15. Leah
Leah
Like Syrus promised, I don’t throw up coming back through the aether. That could be because the world has already felt like it was spinning ever since that asshole decked me. But still, small wins.
The Lord of Malice is waiting for me on the other side.
All of him, rather than just the part lurking in my head.
I hadn’t been paying attention to his mood, too focused on getting pulled back to Infernum, but when I see his expression, I almost turn around to throw myself back through the closing rift.
His eyes are blazing, the red in them somehow darker than usual, and his jaw is clenched so hard it looks painful.
He takes an abrupt step forward as I stagger out of the rift, his hand lifting.
The look on his face is so intense I think for a wild moment he’s going to shove me up against the wall.
But then he goes still, and I feel his magic shore up my wobbly legs as he reaches for a pin on his collar instead.
Vizmodeus appears a few minutes later, and the Lord of Malice mutters something in Cyrax to him before scooping me up and taking flight.
I don’t bother pretending I’m not in pain.
I have nothing to prove to the Lord of Malice.
So I keep my eyes closed and focus on breathing in and out to cope with the sharp stabbing in my side.
At least his arms are firm and steady as he carries me back to the castle, meaning I’m not jostled too much.
“I sent Vizmodeus for a healer,” he says when we touch down in the castle courtyard. I pull away from his grip as he sets me down, though there’s a slight resistance from him that makes me nervous. He still has that furious look in his eyes.
“I’m assuming that’s like a medicine woman?” There’s no point in bothering to hide the fact that my voice is weak with pain. I’ve had to settle for holding my side with my other arm, given how my left shoulder still complains bitterly whenever I move it. “Will they know how to treat a human?”
“Demon and human physiology aren’t so different that they can’t check for concussions and stitch up cuts.” His tone is clipped as he turns toward one of the archways. “Can you walk?”
The pain’s making me grouchy, and I bristle. “Yes, of course,” I snap. “He didn’t stab me in the legs.”
I don’t know if it’s my attitude or the mention of the thugs, but his jaw clenches again.
“Come,” he says, striding out of the courtyard. I have no choice but to follow. He’ll only force me to if I don’t.
At first, I think he’s escorting me to my rooms—and I hate that I’m calling them mine in my head now—but then right before we exit onto the outer walkway, he takes a sharp right.
We go up a shallow set of steps, and I realize we’re not that far from the ballroom, which means we’re also not far from the library and the parlor I saw him torturing that demon in.
I stare at his back. It’s broad, with wide shoulders, and I can see the way his muscles flex impressively beneath the fabric as he walks.
He’s big, even for a demon, and yet…it’s hard to explain, but he moves like someone who doesn’t see himself as automatically the tallest person in the room.
I’ve known large men. They either spend their lives ducking and stooping, trying to avoid smacking their heads on a world not built for them, or they lean into it.
Even that scarred thug we met tonight was proud of his size, swaggering and looming, expecting it to intimidate me without him having to do a thing.
The Lord of Malice, meanwhile, looks quietly confident in his body, but he isn’t at all showy with it. He moves like he doesn’t even notice the fact he could crush most people between his powerful arms.
The thought has my nervousness flaring again. I open my mouth, about to ask where we’re going, when Syrus opens a nondescript door and walks inside.
It’s a parlor, fairly similar to the one that acted as a torture chamber the other night.
It doesn’t do much to calm my nerves. This one is smaller though.
Cozier. Fewer fancy carved chairs and more soft, squishy armchairs that look big enough to curl up in.
Surprisingly, they’re worn and sagging a bit at the edges.
Unlike a lot of the castle, they look lived in.
“Sit,” Syrus says without glancing at me.
He crosses the room and disappears through another door.
I slowly lower myself down onto the softest looking armchair, and he reappears with a bottle and length of white fabric.
He’s taken off his jacket and rolled up the white sleeves of his shirt, exposing the tanned skin of his forearms.
Then the Lord of Malice kneels in front of me.
The sight of it makes my head swim a little. I tell myself it’s the concussion talking, even as I swallow, hard, struck by how I can see more of the brown in his eyes at this level. That distracting thought is why it takes me a moment to realize what the white cloth is for. Bandages.
