My gaze wandered around the room, then landed on the fire extinguisher. I broke out into a sort of hysterical dark laughter and spilled some of my wine on the duvet.
Guess I could get rid of all the fire safety equipment now.
My phone buzzed—another text from Shai, desperate to know what was going on. I hadn’t been answering, because frankly, I had no idea what to say.
I was a demon, yes. But I wasn’t going to deliver that news over text. Still, I should let her know I was alive.
I flicked open my new, extremely cheap phone. Unable to come up with anything better, I texted her a smiley face and a bottle of wine emoji.
That should cover it.
My head was swimming, and I was starting to feel faintly nauseated. When had I last eaten?
The room seemed to be wavering. Apparently, being a demon made you faster and stronger, but it didn’t raise your alcohol tolerance.
And yet, I didn’t want my head to clear. I couldn’t face the possibility that my own fire magic had killed Mom.
When my phone buzzed again, I found a frantic all-caps message from Shai:
ARE YOU OKAY??! WTF IS HAPPENING? TWO MORE DUKES ARE DEAD?? I saw Legion in the Sathanas Ward. I got up the courage to ask him where Mortana was. He said no one had seen you, and rumor was that you’d burned two dukes. ARE YOU OKAY?
I dropped my cup of wine on the bedside table and started typing back to her.
I’m fine!
You know what? Fuck it. I was always so worried about what people would think or that I’d make them uncomfortable with the darkness I carried with me. I never wanted to burden anyone with my most disturbing thoughts. Maybe I could actually learn a thing or two from Orion. Maybe I could try…just coming out and saying things.
With a strange feeling of giddiness, I typed:
Turns out I’m a demon. I have fire magic. And a star mark. What if I’m the one who killed Mom? What if I’m evil?
I watched as the dots moved on the screen while she wrote back to me, and my heart pounded as if the judgment of St. Peter awaited me.
Evil people don’t worry that they’re evil, Rowan. They don’t care.
My chest unclenched, and I dropped the phone. Holy shit. Of course she was right.
Why hadn’t I been able to think clearly enough to consider that? A psychopath doesn’t worry that she’s evil. She doesn’t feel anxiety. And me? Even as a demon, I had plenty of that.
I rose from my bed and yanked open my basement door. Orion described someone who at her core did not care for other people. And what I’d said to him was true—my emotions rose to the surface when I felt like I desperately wanted to protect him.
And I couldn’t be Mortana.
I mean, I remembered being a kid. Crying in the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese and peeing my pants in the second grade. Mom sending me to school with waffles for a year because I refused to eat anything else, and other kids laughing at my bony knees. The nights Mom spent petting my head because I had nightmares and kept asking for water.
I remembered being the fastest kid in my gym class but never being able to climb the ropes, and having a crush on Matt Logan even after he told me I was annoying. I remembered watching The Price is Right with my mom over early lunches and getting excited at the prizes.
I remembered getting Communion when I went to church with my friend Amy, even though I wasn’t Catholic. I’d immediately puked over a statue of Santa Lucia.
And…now I understood why I’d puked, I guess.
Maybe magic could suppress memories, but could it really fake a childhood? With that level of specificity? I wasn’t a five-hundred-year-old demon. I was Rowan Morgenstern, and that was all there was to it.
And most of all, I remembered how much I loved my mom because I’d felt safe near her. No matter how mad I’d been at her, there was no way I’d killed her. At least not on purpose.
When I went outside, I was surprised to find that it was night—I’d completely lost track of time. I blinked at the moon over Osborne, feeling oddly at home under its light.
Holy shit.
I was Rowan Morgenstern, but I was also a succubus, wasn’t I?
A creature of the night. I belonged out here.
I glanced at the key tattoo again on my arm—now permanent. I still didn’t know what had happened, but I could only guess that Mom had given me the spell to make sure I was always safe. That my blood tasted mortal, just in case.
I started walking toward the waterfront. It was colder here than in the City of Thorns, and goosebumps rose over my skin. The air tasted of salt and smelled of seaweed. By the cold sea, I let the shadows swallow me. I didn’t actually have to be scared of being outside at night anymore. The mortals couldn’t hurt me. The demons wouldn’t dare.
The thing was, if I was a demon, I didn’t really belong out here in Osborne, did I? If I didn’t get within the city walls again, I only had about another day or two before my magic faded.
I wasn’t mortal. Neither was Mom. She was Lilu—one of the exiled. She’d been living out here in hiding, always looking over her shoulder. Banished just because she was a succubus.
And my dad? If he was, in fact, Duke Moloch, he’d been killed just after I was born. About twenty years ago. Maybe he’d gone back to try to save me.
My mind snagged on the nursery rhyme I’d found, the one in the book. Had that meant anything?
The Maere of Night
Gave girls a fright,
But one queen loved him well.
He lost his throne
But seeds were sown
In the garden of Adele.
A swindler king,
A golden ring
To keep his heart alive.
Take the ring,
Fell the king,
The city yet will thrive.
It sounded like a nursery rhyme, but I was sure something important had been written into that poem. A secret I needed to unlock.
