Page 18

Eighteen

three years ago

I t was rare for Azreth to spend time among other demons, but it did happen on occasion, for one reason or another. Sometimes, even for demons, there was safety in numbers.

He had passed through the vast desert on the east side of the forest of crooked trees only twice in his first seven years of life. He did it not because he particularly enjoyed having his skin abraded in sandstorms, enduring the ungodly heat, and running from massive tunneling beasts, but because he sometimes had no other choice. This time, it was because a group of older, more powerful demons had begun encroaching into what had been his territory, pushing him out.

As he was reaching the last of the trees at the edge of the forest, he saw two kin he’d never seen before. They stood at the top of the first dune beyond the forest, and they carried packs and belts laden with supplies for traveling, just like he did. They had already spotted him and were watching him, still as statues, their expressions hard.

He was surprised. Demons usually traveled either alone or in larger groups, not in pairs. It was too easy for one to betray another in a pair. Many would not be able to resist the temptation.

They were outcasts, like himself—wanderers with no house affiliation. One of them was nearly as tall as Azreth, with large, curling horns, her skin and hair greenish in some places and deep amethyst in others, and she carried a deadly obsidian sword at her hip. The other one was very small for a demon, almost sickly. Her skin was deep, rich red, but her horns were tiny, protruding only a few inches from the crest of her forehead.

Both of them were smaller than Azreth. While he was confident he could best either of them in a solitary fight, the two of them together might be able to take him down. But he didn’t think they would risk fighting him just for a chance to slake their bloodthirst.

It was an ideal situation for an alliance.

He straightened, making himself look as tall and powerful as he could, while not making any aggressive movements. He tried not to look like he was extremely hungry—which he was. If he looked too desperate, they wouldn’t risk coming near him.

“I will accompany you across the desert,” he said evenly. It was not quite a request, but not quite a command. Not too forceful, but not too soft. “We will be stronger as three.”

The women exchanged a glance. One murmured something to the other. They spoke for longer than he expected.

The taller one turned to him. “Come, then. You will do as we command.” She was testing him.

“I will not,” he answered simply. He wouldn’t fight them, but he wouldn’t yield, either.

She looked annoyed, but not surprised. “Don’t follow too closely. If danger comes, you will approach it first.”

Azreth didn’t reply. They had already started down the other side of the dune.

Their names were Basmeth and Atara, which he only learned when he overheard them addressing each other. They didn’t ask his name.

Atara, the small one, always walked in front of Basmeth, putting the larger woman between herself and Azreth, who trailed some distance behind them both. Azreth meant her no harm, but he didn’t take offense. Her caution was wise.

At first, based on their size disparity, he had assumed she was Basmeth’s slave, but it soon became clear that wasn’t the case.

Their behavior was strange. He did not often get to observe other kin, so he spent much of his time watching the two of them. They often spoke to each other quietly as they marched across the swollen dunes, arms held in front of their eyes to block the harsh wind and pelting sand. They walked close together, and they turned their backs to each other sometimes, unafraid of being struck from behind. Occasionally, one would touch the other’s arm to get her attention, or to briefly lean on the other for balance, and it was clear they were comfortable with and accustomed to these small touches.

Once, Atara noticed him watching Basmeth, and she gave him a look of warning so fearsome that he averted his gaze without comment.

They did not invite him to join them when they fed from each other, but they allowed him to feed passively from nearby—which he preferred, anyway.

Basmeth liked to climb above Atara as a man might have, interlocking their hips while Atara lay on her back beneath her. She did not rush. Her movements were slow, hypnotic. Azreth could never see Basmeth’s face during this, because she always turned away from him, but he could see Atara gazing up at Basmeth, looking her in the eyes. They traded soft, intentional touches, leaning in until their bodies were twined together. When they climaxed, there was an outpouring of passion and joy unlike anything he’d witnessed, but Basmeth was quick to get to her feet and turn away, leaving the smaller woman panting and alone on the ground.

Their relationship was almost embarrassing in its intensity and softness, and Azreth watched them with a morbid curiosity.