“Oh,” I say, scooting back a little, still clutching my side as he unravels the cloth. “I can wait for the healer.”
“You will wait for the healer,” he agrees, still looking at the bandages rather than my face. “But in the meantime, I will stop the bleeding. Nothing elaborate, just enough pressure that you don’t get blood on the upholstery.”
I hesitate, but there’s really no point in disobeying him, and I can feel the way the cut gapes every time I move. Having it tightly bound would be a relief.
“All right.” I sit up straighter, slowly rolling up the bottom of my tunic. The fabric sticks to the wound a little, and I curse under my breath as I peel it away.
He uncaps the bottle and rips off a square of fabric, dousing it.
I can smell that it’s alcohol and lean up and over, reaching out my hand to take the rag.
He ignores me, pressing the cloth lightly to the wound himself.
I brace for the sting, which actually isn’t too bad.
What I didn’t prepare for is the way his wrist brushes against my side as he dabs at the cut.
The skin is too sensitive there—vulnerable and not used to being exposed—and the silence only makes me focus on the sensation that much more.
I turn my head to look over at the fireplace, grasping for something to say.
“My guess is those assholes don’t have anything to do with the ephilium.”
“No?” he asks, his tone refusing to give away whether he agrees with me or not.
“They looked totally lost when I brought it up, and I don’t think they’re that good at acting.”
Done with cleaning the cut, Syrus moves on to unrolling a length of bandage.
I pull away from the back of the armchair so he can reach his arms around me.
His exposed forearm presses against my uninjured side to draw the bandage round my stomach.
I seize on whatever words bubble to the surface of my mind, trying to shove away the intimacy of the moment.
“Besides, even if the ephilium are working with humans, did those idiots seem like the type they’d recruit? They’re too careless—not discreet or smart enough to go around trapping demons and killing them with black magic without getting caught.”
It’s silent for a moment, then he ties off the bandage and speaks. “Agreed. It seems unlikely that whoever the pale-bloods are working with is high profile enough to own those buildings anyway. The people opening these rifts are confident that the locations won’t be traced back to them.”
“Do you think it has anything to do with…” My hand automatically goes to the spot on my arm where the sorcerers made their cut—it’s just a thin red line now. “I mean, they seemed pretty into the whole black magic thing, and someone’s smiting those demons.”
“The ephilium could be smiting them,” he points out. “Though admittedly it’s not their style. They prefer to burn us from the outside in, rather than the other way around.” His gaze has followed the hand touching my arm, and now he’s looking at the ring on my finger.
“Was your husband hurt when they took you?” he asks, his voice quiet.
“Oh. I don’t know.” It’s still very strange to think of Hathwell as my husband at all.
“One moment I was asleep, and the next they were holding me down and drugging me.” I twist the ring around my finger.
“To be honest, it’s occurred to me he might’ve been one of the people in that chamber. I didn’t see all their faces.”
This makes his eyes snap to mine. “You think your husband tried to sacrifice you?”
Despite the pain, I suppress a smile. “Pretty shitty wedding present, right? But it was an arranged marriage. I don’t really know the man, so anything’s possible,” I say with a shrug.
I don’t add anything about Dad or his debts, and certainly nothing about taking Evie’s place.
In fact, this whole conversation is getting a little too personal, so I redirect.
“My point is, someone’s trying to mess with the Morphos, and you’re in charge of it, so don’t you think them summoning you could be connected? ”
He considers this. “There’s always some foolish human or other trying to summon a demon.
I didn’t have to answer the call—the spell wanted a powerful demon, and I was the first one it found, though it’s true an ephilium might not have realized I was powerful enough to resist the binding after being called and set the humans up to try it. ”
I stare at him, wondering why he’d responded to the summons if he didn’t have to.
I’m about to ask, but he’s already talking again.
“Summoning me would be an odd move if sabotaging the Morphos was their goal. I may be the lake’s guardian—I oversee the snares’ access to it—but I have no unique magical link to the lake.
My power won’t impact it any more than the next demon, so harnessing that power wouldn’t be useful to someone trying to interfere with it. ”