Page 18

Gordin

G ordin swallowed back bile while preparing to meet with the disgusting hag he’d been blood-bound to serve for too many miserable decades. How he loathed her, especially her hideous third eye, her distended belly, grotesque canine’s maw, and her talons for feet. All other demons had assumed the bodies of the Fae, which were far more pleasing to the eye. His mistress had retained her ugly Lamatsu body. He prayed the mistress didn’t order him to fuck her, for he didn’t know if he could get hard enough to penetrate her rancid crotch.

Exhaling a slow breath, he pushed aside the curtain to her cavernous chambers. He snarled at the naked human meals chained to the wall that quivered like frightened mice as he strode toward her bedchamber and loudly cleared his throat.

“Enter,” she cackled, her voice reminding him of a frail old human’s. He secretly hoped she was dying. Then he wouldn’t be forced to serve her, and he could disappear deep in the human lands, where the demon king wouldn’t find him.

He found her tucked away in her bed, the covers drawn to her furry neck while she leaned against the iron frame, all three eyes watching him as if she was contemplating turning him into her next meal.

“Mistress.” Tucking his wings behind him, he bowed while holding out the jug of pig blood, not as strong as Fae or human blood, but she didn’t need to know from what or how he’d procured it. “I have brought you some fresh virgin blood to help you recover.”

“Leave it.” She waved toward the small table beside the bed. “What news from your spies?” Her voice sounded strained, as if she struggled for breath.

Good. Lady Arabella Viggo was stronger than they’d predicted, severely injuring his mistress before escaping and taking the white witch’s children with her. He had hoped the mistress would’ve died that day, but she still clung to life.

After setting the pig blood on the table beside her bed, he took several steps back. “One of the white witches is with Queen Malvolia.”

Her face contorted, that third eye pulsing like a heartbeat. “Which one?”

He struggled to find his voice, fearing she’d direct her anger at him. “The siren.”

She sat up in bed while letting the covers fall, revealing her saggy breasts that looked like two stockings filled with rocks. “Where is the other, the healer?”

Bile burned his throat when he recounted all the times he’d been forced to fuck such a hideous creature. “The healer disappeared, along with the dragons, the prince, and the children.”

“To where?”

“We assume they’ve gone to Cyrene,” he answered while dread ratcheted up his spine. He feared her reaction when he told her about the one they called The Darkness. “Three of their mates were involved in a battle against the dragons.”

“Did they survive?”

“We don’t know yet.” He cleared his throat while trying not to peer into her eyes. “We also have reports that the healer and Queen Malvolia are at war with one another.”

“Good.” She steepled her fingers, licking her lips with a forked tongue. “Their internal battles will make it easier for us to defeat them.”

His feathers rattled at the nerve-racking cackle in her voice. “The siren is without her mates.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “All of them?”

“Her alpha is demon possessed.” He swallowed against the burning in his throat while neglecting to mention exactly what demon was possessing the firemage. “Her other two were involved in the dragon attack.”

“Ahh.” She let out another burst of grating laughter. “So, one of my demons finally got through.”

Gordin struggled to find the courage to correct her assumption. After weeks of trying to penetrate the white witches’ inner circle, her demons hadn’t gotten through. Instead, The Darkness had found a way in by cleverly infecting the Avias family hound.

“And what news of my sister?” she asked, her three eyes hopeful.

Gordin breathed out a slow breath while preparing to land the first blow. “She is in a dungeon below Malvolia’s castle.”

His mistress frowned, though she didn’t seem too upset. “Has she taken over her host’s body yet?”

Knowing she wouldn’t be happy with the news, tension wrapped a noose around his neck. “No, Mistress.”

“I’m disappointed.” His mistress frowned, then reached for the pitcher of blood. “I thought my sister was stronger.” She took several gulps of the pig blood, grunting and groaning between each gulp in a disgusting act of insatiable greed.

“Her magic is very powerful, but her spirit is weak.” He regretted the words that poured out of his mouth the moment he’d said them. He couldn’t help it. His frayed nerves made him so.

She let out a screech, like a hawk diving for a mouse, and threw the pitcher of blood at him. It struck the floor by his feet, splattering all over his boots. “I didn’t ask for your opinion!”

“Forgive me, Mistress.” Innards churning, he bowed low. So much for the bitch losing her strength. Gordin feared she’d make a full recovery.

“Is that all you have to report?” she asked on a snarl.

He shook his head. “The city of Thebes is at its weakest. There are reports Queen Malvolia has gone mad since losing her familiar.” He averted his gaze when that third eye centered on him. “Now is the best time to strike.”

