara this whole time?”
My aunt chuckled, spinning the little stool I sat upon, so it was facing her once again. She picked up one of my old eyeshadow pallets and nudged my chin lifting my head. I dutifully shut my eyes. Normally, I preferred to do my own makeup, but this would probably be the last time I saw my aunt for a long while, and I knew she wanted to do this for me, so I obliged.
The soft bristles of the crease brush glided over my lid. When they stopped, I peeked to see her go in for another dip into a color calledSunset Stroll.
“You know we don’t waste our power on such trivial things. But now, with this sacrifice you are so graciously prepared to embark upon for your people, you deserve this gift. To feel like the beautiful and fierce woman that you are. A queen. Look at me dear.” I obeyed. Her eyes misted over as she finished and assessed me, decided she was satisfied with her work, and spun me back to the mirror so I could see myself.
I looked good, and I knew exactly what she meant. I’d been groomed over the last three months for this task. As it turned out, queens did more than sit around eating cake and holding little dogs. My coven educated me on history, politics, public speaking, charitable leadership, and, of course, anything and everything that was known about the parallel plane the warlocks ruled, including the mages themselves. Which, sadly, wasn’t much.
My brain was filled to the point of bursting. While trepidation was ever-present since our matron came to me with the proposition to complete this transaction for my people, I’d become resigned to it. And besides, didn’t every Disney movie watching girl dream of discovering they were a secret Anne Hathaway style princess?
I was going to shoot straight past princess to queen. So, not knowing my future husband, bad. Becoming a queen, hell yeah.
