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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

ROOK

Pale, ethereal mushrooms sprout from the damp-slick walls of the dungeons. They caught my eye three bowls of gruel ago. Or was it four? Time has little meaning here.

The sight of the mushrooms twists something in my chest. Lark would be fascinated by this fungus, telling me about its properties, whether its flesh would hurt or heal.

I don't know if I will ever see my sister again.

My wrists chafe against the shackles, my shoulders screaming from supporting my weight. But I can't look away from the mushrooms. White spores drift through the stale dungeon air. Each speck glows in the torchlight before falling into the darkness and powdering the ground beneath my chains.

Even in this abysmal place, these mushrooms survive, growing deep beneath the cracks in the mildewed stone. They persist despite this misery. Just as I must.

Eventually, the torches splutter out. I'm plunged into darkness for an eternity; the hours counted only by the snowfall of spores.

When a guard's heavy footsteps echo outside my prison, the sound brings me something akin to hope.

I hate myself for it. The guard replaces the torches before abandoning me once more.

Firelight slants across the wall, the illumination almost dazzling me. I stare at the words carved into the stone, not understanding them, until finally, they fall into place.

Umbric runes.

They are written in an ancient, formal dialect of Umbric, used by demons a thousand years ago, and I can understand some words and occasional phrases.

…unlocked for me… from hell we come…

Surprise jolts my blood, and my heart beats harder.

The runes could only refer to the Demongate, the door between the worlds.

Could this room be connected to it somehow?

I don’t know why else there would be ancient Umbric runes carved into the walls.

I have never seen the Demongate myself, since it was both forbidden and impossible to find.

My mother knew all about it, but she never told me.

And now she’s gone.

Whenever I think of her, I don’t feel anything. Not the way I should. Mostly, I’m numb. I must do what’s necessary to survive. There’s no time for grief when it will only bring me closer to my own death.

But now, trapped in this prison, I’m forced to be alone with myself, and I’m often my least favorite person. I can’t drown myself in either blood lust or carnal lust. There’s no battle and no fucking here. Just silence and a choking sensation in my throat.

Am I…afraid? Yes, that’s the best way to describe this emotion. Fear claws under my skin like a living thing. I want to pace back and forth, to release some of this energy but the chains around my horns prevent me from doing so.

I’m trapped in my own body, stuck inside my own head.

I force myself to breathe. To survive.

I wait for the queen to return.

I expect her to parade into this dungeon at any moment, ready to sneer at me and slap me until she’s gratified by the bruises on my skin. My arms scream from the chains holding me up. The metal shackles bite into my wrists, though the chains on my horns force me to keep kneeling or standing.

The pale mushrooms, my only companions, drop another cluster of spores. I have counted twelve releases now. Each one seems to come about an hour apart, if my sense of time hasn't totally abandoned me in this stone tomb.

The mushrooms release another cloud of spores. Thirteen now. I wonder if Lark cultivated fungi like this one during her imprisonment, if she watched them grow to keep track of time passing. The thought of my sister enduring weeks in the Forgotten Tower makes my chest tight.

A drop of water hits my shoulder from a crack in the ceiling. It traces down my bare chest, joining the rivulets of sweat and grime. I twist away from the unwanted contact.

Still Queen Dulcamara does not return.

I forgot how much I hate waiting to be hurt. It’s almost worse than being hurt itself, to feel so sick with dread.

The guard brings me more gruel, the same thick sludge that may have been oats in another life. I force myself to consume it, though it fails to fill the void inside me.

Without Pyrah, I will starve.

The muscles throughout my body begin aching, though I’m unable to lie down with the chains shackled to my horns. They prevent me from doing anything but slumping against the stone wall.

The flickering glow of a torch creeps beneath the door.

Someone is coming.

A torch-carrying guard opens the door.

Finally, the dread in my gut turns into something akin to relief.

Queen Dulcamara strides into the room wearing a red gown. Perhaps to better hide bloodstains. A knife glints in her hand, not a proper dagger but a silver one taken from her dinner table. Was she feasting mere moments ago?

She slips an apple from her pocket and begins skinning it with the knife. Curls of peel drop to the floor. She might want me to eat them like a pig does scraps.

“Why haven’t you tried to escape?” she asks. “Are you waiting for the red dragon to save you?”

There’s no safe way to reply. I keep my eyes focused on the knife, ready to jerk away if she attacks. Not that I can go far.