She leaned forward, her talons curling into her blankets. “There is something you’re not telling me.”

He rubbed his trembling hands down his trousers while trying his hardest to stem the rising tide of fear. “The white witches have unearthed the book of demon spells.”

Her hiss was otherworldly, like the sound of blood pouring onto a scalding forge. “Then the minotaur you turned failed, which means you failed. You should have searched harder for that book.”

He decided not to remind her that the book had been spellcast so that only a white witch could find it or open it. “The siren hasn’t unlocked her siren song,” he added, in hopes of assuaging her ire. “Or the spell to close the portal.”

She flashed bloody fangs. “Not yet.”

“Which is why we should strike now,” he said, his feathers standing on end as he prepared to evade her magic.

She motioned toward the bed. “Do I look like I’m strong enough to launch a war?”

“You need not do anything, Mistress.” He shifted from foot to foot, unable to control the terror buzzing in his veins. “Your fleet is waiting for your command. Let them ravage the Fae lands while the other white witch is away and before the siren unlocks the spells.”

All three eyes narrowed on him. “And who will lead my fleet?”

He turned up his chin while schooling his features into a mask of neutrality. “I will lead in your stead.”

Her chest rose and fell, her nostrils flaring, reminding him of a wounded, wild animal. “So you can take all the glory?”

He took a big step back when her gaze centered on his crotch. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mistress.”

“You would, and you will wait to attack until I’m recovered. I will lead my own fleet.” She waved him away with a flick of her claws. “You’re dismissed.”

Gordin knew he should’ve left. Let the mistress find out about The Darkness on her own. Curse the poisonous magic that leached into his veins, preventing him from betraying his mistress, even as he knew she would lead him to his demise. “Forgive me, Mistress. My spies have reported to me something else very disturbing.”

She released a huff of air, her breath like a poisonous fog. “What is it?”

He cleared his throat again while praying she didn’t turn him to ash. “The siren’s alpha, Draevyn Inferni, is not possessed by one of ours.”

The growl that came out of her caused moisture to drip into his underpants. “Who, then?”

“A powerful demon with the unfamiliar name of Mephis,” he blurted, then tensed, awaiting his fate.

Her deadly hiss rattled his eardrums. “Do we know if it’s The Darkness?”

He nodded. “He has complete control over the firemage’s body.” And who else but The Darkness could wield such power over a host body the moment he possessed them?

Her eyes flared red. “Send demons to destroy him.”

He clenched his hands, repressing the urge to set her aflame before she killed him. It wouldn’t do any good. His blood bond would cook him alive before he could kill her. “I have already tried.”

“And?”

“My spies are terrified of him,” he answered truthfully, then berated himself. When had she ever awarded him for his honesty?

Her lips pulled back in a wicked snarl. “Burn out the eyes of anyone who refuses to kill Mephis.”

It wouldn’t work. They’d rather lose their eyes than their souls. “Y-yes, Mistress.”

Her low growl burrowed into his bones. “Why do you hesitate?”

“You know how hard Mephis is to kill.” He regretted the edge of panic that had slipped into his voice. She would see it as a weakness and use it to her advantage.

“Of course, I do.” She snorted. “Why do you think I fled hell? Why did any of us flee hell?”

“And even if we killed him, what’s to stop him from coming through the mists?” He tensed, dreading her reaction.

She let out a maddening cackle. “If he could come through my mist portals, he would’ve done so already, instead of taking a Fae body.”

He wasn’t so sure, though he decided it best not to argue. Most demons preferred Fae bodies to their demon bodies. His mistress was the only demon he knew who kept her original form. Everything felt better in a Fae body, from eating to breathing to fucking.

Her gaze raked over his body, as if she was assessing his worth. “This would be a good task for the nephilim.”

“It would, but his body is decomposing, and he can’t make the shift.” Not to mention, this particular nephilim was a coward.

“Then find him a new body.” The snap of her maw ricocheted through the cavern.

“I have already commissioned the last tribe of demonlings to find him another.” He couldn’t contain his bitterness that they were down to just one tribe of demonic spiders, no thanks to his mistress, who’d squandered away the rest with her careless maneuvers.

“Good.” She rubbed her claws together. “Make sure the replacement body is a corpse. The siren can’t control the living dead with her voice. Once he’s in the new corpse, send him after The Darkness. I don’t care if they bring that entire castle down. Mephis must be killed at any cost.”

