Page 5

Five

T he castle was not even out of sight yet before Azreth’s sense of triumph completely faded.

The landscape of the mortal realm assaulted him. Trees and waving grasses, two crescent moons, shifting white clouds, blinking stars. There was movement everywhere, drawing his attention in multiple directions at once, because there could be danger anywhere—how would he know? Everything here, absolutely everything, was new and different. He knew nothing except that he needed to keep moving.

He walked without thinking about his heading. His feet moved at a quickening tempo as his mind began to race.

He glanced down at the woman in his arms, who quickly looked away, her breath catching. She did not yet have the dead-eyed look that other mortal slaves had, but he supposed that she would eventually, if he kept her for long enough.

Could she tell that he had no idea what to do next?

The blood on his skin was cold and tacky, and as much as he’d enjoyed spilling it, he wanted it off. So he stopped when they came to a river, dumping the mortal onto her feet at its banks. Trusting that he could chase her if she ran—and that she had no way of seriously injuring him, even with the baton—he turned his back on her, pulled off his boots, and waded into the river.

Liquid bubbled around his knees. Instead of silky flames, freezing water gushed past. The cold didn’t hurt him, but it was foreign and disquieting.

He rinsed the blood away and then scrubbed at the runes on his skin. The paint was stubborn. Scratching it furiously, he suppressed a frustrated snarl. He comforted himself by remembering the sweet taste of Eunaios’s blood.

He would not be owned. He would not be helpless. He would not be weak.

When he got to the runes on his palm, he paused. He’d cleaned off the paint, but something remained—a set of silvery runes, shimmering faintly with embedded magic. He held his hand under the water, and they still wouldn’t come off.His stomach turned.

Some part of the binding spell had stuck. He’d interrupted the ritual too late.

What had they done to him?

“What is your name?”

The woman’s tentative voice startled him. He’d almost forgotten she was there. He turned to her, closing his hand to hide the marks from her.

What was his name? What a strange thing for her to ask, of all things.

“Do you have one?” she asked. Her face appeared open, earnest, even through the smeared makeup.

Mortals truly believed demonkind to be nothing more than dumb beasts, didn’t they? His kind might not have been as clever with things like magic and technology as mortals were, but they were not animals.

“All sapient beings have names,” he replied curtly.

She gave the tiniest of nods. “I am Raiya.”

He knew that already. He’d heard the others call her by that name. But he didn’t want to think about her name.

He recalled the hot, rich taste of her skin and blood when he’d pressed his tongue to her fingers. The serpent that was his hunger began to uncoil, and he waded toward her.

The mortal stayed completely still as he approached, either frozen with fear or impressively brave. Azreth touched her throat, and her fear spiked deliciously. Finally, she became unfrozen, and she fought him as he pulled her to the ground.

“Wait—” She flinched as he lowered himself over her, and then he missed whatever else happened to her expression, because his face was buried in her hair, her body, her neck, inches from a fluttering pulse that he could cut short if he just bit her there. Her heated distress washed over him, awful and wonderful. He held himself against the length of her, maximizing his contact to her body. Every part of her bled energy. It seeped into him like a vital tonic, like the essence of life itself, intoxicating and invigorating.

He felt dizzy with it—and with relief. He had dreamed of this kind of power and safety all his life. As long as he kept her, he would never have to wonder when his next meal would come… or whether it would come at all. He would never have to endure starvation and weakness for lack of a feeding source. With her, he could feed indefinitely. He could not just survive, but thrive.

Her small hands were pressed flat against his chest, trying to push him away, and she whimpered quietly. It was tragic. He couldn’t imagine being so helpless.

His lips parted as he considered biting her, not deeply enough to kill her, but enough to hurt. His mouth hovered over her shoulder for long seconds, but he didn’t move.

Trying to ignore her rapid breaths, he closed his eyes. He thought of the joy he’d felt when he’d torn through Eunaios and Nirlan’s guards, and he concentrated on recapturing that feeling, thinking of death and blood and sated hunger. He waited for that excitement to come again as he thought of sinking his teeth into the woman.

Nothing happened. All he felt was unease.

Perhaps he could work her into a lustful state, instead.Then he would not have to physically hurt her. If mortals were anything like demons, she would give in to pleasure eventually, whether she wanted to or not. She wouldn’t like it, but she would survive, just like he always had.

A sour taste filled the back of his throat. His skin itched and he began to sweat, and his breath was coming faster, and he didn’t know why this sickness always came at the most inopportune times, times when he most needed to focus.