“Rumors spread fast across the kingdom,” she continues. “Everyone knows that I captured the Gray Prince. If you mean anything to Pyrah, she will come looking for you.”

Dulcamara intends to lure out the dragon. Am I nothing but bait?

“Why Pyrah?” I ask, speaking at last.

“One dragon isn’t enough.” She digs deeper into the flesh of the apple.

“Scaldric isn’t enough?”

“She would have married him, before you destroyed their wedding ceremony.”

“Against her will.”

“You should know.” Dulcamara grimaces at the apple as if she discovered a worm, though the fruit looks fine to me. “You have chained her in aellurium yourself.”

I swallow hard, my mouth dry. I haven’t had any water to drink since my capture. “I did.” There’s no use denying it.

“She can’t truly care about you.” Her lips curl into a sneer. “You’re an incubus.”

So many insults fit into that one word: I’m less than human, a predator, and a monster driven by the urge to fuck.

I have heard it all before. It’s not difficult to fill in the blanks.

“She won’t come,” I say, not knowing if it’s a lie. “You’re wasting your time.”

Dulcamara stares at me with her deadened eyes. “What happened after you stole her away from the wedding?”

When I shrug, the chains at my wrists jingle. “I’m an incubus. You already know.”

She can imagine every depraved act she wishes. Her eyes narrow as she stares at me. “What did you do to her?”

I trace my tongue over the points of my fangs. “Pyrah was a virgin,” I say, letting emphasis linger on the word.

Dulcamara stabs her blade deep into the flesh of the apple. She saws a slice free, though she doesn’t eat it. “In this kingdom, do you know what we do to rapists?”

Disgust punches my gut like a fist. I always require explicit consent, but Dulcamara must believe that I forced myself on Pyrah.

The queen wants me to be the villain?

I can be her fucking villain.

I keep any emotion from my face. “Death, if I’m not mistaken. Though it seems to depend on who’s doing the raping.”

For the powerful, the law never seems to apply.

Dulcamara drops the apple. Before I can react, she holds the silver knife to my throat. The blade pricks my skin.

Undisguised hatred shines in her eyes. “I always knew there was something wrong with you.” Her words taste like familiar poison, and it’s too easy to drink them down. “Filthy cambion whore.”

“Whore?” I grunt. “I would do it all again for free.”

I want her to believe I’m nothing but a heartless bastard who could never love anyone. It’s safer if she believes there’s no true connection between Pyrah and me.

Let me be the only one she hurts.

The knife digs deeper into my throat. Heat trickles down my skin. Blood. Not enough to weaken me, nothing but a threat.

“It makes no fucking sense,” I say, ignoring the sting of the blade. “Why do you need another dragon?”

“You’re nothing but a cambion,” she says. “Your seed is useless. Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you that two dragons can breed.”

My stomach churns, the temptation to vomit increasing, but I won’t give her the satisfaction. “And?”

“Imagine an army of dragons loyal to the crown.”

I’m not arrogant enough to imagine such a thing. “Pyrah would rather kill Scaldric than submit to him.”

“Where is she?”

I would rather die than betray Pyrah.

But the queen can’t know the truth. “Who the fuck knows?” The lie rolls off my lips with ease.

Dulcamara lifts the knife from my throat, though it’s only a temporary respite. The blade drifts lower down my body, not yet cutting me, before threatening my groin. It’s impossible not to tense up under the cold steel.

It’s better, in moments like these, to not inhabit my body. I want to be too far away to feel anything.

She lets the blade linger against my balls, as if pondering castration. Logically, distantly, I consider this mutilation. I could die from shock or infection. An ironic death for an incubus, just the kind of cruelty to suit the queen.

“You’re a big bull of a man,” she says, “though I have always found bulls less useful than oxen.”

Death would be better than becoming her court eunuch.

With my hands shackled in front of me, and a knife at my balls, I’m left with few options. But I’m never helpless.

“Wait,” I say. “Your Majesty.”

Her gaze snaps to my eyes. “Are you ready to confess?”

It’s just the distraction I needed.

I jerk my arms down and grab the blade in my left hand. It slices open my palm but pain means nothing. I wrench the knife from the queen and grab the handle in my right hand.

It takes her an instant to realize her mistake.

She scrambles away from me, screaming, “Guards!”

I lunge with the knife, aiming for her jugular vein, but I’m too ambitious. The chains around my horns yank my head back when she’s already out of reach.

Guards swarm into the room like flies on shit.