Page 3 of The Demon’s Due (Bedeviled #5)
Daphne proceeded to inform us that supplicants had to perform certain steps before undertaking the test: a cleansing bath (pre-death spa day), a hearty meal (noshes before nothingness), and a sound rest (dreams for the doomed).
A muscle twitched violently in Alastair’s cheek as he swallowed whatever protests had risen to his lips, his eyes fixed on Daphne with barely contained hatred.
“Get comfortable. We’ll be a while.” She arched an eyebrow at him, letting the silence draw out until he sat down, his jaw tight.
“Is this really standard operating procedure?” I said, following her through the courtyard.
“It’s not not standard.” She sniffed primly. “Some people need to cool their jets and recognize they aren’t in charge.”
We stepped inside a small hut, which was taken up by a hot spring.
Electric tealights were set around the edge, and the air smelled of cedar and eucalyptus, not sulphur.
It was soothing, but so was the last spa I’d visited.
Had I never known a staked Prime was fished out of the bathwater, I would have booked a deluxe treatment.
Honestly, it wasn’t off the table.
I peered through the steam into the dark pool with a grimace. “Is this where you keep your name maggots?”
“Please, doll. That skin exfoliation treatment is for VIP supplicants only.”
I couldn’t tell if she was kidding.
“Ditch the dirty duds.” She laid a folded cloth bundle on a low bench. “And soak as long as you want. When you’ve changed, ring this…” She removed a small silver bell from her pocket and set it on the clean clothing. “I’ll come get you. Don’t leave this room without me.”
I waved a hand in thanks, turning from the slash of daylight as she exited. Once disrobed, I stepped into the steaming water with a medley of swears and wince-breaths but was finally submerged up to my shoulders.
Cherry settled in for a nap. Being patient had worn her out. I promised her that she’d shortly have the best treat ever.
I scrubbed my face and hair clean, then lay back against the cedar planking, stretching out my arms and legs, but I was restless, my thoughts consumed with the test. I got out of the water and threw on the homespun pullover shirt and cropped pants.
There were no socks, just slippers. My ruined pedicure would have to stand. I rang the bell.
Daphne led me down corridors lined with vibrant art and past rooms with glass-covered exhibits of weapons.
There were cabinets of curiosities and mismatched arrangements of furniture, like the Queen Anne chair cozied up to the 1950s chrome diner table and the wardrobe that the Narnia kids might still be inside grouped with an IKEA dresser.
However, the fortress experience wasn’t all awe and a childlike sense of wonder.
There was a room of ice, its crystalline walls glowing with an inner blue light that cast fractured reflections across the floor. Something moved in the depths of that frozen chamber—something large and patient that left no footprints on the gleaming surface.
I sped up, past a doorway that opened into a room of shadows so dense they absorbed all surrounding light.
Occasional flickers of movement disrupted the perfect blackness, like creatures swimming through ink.
The darkness reached toward me, tendrils of shadow stretching beyond the threshold before reluctantly retreating.
Some of the doors were padlocked with heavy rusted locks or warded with writhing runes. I didn’t ask what was behind them.
Then there was a small chamber with no door—just an opening in the wall barely wider than my shoulders.
No light illuminated its interior, yet I could see every detail with unnatural clarity.
The walls pulsed gently, like the inside of something living, and whispers emanated from within, overlapping voices speaking in languages I both recognized and didn’t.
Some sounded like pleas, others like threats, all of them somehow directed at me specifically.
I hurried past it, eyes averted, but not before catching a glimpse of handprints pressed into the fleshy walls.
Daphne flung open a pair of French doors.
A mahogany dining table dominated the room, its polished surface reflecting crystal chandeliers above.
High-backed chairs upholstered in burgundy silk lined both sides, and the deep emerald fabric of heavy damask curtains pooled on marble floors.
A sideboard displayed delicate cut-glass decanters under carved cherubs peering down from ceiling medallions.
The sheer amount of dinnerware made my head spin.
I sighed, my shoulders sagging, and followed her to my seat at the far end, my slippers making soft slapping noises.
My dinners generally involved a fork, knife, and plate.
Not even that on taco night. There’d be two glasses if I was being fancy.
I glanced at a plate setting. What meal needed four spoons?
I scraped the floor when I pulled my chair out and grimaced. “This isn’t part of the test, is it? Pass some Good Housekeeping seal of approval?”