From deep within my brain, an ancient instinct was rising to the surface, and magic tingled down my shoulder blades.
I needed to take to the skies. I needed to be free.
My back arched, then wings burst from my skin. When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw them, black and feathered, flecked with gold. Beautiful.
This was a release—the unveiling of my true self. My wings started to pound the air, instinct carrying me higher and higher into the briny wind.
Orion hated me now. He was convinced down to his marrow that I was Mortana.
But I was going to find out the truth. I was going to learn exactly what happened to Mom, and who I was.
What makes a person who they are, their essence? Was it a soul or their memories? I didn’t know. I only knew I wasn’t the monster Orion imagined me to be.
I breathed in deeply and stared at the locked gates of the City of Thorns.
Deep within my bones, I knew that was where I belonged. I’d always known.
I was a Lightbringer—blessed by Lucifer. And whether he liked it or not, I would fight him for my place in the city I was destined to lead.
Thank you for reading City of Thorns. We will be having discussions online through C.N. Crawford’s Coven.
If you would like to read a short deleted chapter from the perspective Orion—giving a glimpse into his last meeting with Mortana in the 1820s—click here.
You can order the sequel here —> Lord of Embers.
On the following pages, I’ve included the opening chapters of another one of our novels, The Fallen.
Our full list of books can be found on Amazon or Goodreads.
Lila
Excerpt from The Fallen
When I was a kid, I dreamt of living in the castle that loomed over our city, a place of magic and intrigue. As I got older, I started to learn that even the slums had their own kind of magic. If you knew where to look, you could feel the power of ancient kings thrumming under the stones beneath your feet.
Tonight, warm lights shon
e through some of the windows through the fog, and the sound of a distant piano floated on the wind, winding between narrow alleys. No one was out here, just me and the salty breeze, the shadows growing longer as the sun slid lower in the sky. The mist curled around brick tenements that groaned toward each other, crooked with age. Fog skimmed over the dark, cobbled street.
I didn’t care what anyone thought—this city was beautiful.
I shoved my hands in my pockets, glad the day was over. Like every Friday night, I was heading for the Bibliotek Music Hall. Some lovely chap would buy me a drink. I’d dance till the sun came up and the blackbirds started to sing.
I knew every alley, every hiding spot, every haunted corner where pirates once hung in gallows. I’d grown up to the sound of the seagulls overhead and the lapping of the Dark River against the embankment.
But tonight as I walked, the sense of wonder started to darken a little. The shadows seemed to thicken.
Every now and then, the crowded streets could feel like a trap. Because as much as I loved the place, it wasn’t necessarily populated by gentlemen.
And right now, the familiar magic was being replaced by a sense of menace. It lingered in the air, making goosebumps rise on my skin, but I wasn’t sure why.
I picked up my pace, envisioning the fresh bread and cheese I’d get at the Bibliotek Music Hall. Maybe I just needed a proper snack.
But why did I feel like someone was following me?
When I sniffed, I smelled whale oil, pitch pine and turpentine. Ah. Bloody hell. That was what had me on edge. The Rough Boys—a gang who lived on an old boat in the docks—always reeked of their ship. I could smell them from here, even if I couldn’t see them yet.
Were they following me? Had I stolen something that belonged to them? I spent my days on the docks, in and out of ships and warehouses. I pilfered tea and other valuables, passing them off to a network of thieves.
Not glamorous, admittedly, but it was honest work.
Okay, fine. It wasn’t honest either, but it meant I got to eat.
I glanced over my shoulder, and that was when my pulse kicked up a notch. I swallowed hard. Three of them stood at the end of the street, fog billowing around them like ghost ships on a misty sea. I recognized them right away by their signature look—shaggy hair and pea coats.
“Oi! Pussycat!” One of them shouted for me, voice booming off stone walls. “I got a message for your mum! She needs to pay up.”
“No thanks!” I shouted.
I knew how they sent messages—with their blades, carved in skin. Mum owed them money, which meant I owed them money. And if I didn’t pay up they’d take a knife to me fast.
I whirled and raced through the narrow street.
“It’s not exactly optional!” One of them shouted after me.
Where were the bloody coppers when you needed them? Always around when I pinched something, but never when cutthroats were after me.
At least I knew these streets as well as I knew my own body. If I could keep up the pace, I could lose the bastards.
My feet hammered the pavement, arms pumping as I ran. My brown curls streamed behind me. Puddles soaked into my socks through the holes in my threadbare shoes. I wanted to look behind me, to see how close they were, but that little movement would cost me. I knew if I slowed down, there’d be more of their gang crawling from the shadows. Fear was giving me speed.
The Rough Boys took people’s noses, eyelids, ears. If I could avoid it, I’d prefer not to walk around like a mutilated horror show for the rest of my life.
So as they chased me, I dodged from one dark alley to the next, rounding the labyrinthine corners, keeping to the shadows, trying to lose them.
But the Rough Boys were taller than me, and just as fast, sprinting like jackals over the stones.
“Lila, is it? Pretty lady.” One of them shouted. “We just need to have a little chat.”
Did they think if they called me pretty I’d simper over to them, blushing?
