Page 1 of Horns of Wicked Ebony (Deathcaller Duet #2)

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Three Centuries Earlier

S harp spice overpowered the metallic tang of blood as the three cousins sat in a potent silence.

The pot of soup rolled to a low boil, so much like the simmering tension building on their continent.

All were reeling from the occurrences of late while they waited for their dinner.

In the lifespan of a Demon, it was merely a blink.

Yet, so much had changed, and needed to continue to change, to save their race.

The Angels had increased the frequency of their attacks since Koron Stadiel slaughtered his competitors to seat himself on the Angel throne.

The Kral and his two brothers had stood by while more and more skirmishes took place.

His nephew with the tattooed head knew better than anyone just how bloodthirsty the Angels were.

The latest attack was what had him calling the others to meet in his palatial home in Uzhhorod.

As he looked down at his hands, bits of dried ruby flaked off.

He hadn’t bathed yet, wanting the two to see the full impact of what he had endured.

They both eyed his blood-soaked form as he reached for a glass of scale—a spicy alcohol that he both loved and rarely indulged in—and drank it to the dregs.

“The time has come, Xannirin. We need you on the throne,” he said with a hiss once he finished.

Xannirin didn’t tear his gaze away from the boiling soup, merely sat with numb detachment.

Bits of his long hair had come loose from its band, and he made no move to clear them from his face.

He had known this day was coming—after all, they had been planning this since that fateful day their fathers had forced Rokath to kill their friend.

That it was finally here was still a shock to him.

Their female cousin shifted in her seat, rearranging the sweep of her dress. Like everything she wore, it was feminine, flirty, and showed off her tan skin. She pinned the bloody, broody warrior with a hard stare. “Will you make it hurt, Rokath?”

“Aye, Kiira. They deserve it,” Rokath rumbled.

Her father had beaten Kiira to the brink of death only a week prior.

The bruises on her ribs, arms, and face were still a fat purple.

Sweeping his attention over the marks made him grind his teeth again.

His uncle’s actions had only further solidified his plan to slaughter the three eldest members of House Vrak.

Rokath was protective by nature, and anyone who hurt those he deeply cared for faced his infamous wrath. Even now, all the nobility was firmly aware of just how cruel he could be if pressed the wrong way.

It was still far better than their fathers’ tempers.

Xannirin finally lifted his gaze from the steam. “We need to talk about the changes we want to implement upon my ascension. It’s better to hash them out now before I am crowned rather than after people have settled into the new regime.”

Then, he pinned Kiira with a serious look. “I want to elevate you to High Priestess. ”

Their cousin flashed her gaze between the two, brows pinching together as her mind worked over the proposition.

Her mother—a commoner—had not been the wife of her father.

Despite her shameful status, she’d grown up under his too-watchful eye with riches and a modicum of influence.

To raise her to the position of High Priestess was an enormous leap.

“But I’m a bastard,” she protested, like she could sway Xannirin when it sounded like he’d already made up his mind. “I can’t possibly accept the position.”

“We’ll bury your bloodline like we’ll erase Rokath’s name from common memory,” Xannirin said, straightening and rolling out his shoulders.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” she replied with a frown. “Besides, I’m not worthy.”

“Well, I say you are. And I will be the Kral.” A cunning smirk rose to his lips. “The three of us will become the three Fates that walk the earth.”

Kiira’s teeth raked over her bottom lip. “The Kral, the Halálhívó, the High Priestess. The Speaker, the Caller, the Seer.”

As a Seer, the Fates offered her direct access to their weavings, unlike the Angel Seers who only glimpsed what could be through their Goddess.

She was the only Demon in recorded history to be given such a gift, the uniqueness similar to her cousins.

Their fathers’ powers were all duplicates of prior members of House Vrak.

“Exactly,” Xannirin replied, leaning forward.

Excitement sparked off him like the strike of a hammer against forged metal.