Daphne dropped into her chair with fluid grace. “Last chance to back out, Aviva.”
“Not going to happen.” I looked from one of my three forks down the length of the table. “Is there a butler or will food just?—”
She slammed her hand on her placemat. “I liked you.”
I made a snarky face. “Not loving the past tense.”
She jabbed a fork at me, and I flinched. “You know how many threats I deal with from these shmoes seeking healing magic? The sob stories? My gawd. ‘Three years and millions of dollars of tests and my medical start-up has nothing. Help me find the cure for blah blah blah, insert disease of choice.’”
“Medical breakthroughs sound kind of worthy,” I said tentatively.
Wine appeared on the table—just out of my reach.
“I’m sure the investors agreed. The test thought otherwise. I had one dude whining about how every time he was about to get intimate, his ex’s voice started narrating in his head like a nature documentary.” She poured herself a glass.
I tried not to make puppy dog eyes at the booze. “That’s oddly specific. What happened?”
“Do I look like a therapist? I told him to tell it to the test.”
“The last person who was found worthy, what did they come for?”
“Stop gas poisoning orphans during World War II?” She scrunched up her face. “Maybe they had gout. It all blends together.”
“It’s not cause dependent.”
“Nope.” That was good.
“There are a lot of failed supplicants in that bone wall.” I peeled my shoulders off the now-damp chair silk. “How did they all find out about this place? It wasn’t advertised. Not even on the dark web.”
“Be here since time immemorial and word gets around.” She sipped her wine.
“But you know how infrequently I get a calm request to take the test without any drama? Without oversharing? Fuhgeddaboudit. You were the only one who didn’t want the word.
Then you showed up with Sir Bangs-A-Lot, disturbing my plants. ”
“More like the Mayor of Poundtown—and nope. That’s not better.”
Daphne waved a hand at my plate, the fight gone out of her. “Eat.”
A fat, juicy cheeseburger oozing melted cheddar appeared on my plate. My mouth watered, but I hesitated. “Uh…this is treyf. Bad Jew food,” I clarified at her confused expression.
“It was pulled from your brain as your favorite.” She daintily cut into her golden-brown puff pastry and a rich gravy spilled out.
“True, but…” I looked around and lowered my voice. “Will that be an issue with…” I jerked my chin to the room at large.
“Nah.”
I tucked my napkin onto my lap. “Then can I get bacon? Extra crispy.” The strips appeared immediately, both improving my burger and, more importantly, confirming my hypothesis.
This power word test had a single component: prove your worthiness in its specific instance. I’d experienced the memory of the last supplicant, Evelyn. The vampire didn’t have to demonstrate strength or intelligence or even a strong moral character.
Because the test was deceptively simple. Emphasis on deceptive.
Here’s the trouble: Evelyn lied. The poor woman didn’t even realize it. She had a personal and valid reason to believe herself worthy in this particular situation, but she parroted the info Alastair fed her—that the word would be used to restore procreation for all vampires.
Error or not, she lied to that magic force when she claimed she’d reignite the spark of life for all vamps.
She probably wasn’t read the Threshold Protocol—the silver lining in Alastair’s abduction.
As Daphne had told me on my previous visit to this fortress: healing is healing.
It wasn’t good or bad, simply released in a ritual of the supplicant’s choosing.
The magic guardian didn’t give a shit that six people had died to get Alastair to this point.
That cockamamie sentience was as reprehensible as an arms dealer determining who received his weapons then washing his hands of any responsibility.
I licked grease off my fingers and snagged a fry from the crisp pile glistening with salt crystals that I hadn’t even made a dent in. Did this feel like the Last Supper? Yup. Was this affecting my hunger at all? Nope. I shoveled two more fries into my mouth.
With every fiber of my being, I wanted the healing magic for Alastair, and I would do anything to achieve that.
I’d also kill him after he enjoyed a single glorious moment of the fruit of his labors. It didn’t make me any less worthy; quite the opposite in fact. My argument was laid out and ready for the judge.
After I’d stuffed my face with four different courses, using only a fraction of my allotted cutlery, Daphne poured us both a brandy.
She swirled the amber liquid in the snifter. “Magic comes with a price, Aviva, and it always collects its debt. It doesn’t care who pays the cost—or when.”