I was good in a fight—better than most men, even—but a fight with a gang in their territory was always a losing prospect. There were always more of them ready to slink out of alleys. My sister Alice taught me never to draw your knife unless you knew you could win.
Except I couldn’t run forever, and I needed just a moment to catch my breath. At twenty-five, I was already getting slow. Embarrassing.
Breathless, I took a sharp turn onto Dagger Row. Then I darted into a shadowy alley between two brick walls. I hid deep in the darkness, listening with relief as the cutthroats ran on past. Oblivious.
A smile curled my lips. You lived another night.
Perhaps I’d make it to twenty-six with my face intact.
For just a moment, I rested, hands on my thighs. Crowded tenements rose up on either side of me. Dirty water ran in the gutters. I straightened again and peered out from the alley.
No one around.
I pulled the hood of my coat tight, then started walking at a fast clip.
The winding streets had taken me on a jagged path back toward the river. Before I crossed onto the next street, I peered around the corner to the right. I shivered at the sight of Castle Hades.
The ancient fortress was still breathtaking, every time I looked at it. Its dark stone loomed over a bustling city of merchants and beggars, holy sisters and street crawlers. We all looked up to it with awe.
The castle’s four central towers rose up like ancient obelisks against the night sky. Two enormous rings of stone walls fortified the exterior, and a moat surrounded it. Once, the castle had gleamed white in the sun, and lions roamed the courtyards. Just fifty years ago, ravens had swooped over its twenty-one towers, and true Albian kings and queens danced in the courtyards.
Back then, we used to think the ravens protected Dovren. That they were good luck.
But the ravens had done nothing when invaders arrived on the Dark River—an army of elite warriors, headed by the ruthless Count Saklas. The ravens didn’t help at all when Count Saklas beheaded our king in his own dungeon.
Now, the count ruled the whole kingdom from the castle’s stone walls. Our citizens hung from gallows and gibbets outside, macabre warnings. Anyone who opposed his rule got the death penalty.
Pretty sure the bastard killed the ravens, too, because of course he did.
Two years ago, the last time anyone saw my sister Alice, she was carrying red silks into the castle. Then, she just disappeared. No idea what happened to her. It felt like the castle had swallowed her up.
Shivering, I turned away, thinking warmly of the Bibliotek Music Hall. My friend Zahra would be waiting for me, probably already with a cocktail in hand. In my pocket, I had a tiny nip of whiskey, and I pulled it out to take a sip and warm myself up. Cheap and strong, it burned my throat.
Maybe the count had conquered my country, but we still had the best music in the world. And we knew how to throw a party.
But just as I was starting to let down my guard, the sound of footfalls echoed behind me. I whirled, and fear jolted me as dark shadows emerged from the fog.
Bloody hell. The Rough Boys had found me again.
Lila
“Lila!” they shouted. “Got a message, don’t we?”
It looked like I’d be taking the fast route to the music hall, then. Breaking into an all-out sprint, my feet pounded the cobbles, echoing off the buildings around me.
Even as my lungs burned and my legs ached, I knew I was going to run until I collapsed, and died, or reached the music hall. Because I would not be losing any parts of my face tonight. I was rather attached to them.
Heaving for breath, I sprinted up Savage Lane. Here, the shops were shuttered for the night, windows dark. I still had ten streets to go.
As I ran, the sound of my breath formed a rhythm along with my feet.
Nine streets.
When I was a kid, my sister Alice and I played a game: we’d run through the alleys pretending a phantom called Skin-Monster Trevor was ch
asing us. I’m not sure where Alice got the name, but I imagined him as terrifying. If he caught us, he’d leave behind nothing but a pile of bloody bones. I could almost hear Alice’s voice in my mind, telling me to run. Lila! Trevor’s coming for you! He’ll kill you!
Only it wasn’t a phantom chasing me now. It was real flesh and blood men who wanted to carve me up.
My gaze darted across the street, where a narrow alley jutted off from the main road between abandoned shops. I veered into it.
From behind, the gang’s boots pounded the stones.
With burning lungs, I careened out of the mouth of the alley onto Magpie Court—a cramped little street lined with slum houses, where everything stank of piss and old fish.
Almost there… almost to Bibliotek …
“Stop running, little pussycat!” they shouted from behind me. “Lovely Lila!”
What a charmer. But I wasn’t about to stop and deliver myself into their hands, was I?
I turned the corner. Ahead of me, gas lamps lit the road with wavering light. This was Cock Row, so named because it bordered a park of shadowy trees, where the bunters worked—the street whores. Opposite the park, the enormous music hall stretched out over the entire square.
I was almost to the doors now. I stole a glance over my shoulder and relief flooded me.
No sign of the Rough Boys. I’d lost them again. Ha! Slow bastards.
I actually laughed with relief. Not bad, Lila. Not bad at all.
With my hand on the doorknob, I glanced up at the Bibliotek Music Hall, at the beaming windows crowded with dancing people. Three stories of red brick rose up before me. On the first floor, a stone facade had once been painted a vibrant red, but now it had faded and peeled into something more beautiful. I liked it that way. Music pulsed through the walls, brassy and booming. This decadent place had everything I could ever want.
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