The Villains Must Win-Chapter 85: Valerian Cross 5

Evelyn found herself sprawled on the cold stone floor of a dimly lit cell deep inside CROSS HQ.

The sharp scent of burning wax filled her nose, mixing with something more acrid—old blood, perhaps. Encircling her was a meticulously drawn pentagram, its edges traced in glistening ink, pulsing faintly as if breathing in time with the flickering candlelight.

She was shackled. Iron restraints clamped around her wrists and ankles, but it was the chain around her neck that truly sealed her fate. A spellcasting block chain—an insidious little invention that snuffed out a witch’s magic like a candle in a storm. novelbuddy.cσ๓

Ugh. How unimaginative.

Without magic, she was just another human. A particularly good-looking one, sure, but that wouldn’t get her out of this mess.

Not that she wanted to use magic anyway. No point wasting the effort when Valerian—ever the paranoid little zealot—was standing a few feet away, silver dagger glinting at his side. One twitch in the wrong direction, and he’d ram it straight through her heart. He’d done worse for less.

That was the problem with witches. Unlike vampires and werewolves who could snap necks in a blink, witches needed time. Time to chant. Time to draw symbols. Time to mix their potions with just the right amount of crushed wolfsbane or powdered bone. Even the most powerful spell needed a few precious seconds. And in the heat of the moment, seconds were a luxury she didn’t have.

At the far end of the chamber, Valerian conferred in hushed tones with a high priest, their voices little more than murmurs over the hum of the pentagram. The priest held a sacred tome—a rare, gilded monstrosity of a book that only the most devout, or the most self-important, would dare to wield. The pages shimmered with holy magic as he prepared the ritual.

Ah, memory extraction. How quaint.

"I say they’re wasting their time," Evelyn muttered, shifting slightly on the cold floor. "And, more importantly, their precious resources."

Not that anyone cared what she thought.

The pentagram flared to life, and suddenly, her own memories projected above her like an old movie reel, grainy but vivid. There was no pain—thankfully. If anything, it was mildly entertaining.

A vision flickered into view: Evelyn, perched on a stool at the back of a smoky tavern, absently stirring her drink with a cursed spoon. It was supposed to make anything taste ten times sweeter, but it had accidentally turned her whiskey into something that tasted like melted marshmallows and regret. She had grimaced, then made the bartender take a sip just to confirm she wasn’t losing her mind. He gagged. She laughed.

Another scene: her in a tailor’s shop, arguing with an elderly seamstress about the durability of spider silk thread.

"Listen, love," the woman had snapped, "I don’t care what kind of mystical properties it has. If it unravels after three washes, it’s not worth a damn!"

Evelyn had to concede that she had a point.

Then came the more questionable moments. Her slipping a hex into a nobleman’s wine after he had the audacity to call her "enchantingly plain." (He spent the next three days weeping uncontrollably every time he saw his reflection.)

Her stealing an apple from a fruit stand, only to return it five minutes later out of sheer guilt. (She left a protection charm as payment, but the seller had screamed and flung it into the river because apparently it developed a face.)

And of course, there was the time she had drunkenly attempted to befriend a stray cat, only for it to scratch her and vanish into the night. She had spent an hour cursing it under her breath, convinced it was a demon in disguise.

The memory stream continued, offering a delightful mix of mundane and questionable life choices.

Evelyn smirked.

If they were hoping for secrets of some grand, sinister scheme, they were in for a disappointment.

"Enjoy the show, boys," she called lazily, stretching as much as her shackles would allow. "I charge extra for the director’s cut."

Valerian shot her a glare, but she could see the muscle twitching in his jaw. Oh, he was annoyed. Good. At least she wasn’t the only one suffering.

The pentagram pulsed again, dragging up another memory.

This time, though, Evelyn wasn’t smiling.

Because this one . . . this one she didn’t want them to see.

The memory flickered into view, and Evelyn’s smirk vanished.

Oh. No.

Not this one.

The pentagram pulsed, forcing the scene into existence like an unwanted guest at a dinner party.

There she was, standing in the cramped backroom of Madame Bellamy’s Elegant Attire for Distinguished Ladies. The shop smelled like lavender, old lace, and regret. Before her, the infamous Madame Bellamy herself—a woman built like a fortress, with arms that could snap a broomstick in half—held up a corset, tapping her foot impatiently.

"You promised," the old woman said, voice sharp as a sewing needle.

Evelyn, in the memory, shifted uncomfortably. "I— I may have been slightly drunk when I agreed to this."

"No refunds," Madame Bellamy declared, snapping her fingers.

The image shifted.

Now Evelyn was strapped into the corset from hell, an abomination of steel and embroidered lies. It had been custom-ordered for some duke’s wife, but the woman had changed her mind at the last moment, leaving it abandoned like an unwanted puppy.

Evelyn, in a moment of misplaced confidence (and too much spiced rum), had offered to "take it off her hands."

She had assumed it would be charming. Maybe even sultry. Something befitting a powerful witch with an air of mystery.

Instead, she stood before the mirror, wheezing like an asthmatic banshee, her waist compressed into a shape nature never intended.

"I think," she gasped, "my ribs are touching."

"They’re supposed to," Madame Bellamy replied with the cold indifference of a battlefield medic.

Evelyn’s fingers scrabbled at the laces, but the knots were tight, the fabric unforgiving. She twisted, turned, and—

CRACK.

A bone? A rib? No. Worse. The stool beneath her gave out with a pitiful creak, and she collapsed in an undignified heap onto the floor, skirts billowing, corset still strangling the life out of her.

"This is how I die," she had muttered.

"Don’t be dramatic," Madame Bellamy had snorted. "You’ll be fine. Eventually."