Cast Of The Babysitter: Killer Queen Novels & Stories

Fuck, this was nothing of this earth. "I did not invite you in," A voice boomed, both young and old. New and broken. Shivers dug their way up my legs, rattling my knees slightly. "I never thought I would see the Killer Queen tremble this much." A mocking laughed followed. Katharine's teeth were warped, like she had tried prying them from her mouth. Faint outlines of shadow created the illusion of antlers from her head. "What are you?" I mumbled, unable to fully catch my breath. The thing smiled back cruelly and I could hear many civilizations wither and die within each word it spoke afterwards.

This one showed threads of fate—fractured, burning threads—and at the center, always, was her. Mia Jones. She glowed like a dying star, beautiful and dangerous. “So, the princess has risen,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over the mirror’s glass. “And she trains... How quaint.” Behind him, two spies knelt in shadows, trembling. “Report.” The first one, a vampire with sunken eyes, stepped forward. “They have allied with the Elara girl, and the boy. They’re training. Preparing.” “And the next?” the King asked.

I tried to hand Oliver to him, but the moment I loosened my grip, the violet light around me flared dangerously, lashing out like a whip and striking the floor near Killian’s feet. "I can't touch you, Esme!" Killian yelled, his face etched with agony. "The energy... it’s rejecting me!" It was true. The power of the Queen was protective, but it was also isolating. It saw Killian as an outsider, a threat to the "purity" of the awakening. I was trapped in a bubble of my own making, and my son was trapped there with me. "Oliver," I whispered, looking down at my baby. "Help me. Please."

Her body remained where it had fallen, heavy and unresponsive, cheek pressed into damp soil that smelled of iron and rot. A shape passed through the blur of her vision. Then another. Dark against darker. One of them stopped a few feet from her. She could feel it—not through touch, but through presence. Solid. Still. Watching. A voice broke the quiet. Low. Even. “…that’s fresh.” Another voice answered, slightly sharper, but just as controlled. “Not long. An hour, maybe less.” “Less,” a third said. “Blood’s still warm.” Louise’s breath stuttered again, a faint, broken sound that scraped past her lips. It wasn’t loud—but it was enough.