“Our power, our story has to be as hallowed, as fearsome as the myth of the Fates themselves. You are the key to swaying the people to believe in us like they believe in the Weaver, the Giver, and the Reaper.”

Across from him, Rokath shifted in his seat.

Attention was not something he handled well.

He much preferred to remain private about his life and his accomplishments.

To be thrust into the notice of the masses was not something he desired.

Every action picked apart by clueless, primped nobles with nothing better to do.

Every decision questioned by those lacking the knowledge to comment on the matter at hand.

Every set of eyes on him, judging, seeking weaknesses or shortcomings.

No, he’d rather remain in the shadows.

Another smile pressed Xannirin’s lips into a wicked curve. “Have I told you about my most recent encounter?”

“You went into the beyond again?” Rokath groused, reaching for the half-empty bottle of the spicy alcohol and pouring himself another glass.

Irritation nipped at him as he recalled how many days it had taken for his cousin to return to their world on his previous trip.

He’d made Xannirin promise never to use his Speaking powers again without telling him first.

Clearly, he’d gone against Rokath’s request.

“I did,” he said slowly, gauging Rokath’s reactions. By the tense set of his jaw, Xannirin knew he was angry. But he didn’t care. His cousin would let go of the transgression eventually. Especially with the information he had gleaned.

“And I know exactly how we’re going to beat back the Angels.”

That seemed to cool some of the embers of his rage, as Xannirin had predicted.

“How?” Rokath asked with no inflection whatsoever, but the stillness of his posture told Xannirin he’d captured his interest.

Xannirin spoke of his experience with a great king from another world who conquered vast swaths of territory. Rokath and Kiira listened with rapt attention, asking questions here and there. When he finished, Kiira slumped in her seat, while Rokath rubbed the stubble across his jaw.

“So we declare war on the Angels then?” Rokath clarified, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side.

“Not quite. We’re not ready for that yet.

It’s true that Koron Stadiel will not stop until all Demons are dead, but for now he can be mitigated.

First, we need the nobles on our side. They have far more influence in the countryside than we do, and they’ll help us shape society to serve the end goal.

Then, we start bolstering our defenses,” Xannirin explained, stealing the bottle of scale from Rokath and splashing it into his cup.

“And what is that?” Kiira asked after sipping from her wine glass.

Xannirin laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back. “What better way to protect the Demon race than to conquer Keleti for ourselves?”

The question hung in the air like smoke—stifling, inescapable, and already clouding their futures.

“For that to happen, we need more bodies,” Rokath growled.

Their fathers had allowed the military to shrink dramatically while they ruled, preferring to spend coin on their own indulgences while the populace suffered.

Poverty had bloomed. The people were growing restless.

None of that would serve Xannirin’s ambitions.

“Which is where Kiira comes in.” Xannirin returned his attention to their cousin.

His heart twisted as the embers highlighted the split in her lip.

Like Rokath, he wanted to protect her from further harm.

“As High Priestess, she spins tales about the Fates. She leads spiritual life in the Demon Realm. She can encourage more marriages and more coupling to produce more offspring. By the time we’re ready to launch a full-scale war, you’ll have the bodies you need to lead the entire army, Rokath.

And we’ll have high-powered nobles to maintain order in conquered territories. ”

While he didn’t head their forces—yet—Rokath had studied military strategy since his first day at the academy as a youngling.

He’d always had a mind for it, which complimented his cousin’s cunning and manipulation perfectly.

Rokath raised a brow, crinkling the inked snake fang that stretched onto his temple. “You’d want me in charge?”

“Who else?” Xannirin said. The legs of his chair smacked against the ground. “Come on, we’ve whispered of this for decades. Once you kill our fathers, we will have snatched all powers for ourselves. Let’s make it happen. Starting with society. Kiira, what do you say?”

Kiira blew out a long breath, twisting the end of her long, straight, hair around her finger. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

Xannirin grasped her free hand in his and gave it a squeeze. “The Demons need to worship the Fates with the fervor the Angels worship the Goddess. They need to venerate us to the point where they trust what we say no matter what. In return, we’ll give them a better life. More food. More coin.”