“Yes, Mistress.” He took a step back, bowing low.

“Bring me the mage, Thorin.” She threw the covers off the bed, revealing her hairy, distended belly as a malodorous funk wafted from her crotch. “I need more than virgin blood to recover my strength. It’s time I took his power for myself.”

Gordin took a step back, then another. He was almost out of her line of fire before she called, “And it’s time we recruited the Terrae. Send the demonlings after them.”

Gordin swallowed, his gut churning with unease. “Which Terrae?”

She waved him away like she was shooing a fly. “All of them, from the wolf shifters in Windhaven to the half-bloods in Cyrene. Leave no Terrae untouched.”

Gordin shook his head. “I will send my demons after the other Terrae, but the satyr village has disappeared.”

Her head snapped back, that third eye narrowing on him. “Where did they go?”

He did his best to keep the tremors from his voice. “I don’t know. Perhaps one of the white witches used a spell to disguise them.”

She let out a derisive sort. “They’re not that clever.”

He wanted to argue that perhaps they were, but thought better of it, lest she turn his cock to ash. She dismissed him with a sneer, and he hurried out of her bedchamber as if he was being chased by poisoned darts. He didn’t dare disobey her, though he knew that once they killed Thorin and turned the shifters, the white witches would prepare for war.

––––––––

Cenric, King of Itarian

Centaur Stronghold, Caldaria

H EAD HELD HIGH, KING Cenric clomped through the center of the gathering hall, a long wooden tribal lodge with a thatched roof. Warm hearths at either end cast a pleasing glow throughout, illuminating hay dust particles in the air. This hut had been built by Cenric’s great-grandfather out of Periculian Pines, able to withstand strong winds and even a giant’s fist and had served the centaurs for centuries.

He glared at other stallions who kicked their hooves, daring them to challenge his rule. He would not back down, nor would he run like a coward. He was king of all centaurs and would be respected. The vagrant shifters who’d been foolish enough to come scratching at their doors earlier that evening had rattled the tribe with tales of demon spiders, but Cenric refused to believe it. Too lazy and stupid to hunt for themselves, the shifters were no doubt scavenging for a free meal and a warm bed. They would get neither here. They’d been sent on their way with the warning not to come to Itarian again, lest they wanted to be impaled by centaur spears.

Now the women, children, and weaker centaur stallions were uneasy, caving to their foolish fears. Even if such spiders existed, they were no match for centaurs. They would be flattened beneath his tribe’s hooves if they dared breach Itarian’s walls.

Cenric’s stomach rumbled as he inhaled the heady smells of barley, onion, and parsnip soup boiling on the hearth fires. Though he was hungry, his desire to rut outweighed his need for food. A good rutting would relieve the tension in his shoulders. He would sow his seed first, and then the tribal mares would serve him food and mead.

He flexed his muscles while clomping around a brood of mares and their youthful fillies. As king, he had his pick of the best mares in the tribe, though tonight, he was only interested in Angeline, a fair-haired filly with a pale dapple coat and a long, dark tail. He’d been wanting to add her to his brood for a while, and he was tired of her avoiding his advances by hiding behind her mother’s flank. He cared not that her mother, Frida, protested her daughter was too young. Tonight, Angeline would be broken in on his cock.

Cutting through the crowd of mares, he snarled when they pushed their daughters behind them. He wasn’t interested in their snot-nosed foals. He wanted Angeline, with her sky-blue eyes and turned-up nose. When he reached Frida, he stopped. A beauty in her own right, with flame-red hair and alabaster skin, he’d mounted her more times than he could count. But her coat was starting to dull. Cenric was craving a shiny coat and fresh blood, and as tribal king, it was his right to break in the virgins, filling as many of them with his seed, so that his strong bloodline would continue.

“Move aside, Frida,” he said on a snarl.

Frida had the nerve to defy him, pushing her offspring behind her. “She’s too young.”

“She will never mature while you coddle her.” He bowed up his chest while continuing his advance.

Frida stopped him with a hand on his chest. “She hasn’t had her first blood.”

He flashed his teeth. “Then I will bleed her.”

Frida paled, her mouth falling open. “Your father never broke in young fillies.”

“My father is no longer king.” He thumped his chest with a growl. “ I am.” How dare she compare him to his father? The old mule had ruled far too long, until Cenric tired of his senility and ended his life with a spear through the chest.

“You should be preparing for a demon invasion!” Frida’s cheeks reddened as she waved to the tall lodge’s wooden doors. “Not defiling young girls!”