They were nearing the end of the desert when they encountered a flame geyser and stopped to take turns bathing in it. Azreth took his turn last, straddling the splintered rock from which the fire spouted in great bursts. As he stepped into the flame, the heat eased the aches of the days-long march.

He turned to where Basmeth and Atara sat nearby. He did not have to hide his gaze, because they were deep in whispered conversation, their faces somber. They sat so close together that their knees touched.

He went still when Atara abruptly wrapped her fingers around Basmeth’s wrist—in his mind, a clear display of aggression. Basmeth just shook her head, as if it were not a threat at all, but their voices grew a little louder.

They were arguing. He hadn’t seen them argue before. Fearing a fight would break out, he stepped out of the geyser. He had no interest in becoming involved in their quarrel.

But instead, Atara dropped to her knees, taking Basmeth’s hand in both of hers in a supplicating gesture. With the flames behind him, he could make out her harsh whispers.

I need you.

I would do anything for you.

You know I feel…

He followed the movement of Atara’s lips in disbelief, watching them shape damning words.

I love you.

Azreth stiffened. Basmeth recoiled in shock.

He had heard of enthrallment—the madness that mortals referred to as love—but he’d never witnessed it. Demons afflicted with it would find themselves lost in obsession and subservience to another for no logical reason. It was ultimate enslavement.

I love you.

The words filled him with disgust. Just looking at Atara, seeing her earnestness and willing vulnerability, made him angry. Why she had chosen to admit such a humiliating truth was beyond him. But if she was truly enthralled, then she was too far gone to think clearly, wasn’t she? Maybe she couldn’t help herself.

The lucky ones, the ones who had proven valuable to their eldresses, would be exorcised with a complex spell that would free them of emotion entirely. Even then, it had to be done by force, because the enthralled were so mad that they didn’t want to be cured.

But the three of them were houseless. There would be no eldress magic for them, and there was no other way to cure it.

Azreth took a step back. Perhaps it was contagious.

Tears slid down Atara’s cheeks. Suddenly noticing Azreth watching, her eyes narrowed a little. Basmeth followed her gaze.

For a moment—just a moment—he thought Basmeth might turn to Atara to proclaim her own enthrallment in return, because what else could have explained the way Basmeth shielded the smaller woman from danger, let alone all the gentle touches and long conversations?

Was it possible that their enthrallment was mutual? Was Basmeth equally sick?

But then her lips twisted into a scowl. Contempt emanated from her. She drew the sword at her hip. Without hesitating, she lifted it high and then drove it through Atara’s chest.

Atara didn’t even try to fight. She looked Basmeth in the eye, just like when they’d fed, and her arms stayed limp at her sides, and Azreth couldn’t help but think she’d expected this outcome all along. She had been so lost to her obsession that she had submitted herself to Basmeth’s judgment anyway, as if the consequences no longer mattered. She had lost all rationality and all sense of self-preservation.

Basmeth ripped the sword from her body, letting loose a gush of viscous blood, and Atara tipped over and collapsed in the sand.

Pain and misery suffused the air like the scent of a decaying corpse: rank, awful, addictive. Azreth knew when the life fully left Atara’s body, because the scent of her emotions faded. And yet, the pain in the air remained. It changed, growing deeper, blacker. Azreth had thought the feelings were Atara’s, but perhaps they were Basmeth’s, too.

Basmeth spun to face Azreth, her face a mask of fury. “Is there something you wish to say?” she snarled, pointing the bloodied sword at him. She took a step toward him, but he spotted a slight tremor in her raised arm. “Do you think I will not do the same to you? To anyone? Do you doubt me?”

“No.”

He looked at Atara’s small, limp body behind Basmeth, and hatred filled him. He was disgusted by her smallness, weakness, and foolishness. It wasn’t right for someone to be so pathetic. Everything about her was upsetting.

The grief in the air was turning sour on the back of his tongue. He felt sick. He was unwell. Their pain was rubbing off on him somehow.

A horrible thought came to him—the madness was catching after all. It was the only explanation for this disturbing, overwrought sensation, like a sudden knot of tension in his body.

He could not let himself become like Atara. That was the worst fate imaginable.

He backed away. Then he turned and ran.

Love was for mortals. Demons couldn’t have these feelings.