“You want worship, not devotion. That’s not faith, not as we practice it now. That’s obedience,” Kiira pointed out, withdrawing and sinking back into her seat.

“We need their obedience to make the necessary changes to protect us—to protect them,” Xannirin argued. “Tell her, Rokath.”

Their warrior-cousin, still covered in blood, nodded. “He’s right. In the military, too many questions delay action, and that often comes with severe consequences. Implicit compliance can be the difference between life and death. ”

Xannirin only grew more animated as he pounded out his other points, fueled by Rokath’s affirmation.

“Females will be worshiped for their ability to bear children for our future. They won’t need to work, merely embrace their femininity.

They’ll be taken care of, placed on a pedestal.

Protected from all the evils of this world. ”

Kiira stiffened more and more as he continued speaking of their new society. Finally, she sat forward, interrupting the future Kral. “I don’t like how this is unfolding. Surely there is another way than removing autonomy from females?”

“Don’t frame it that way, Kiira,” Xannirin crooned, snatching her hand back into his. “We’re empowering them in a different way. Asking them to contribute to our collective future in a way only they can.”

Kiira dragged her palms out of her cousin’s, looking across the steam at Rokath’s blurred form. “What do you think?”

He rubbed his temples, drawing her attention to the blood caked on his scalp. “Xannirin’s points are solid. As much as I don’t like it either, I don’t see a way to do it more quickly. Look at how fast Koron Stadiel turned the Angel race into a bunch of overzealous insects.”

In fact, it had scarcely been a century and their militant fanaticism had rooted itself in society deeper than the massive trees in the Es? Forest.

Kiira was silent for many minutes, staring into the distance.

When it was clear she wouldn’t soon speak, Rokath and Xannirin took the raw food around them and dipped it into the boiling liquid.

Spice wafted, meat hissed, vegetables wilted, all while they waited for their third to shift, to move, to do anything other than sit with an utterly blank expression.

Finally, she lifted her glass and drained it. When she placed it on the table, the clang shattered the quiet. “I have conditions. ”

“Name them,” Xannirin said without hesitation.

“First, bastards acquire full rights of their father’s houses.

Second, priestesses will remain unmarried.

” This caveat she added should any female wish to avoid contact with males altogether.

“Third, I retain equal status with the two of you.” She lifted her chin and straightened in her seat.

With her body decorated in bruises, she exuded power with the posture.

“I will never be beneath a male again, vulnerable to his whims. You will not force me to marry against my will. You will allow me to build a temple in equal splendor to Gyor Palace.” She continued to list off her requirements, refusing to bend under the males’ heavy stares.

“You have all of them,” Xannirin pronounced immediately upon the end of her soliloquy.

“However, I need to approve any marriage you should want to make. Same for you, Rokath, though I doubt it will ever come to that.” Kiira opened her mouth to protest, but Xannirin cut her off.

“I don’t expect to need to intervene for you either, Kiira, but I must also protect House Vrak from outside harm.

Someone far beneath our station would not suit the High Priestess.

You will be a Goddess to the Demon race, remember? ”

Kiira huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. Beneath the table, her foot swung in an erratic rhythm as she considered the amendment to her condition. She stilled, then returned her attention to her cousins. “Fine. We have a deal?”

Xannirin picked up a wickedly sharp knife, letting the edge flash in the low light.

“Aye.” With it, he sliced into his palm, then offered it to Kiira.

She did the same before they clasped hands and spoke the words to solidify their alliance.

Rokath drew a dagger from his thigh and drew ruby to the surface of his skin, making the same oath to each of them.

Once their wounds had begun to heal, Xannirin poured another round of drinks. Then, he made a daring toast. “To the future of the Demon Race. To us, who will rule as Gods. And to a painful death to our fathers.”

The three smacked their glasses against the table with resounding thuds, the effects of which wouldn’t be felt for centuries to come.