Flames of rage flashed in Cenric’s skull. He slapped the mare so hard, the sound ricocheted throughout the lodge. Frida’s head flew back, blood and a tooth splattering against the wall.

Cenric was very aware of the hush that fell about the hall, with the exception of young Angeline, who cried out for her mama, tears marring her pretty face.

Shaking the pain from his hand, Cenric said with a snarl, “You need to learn your place, woman.”

Frida rubbed her swelling jaw, ire flashing in her eyes. “And you need to learn yours! Only a coward king bullies his mares.”

A jolt of anger surged through him, and he snatched Frida’s braid, relishing her cries while pulling her to the ground.

“Please, stop!” Angeline thrust herself between them, clawing at his arm. “Please!”

He grabbed the filly, dragging her away from her injured mother. “Come here, Angeline.” Fury pumped through his veins as he roughly hauled her through the crowd. He would mount her here for her mother to witness and all to share in her shame.

The crowd parted, then closed in around them as he dragged her toward a pile of hay in the center of the hall.

She dug in her hooves, flailing. “No!”

He spun on her with a snarl. She wouldn’t dare defy him. “What?”

Her lower lip quivered as she hiked up her chin. “I will not mate with a coward who abuses women.”

In that moment, even with swollen eyes and a tear-streaked face, Angeline was the most beautiful female Cenric had ever seen. If he couldn’t have her, no stallion would. It would be a shame to waste such beauty, but she would have to die, alongside her mother.

A loud neigh sounded behind the onlookers, and they parted like a chasm in the earth as Frida limped toward them, a spear in hand.

Cenric pushed Angeline in front of him as a shield. “You care so much about protecting your daughter?” Unsheathing his sword, he pointed it toward the doors. “Then protect her outside Itarian. You are both banished.”

Chest heaving, Frida raised her spear. “You can’t do that!”

“Can’t I?” He snatched a shield from the nearest stallion, raising it in front of him, should Frida prove to have good aim. “It is a king’s right to breed with any tribal mares he so chooses.”

“Angeline isn’t a mare.” A youthful voice echoed from the throng of onlookers. “She’s a filly. It’s a mother’s right to protect her offspring.”

The crowd parted, revealing Gunnar, Cenric’s youngest half-brother. Barely old enough to be considered a stallion, the youth had been a constant source of aggravation. Cenric had been waiting for the right moment to kill his half-brother and eliminate the potential threat to his rule. He inwardly smiled, for now was the perfect time.

“You are banished with them.” He dismissively waved his brother away, as if he was shooing a fly. “Anyone else?”

“You do not behave like a king.” Shoulders pulled back, Gunnar clomped up to him with a sneer. “Our father would be ashamed of your behavior.”

“Really? What are you going to do about it?” Cenric towered over his little brother, whose face was still as soft as a peach, his scrawny arms barely able to lift a spear.

Gunnar stepped back, his cheeks flushing. “I-I challenge your rule.”

Cenric tossed back his head with a laugh. “Do you, colt?”

“I-I do.” Gunnar raised a sword that was half the weight of Cenric’s, the kind of weapon the colts used for practice.

Cenric could easily end his brother now, thrust a spear through his chest and get it over with, but as a wolf’s cry sounded outside, followed by a chorus of howls, he thought of a better way to end his brother’s life.

“You need a quorum from the tribe to issue a challenge.” Cenric glared at the scared faces surrounding him. “Does he have the votes?”

Several whinnies rose up from the crowd as they stepped back as one. They were either cowards or smart enough to know what Cenric would do to them.

“No?” He threw out his arms, a wide grin stretching his face. “I will not battle you, Gunnar, which means you get to live for the moment.” He let out a deep belly laugh. “Though, I doubt the hungry shifters outside our walls will let you see the dawn.”

Chest bowed out, Gunnar faced the crowd. “Cowards, all of you, for letting him get away with this.”

Cenric aimed his sword at Gunnar and the mother and child. “Leave before you meet the same death as your former king.”

* * *

Frida

F RIDA’S NOSTRILS FLARED as she nervously neighed and paced in front of the centaur stronghold’s fortress made of thick Periculian pines, tall and thick enough to stop a giant. They had no way of getting back inside. She trampled the dry grass beneath her while racking her brain, trying to devise her next course of action. They could run to the satyrs in Dunhull, though she didn’t know how to find it ever since the white witch had hidden their village. The only other option would be Cyrene, more than a day’s run away through darkened woods.