He needed her. There was no point in putting off the inevitable. If he was going to make her his slave, he should begin now.This was what his kind were meant to do, and what the mortals expected of them.The mortals would do the same to him if their positions were reversed. He would enjoy it; he’d never met a demon who wouldn’t.

He had to do what was necessary to survive, just like every other demon. He could not be this weak. He just had to hold her still and?—

His head pounded. His vision swam. He was going to vomit.

“Are you quite finished?” the human asked quietly.

Azreth pulled back to look at her. Her voice was filled with subtle venom, her expression disdainful. Suddenly, he missed the gentleness with which she’d asked his name.

Embarrassment was a foolish, pointless emotion, but he felt it anyway. He moved away from her and sat down beside the river to try to slow his breathing.

He was weak. He knew, deep down, that he would never not be weak. He’d been born this way. It was why the eldress had rejected him after she’d created him. She’d known, even then, that there was something wrong with him.

The woman shuddered with cold and reached into her bag to take out a dark gray blanket, which she threw around her shoulders. “How often do you have to do that—feed?”

“I am always hungry. And your smell is enticing.”

“Do you plan to return to the hells now?”

“No.”

She hesitated, her face grim. “Are you going to kill me?”

He saw no reason to lie to her. He wanted to keep her afraid, but not so afraid that she became desperate. “No.”

“Why?”

Because he needed her to last.

Because she’d saved him.

When he didn’t answer her, she asked, “Should I consider myself your prisoner?”

“Yes.”

She paused, perhaps processing whatever emotions she was feeling about that. “What will you do now?”

She took a slow step toward him, trying too hard to be subtle, and his nerves prickled. He shot to his feet.

“I know you have a weapon. You should not attempt to use it.” He sensed her fear rising enticingly again. He went to her, taking her arm in his hand. She stared at him intently, her mouth a straight, stubborn line, as he slowly raised her wrist to his nose and inhaled her scent.She smelled… so good.

She was nothing like the kin he’d fed from. Her emotions, and her mortal body for that matter, were full and lovely in a way he found difficult to put into words. She was filled with life, filled with feeling. Perhaps this was the trade-off for mortals—the forces of creation had squeezed more vitality into their short lifespans in exchange for decay and then death after a century or so.

He closed his eyes, letting his lips touch her palm. Magic almost seemed to pass between them where they touched. Maybe, if he could just be near her, just like this, that would be enough…

“What if I stayed with you willingly?” she said in a nervous rush.

Azreth snapped out of his reverie. The woman was looking up at him apprehensively, her eyes darting to his teeth.

“I’ll let you… use my body. To feed from. I won’t fight you, and I won’t try to escape.”

He stared at her. He must have misunderstood.

“You will give yourself willingly?” he repeated.

“Yes. With some caveats.”

“What caveats?”

She took a breath. “I don’t want to be physically hurt. I don’t want to be bruised or bloodied. I don’t want to be forced. But I’ll do my best to… satisfy you, otherwise.”

Mortals didn’t do this. He’d never heard of such a thing. “Why would you agree to this?”

“Because you can offer me something in exchange. I want you to protect me from my husband.”

“Your husband?”

“Nirlan. The one who summoned you.”

“He is your… your mate?”

“Yes.”

He just looked at her, searching for signs of deception. He didn’t know what mortals were like. He didn’t know how to read her. She was not in league with Nirlan, though—that much was clear.

Was it possible that she really did see Azreth as her best option?

For a moment, he pictured her supine beneath him, gasping in the throes of pleasure, both defenseless and willing, as if she really desired him despite their differences.He frowned. “No one willingly submits to a demon. The only mortals willing to deal with my kind are the ones like your master. Those mortals only summon us when they know they can make us submit.”

“I don’t want to control you. I don’t want to be controlled, either. Neither of us has to submit to the other as long as we stick to our agreement. We could be equals.”

“Equals?”

She reached out, looking him in the eyes. To his shock, she slid her fingers into the waist of his sarong.

He jolted away reflexively. Grabbing her wrist, he bared his teeth. “You will touch me only when I grant you permission.”

Her eyes widened. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

His entire body felt flushed from surprise and discomfort. His heart was racing. He should not have let her catch him off guard. He was grateful no one else was there to witness him cringing away from a small human.

Frustrated by her strangeness, he said again, to make certain she understood, “Do not touch.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I won’t do it again.”Her eyes were large and clear, their dark centers piercing him. He got the sense that those eyes saw much, knew much.

“You want… an alliance.”

“Yes,” she said, as if it were that simple.

