Page 37

The further we go, the more certain I am that I’d be hopelessly lost if I tried to make my way back through this labyrinth. The stone hallways are wide enough to accommodate wings, but seem to split and branch off at random intervals to burrow deeper in to the mountain. Passageways are lit by torches and burning wall sconces, casting the dark gray walls and floors in warm orange light.

We pass a few more demons as we go. Almost without fail, their eyes jump from Vayla to me to gawk. More greetings, more smiles, more hopeful expressions that settle themselves like stones in the bottom of my stomach.

Finally, after what feels like twenty minutes of walking, we begin to climb a long, gently sloped staircase. The wide stone steps are cut more like terraces into the tunnel, taking three strides each to walk up, and by the time we make it to a set of double doors at the top, my thighs and ass are burning with the strain of it.

“The archives,” Vayla says simply as she opens the door.

I follow her inside and my jaw immediately drops.

Like so much I’ve seen of this court beneath the mountain, this place is a wonder. Stepping into the room, I inhale the deep, familiar scents of parchment and ink, sweet dust and leather. The first room we enter is a huge, circular chamber with ceilings cut at least thirty feet high into the mountain above, cavernous and echoing with our footsteps. The space is edged in floor to ceiling bookcases stuffed to the gills with thousands of handsomely bound books. There are a handful of tables in the center of the room, and the space is lit by a fire along the back wall and candles dispersed throughout.

After taking a few steps inside, I have to stop and stare open-mouthed at my surroundings.

My fingers are already itching to reach out and touch, faint stirrings of magick beneath my skin calling toward all those spines and bindings and pages.

Vayla, however, isn’t in the mood to play tour guide.

“Through here,” she calls back over her shoulder.

At one side of the room, an archway leads into an adjoining chamber. Vayla barely pauses before striding toward it, leaving me almost no time to gape in awe at all these books. I follow her with a pang of regret, hoping I’ll get the time to come back. I could spend hours right here, browsing through this demon library.

We pass through a room filled with hanging maps and a wide table in the center carved with what I can only assume is a topographical layout of the demon realm. It’s intricately designed and painted, the mountains and rivers and wide grassy plains depicted in vibrant colors. In one corner of the room there’s a complex model of spheres held aloft on metal arms, intricate gears and movable parts. An orrery, I think I remember it being called—a wonderfully crafted model of star systems.

Even that apparently isn’t enough of a reason to stop.

Vayla presses on, opening a door at the side of the room and letting in an unexpected beam of daylight.

“This way,” she says curtly, nodding into the room.

The next chamber is unmistakably a witch’s workshop. It’s so reminiscent of the one my mother used to keep in the house I grew up in that I have to pause for a second in the doorway.

Muted light streams in from a glass wall opposite the door. Blinking and letting my eyes adjust, I realize what it is. A greenhouse, cut right into the side of the mountain.

Vayla finally stops and crosses to one of the workbenches, flipping through a pile of papers there. I take advantage of her distraction to wander over the glass wall, peering in at a haphazardly organized tangle of greenery. A few plants I recognize—wolfsbane, rue, belladonna—others, though, are completely unfamiliar. High above, a domed glass ceiling lets in the watery gray light beneath the lingering storm clouds.

“This is where I do most of my work.”

I turn around to see Vayla studying me. Here, standing in a more natural light than the candlelit great hall or the dim of the corridor, it’s easier to mark her as different than most of the other demons.

Vayla’s facial features are more refined, her horns softer and more delicate. Instead of glowing ember red, her eyes are a startling, icy blue. She’s lovely, some strange mix of demon and human and her own unique kind of beauty.

“You’re a witch?” I ask, looking at the varied equipment in the room.

Smack in the center, a large iron cauldron dominates the space. Herbs and flowers and various foliage hang in bundles from the ceiling. Worktables are scattered with open books, scales, knives, candlestubs, and endless vials and bottles of oils and ingredients. Even more line the shelves along the side walls, and the air in the room hangs heavy with mingled botanical spice, notes of ash and woodsmoke, and the distinct metallic scent of witching.

“Sorceress,” she corrects, “is our word for it. Though one of my ancestors was a witch.”

“Does that make you related to Eren?” I ask, remembering the carving of the first witch and her demon on the doors into the great hall.

Vayla shakes her head. “My great-grandmother was married to a merchant. No witch has wed the king of the demon realm since the first.”

Not sure how I’m supposed to respond to that, I turn to the table nearest to me and glance down at the book propped open on a small wooden stand. Narrowing my eyes, I try to make out the language. The letters are… almost familiar, the shape of them reminding me of some of the oldest written records of pagan rituals I’d once gotten the chance to examine. The writing is elegant, truly an art form itself, and the longer I stare, the more something stirs in me, the faintest hint of understanding blooming in my blood.

I raise a hand unconsciously to touch the page when Vayla takes a few quick steps toward me, snapping the book shut.

Startled, I pull back. “S-sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

The words die in my throat at the hard look on her face.