She froze, clutching her spear when a wolf’s howl rent the air. She’d never heard of shifters eating centaurs before, but these wolves were hungry. Her gaze darted to the full moon, veiled behind thin, passing clouds. ’Twas a perfect night for hunting. How had this happened? One moment, she and the other mares were warming their bones beside the hearth. The next, she and her foal had been cast out by their cruel king, and none of her friends and family had tried to stop him. The only brave stallion among the tribe had been Gunnar, who was barely past his foal years. Now Frida would be responsible for two youths in a dangerous forest.

Gunnar paced in front of them like a caged lion, kicking up dirt while cursing his brother and waving his sword around. Frida knew there was no talking to the young stallion, and she feared she and Angeline might not be able to rely on him.

To make matters worse, Frida’s face throbbed so hard, she struggled to think clearly. Damn that Cenric. She should’ve thrust her spear through his chest, but she never thought he would go through with the banishment. She’d been a good and loyal mare, always letting him mount her when he got the urge, even though she’d secretly despised him. What had that gotten her? To be treated so cruelly, discarded as trash. She cursed her king and all her cowardly race.

“Mother.” Angeline pressed up against her with a whinny. “I’m scared.”

Another howl cut through the thick air, sending a chill sweeping across her bones. She didn’t speak wolf, but this howl sounded urgent. Something was amiss.

“I know, child.” She nervously backed up with a trembling neigh. “Come. We can’t stay here.”

Her daughter wrung her hands while following after her. “What do we do?”

Frida swallowed back a knot of panic as they climbed on top of the closest ridge, staring down at the darkened forest. “We ride until we reach Cyrene. We’ll find shelter there.” She was relieved Gunnar followed, though he said not a word as he mumbled beneath his breath. Hopefully, they could rely on him, for they would need his sword, should the shifters attack.

Tears welled in her daughter’s eyes. “Then what?”

“We’ll appeal to the white witches,” Frida blurted, then galloped to the next hill, the stronghold getting smaller the farther they traveled. She didn’t know if the goddesses would help, but she was out of options.

Angeline’s eyes widened. “What can they do?”

Frida stopped as she reached the top of the next hill and cast a woeful glace at the stronghold once more. “Help us defeat Cenric, so we can return.”

Gunnar sheathed his sword and crossed his arms with a scowl. “I don’t want to return after the way our tribe turned their backs on us.”

Angeline put a hand on his arm, giving him a pleading look. “But we belong with our own kind.”

Gunnar’s eyes softened as he grasped Angeline’s hand. “They’re not our kind. They’re cowards.”

How had Frida not noticed such familiarity between the two before? No wonder Gunnar had stood up for them. They were in love. Frida had never cared much for the young stallion, mostly because he looked too much like his older brother, with auburn hair and a smattering of freckles on his pale face, but that’s where their similarities ended. Gunnar had always been kind and fair. It was a shame he hadn’t inherited the crown.

Angeline visibly swallowed while squeezing Gunnar’s arm. “You’ll change your mind.”

His features hardened. “I won’t.”

A cacophony of bloodcurdling howls reverberated from the forest before suddenly going silent.

Frida froze, a jolt of fear zinging up her spine.

“Do you hear that?” Angeline cried out.

Frida stumbled back while staring at the trees as they turned blacker and blacker. Was her imagination playing tricks on her?

“We should go.” She spoke out of the corner of her mouth as the blackness leached off the trees like tar, spreading across the ground in front of the fortress like a lengthening shadow.

“Mother,” Angeline hissed as that shadow crept up the stronghold walls. “What’s that?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“It looks like a mudslide!” Gunnar blurted.

“No, not a mudslide,” Frida breathed. “Demon spiders as far as the eye can see.” Frida knew they should run, but she was paralyzed with fear, her hooves rooted to the spot.

Angeline’s hands flew to her mouth. “What do we do?”

Molten lava pumped through Frida’s veins, triggering her survival instincts. She grabbed her daughter’s shoulder. “Run.”

“But Itarian,” Angeline protested.

“They’re lost,” Gunnar said, his chest rapidly rising and falling, “and we will be, too, if we don’t hurry.”

Frida sucked in a scream when the shadow rolled over the centaur stronghold like a tidal surge, stripping the bark off the fortress’s logs until it looked like bones. The terrified neighs of its inhabitants were silenced within a matter of seconds. Then she turned tail and ran, her daughter and Gunnar flanking her. They ran all night until their sides ached and their chests heaved for breath. They didn’t stop to sleep or drink. They just ran until Frida feared her heart would give out from fear.