They could never be true allies. She would happily kill him if she had the chance, harmless though she may seem. Mortals had ways of turning the tides. If she could find a bit of iron and catch him unaware, she could end him as easily as he could her. He could never let his guard down. Not for a moment.

But deep down, he was relieved.

“You are wise to make this offer,” he said flatly.“I agree to your terms.”

She seemed to relax. “Will you tell me your name, then, since we’re allies?”

“My name is Azreth,” he said absently, looking at the grassy slopes around them again.

There was a strange enchantment marking his hand, and the human lord might be following him, and he needed to find someplace where he’d be safe. But she had been shivering and stumbling since he’d put her down. She must have needed rest. He’d heard that mortals needed a lot of it. “Mortals must sleep every night and eat every day,” he said.

Her dark eyebrows came together in a question. “Yes…?”

“Then we must allow you time to rest, and then we must find you food to eat. Sleep now.”

“Now?”

“Yes. It is night.” Mortals slept at night. He knew that much.

She crossed her arms tightly, looking around. “I need to find a safe, warm place before I can sleep. It’s too cold out here.”

Even the mortals didn’t like the chill of their own plane? Who was it for, then?

They were such delicate creatures. What other allowances would he need to make for her to be sure she stayed in good health?

He didn’t want to risk giving off smoke that might be seen for miles, nor did he have any materials to build a warm shelter for her.

Reluctantly, he pulled her toward him and sat down on the cold ground. Her eyes were bright and wary, but she allowed him to pull her into his lap.

“You must stay with me. You will be warm enough.” He braced his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. Her body felt cool; it barely gave off any heat. He hoped this would be enough. He truly knew nothing about how to survive in this place, and the longer he spent here, the more uncertain he became.

“Oh,” she said softly.

He tilted his head toward her, narrowing his eyes. “Turn on me, and I will destroy you,” he reminded her, lest she get too comfortable and think otherwise.

She sighed and said nothing.

“Now… go to sleep.” He waited, watching her.

She blinked a few times, glanced up at him, then resolutely closed her eyes and didn’t open them again. She let her head tilt to lay on his chest, but she did so hesitantly, as if his skin might be poisonous. Perhaps he just disgusted her, which would pose a problem if she really intended for him to pleasure her in order to feed.

They sat in silence for an hour or more, neither of them acknowledging the other, and neither of them sleeping.

Eventually, her breathing slowed, and her head grew heavier. Her fists uncurled. Azreth looked down with only his eyes, careful not to jostle her. Her expression had gone slack, the muscles of her face toneless in sleep.

Pale makeup still covered her face, a shield against his gaze, and her hair was tied back in a thick braid. Nearly her entire body was covered by clothing. She wore an elegant robe with a collar that crossed neatly at her chest and was belted at the waist, its blue color a little lighter and a little greener than his skin. Beneath that, she wore a long-sleeved shirt and long, loose trousers. It all looked more designed for comfort than defense.

He stared at her, feeling like a voyeur as he did so. It was the first time he’d witnessed another person sleeping. He had always thought a sleeping person might look a bit like a corpse, but he’d been wrong. She looked very alive and very relaxed, her entire body soft and at ease.

Holding her with one arm, he slowly reached for the bag she’d tucked by her feet, then peered inside. It was mostly empty. Apparently her blanket had taken up most of the space before she’d removed it. But there was also a book. He was intrigued. Books were where mortals stored knowledge.

He flipped through the pages. It was handwritten in a rather disorganized way, like the knowledge was still in progress, and there were several different scripts. He couldn’t read any of them—the magic that gave him knowledge of other languages didn’t extend to writing—but he recognized the distinctive shapes of the enchanting runes he’d seen all over the dungeon. The back of his neck prickled, and he glanced at the woman. She was still sleeping.

Reaching inside the bag again, he cautiously sorted through more cloth, some small jars, and a waterskin, and then his hand brushed something sharp and metallic. A weapon?

He pulled out the item to look at it, but its purpose became no clearer to him. It was a slender piece of metal about the length of his forefinger. The end had been sharpened to a severe point, but it didn’t look especially ergonomic for stabbing.

Looking at the pointed end, he was suddenly reminded of the runes on the baton that was still attached to her belt. He looked down, studying the tiny runes carved on the baton’s shaft. Tiny carvings required a tiny carving implement, he supposed. It was a stylus, not for writing, but for enchanting.

Who was this person he’d just stolen?

He silently put her things back inside her bag and rested it at her feet again. He didn’t dare move from beneath her, even long after his legs had gone numb.