16. Leah
Leah
“Again,” Syrus calls as I drop the ball of stone on the ground with a gasp.
It takes me a moment to catch my breath long enough to answer him, and even then, I have to angle my head to call up to the section of courtyard wall he’s perched on. “I can’t. If you make me carry this thing up and down those stairs one more time, I’ll pass out.”
He turns the page of his book without looking up. “If you pass out, you can stop.”
I glare at the stone in front of me with a hatred I’ve rarely felt for an inanimate object, with the exception perhaps of the flowers in Ada’s garden.
It must be a bit of masonry that fell off some corner of the castle battlements.
Now it’s been repurposed as a torture device especially for my suffering.
I wipe the sheen of sweat off my neck with the collar of my shirt, then push my damp hair back from my face.
“Stop stalling,” Syrus says, and I clench my fingers into fists so I don’t make a rude gesture at him. I give myself a beat, just to prove I don’t have to jump into action the moment he barks an order at me, then dutifully bend to pick up the stone.
My arm muscles groan with effort, but I remember to tighten my core as I heft the stone up, slowly turn, and start back up the flight of stairs I’ve scaled at least ten times already.
It’s been nearly a week since we returned from Strata, and it turns out the demon healer really knew her stuff.
Thanks to the balm she gave me, the bruise on my face has all but disappeared.
Then she came back to remove my stitches from my side after four days, the cut already mostly sealed up—I’m sure there was some demon magic at work with that one, even if I don’t understand exactly how she did it.
She was pretty nice, though I’ve never met a medicine woman with a beak before.
She answered all my questions about the plants she used in her balm and the syrup she gave me for my pain.
Of course, I’d not heard of any of them—either in Cyrax or their common translation—but I still stored their names and descriptions away anyway.
I chant them now in my mind to distract myself from the way my muscles are screaming.
“Mexalor, also known as waspvine…yablon’ti, also called miner’s apple…kuvvel, also—fuck, this hurts. I’d really like to throw this thing right at his smug, demon fa—”
“I think I prefer it when you stick to plants,” Syrus murmurs into my mind. The sudden sound of his voice curling between my ears nearly makes me drop the stone.
“You shouldn’t go snooping places uninvited if you don’t want to hear something unpleasant,” I think back.
It’s a kind of test. I want to see if he remembers our conversation in the parlor as well as I do.
I’ve been waiting for my retribution all week—for lying to him, for refusing to give him my last name, and for interrogating him about the demon he punished.
So far, he’s just started calling me Leah and otherwise acted like it never happened.
Well, except for the fact he’s now making me carry masonry about the castle.
“Using my own words against me won’t make me cut your training short,” he purrs, turning another page of his book.
“No, but it will pass the time quicker for me,” I say, turning at the top of the stairs and starting to descend. “Or maybe you could read to me from that book that’s so fascinating.”
I’m mostly joking, but as I near the bottom of the steps, he snaps the tome shut and tucks it away before I can catch a look at the lettering on the cover.
“You can stop now,” he says, tapping the pin on his collar and unfurling his wings to drop lightly down onto the courtyard floor.
I release the stone before he even has time to hide his wings away, moaning with relief.
When I look up, massaging my aching arms, I see Syrus watching me, the red of his eyes a little darker than usual.
“Please tell me that’s all,” I say. “I preferred getting beaten up by those thugs to this. At least they didn’t shout criticism at me while dragging out my pain.”
His mouth pulls into a thin line, and he shakes his head, his gaze brightening. “That was strength training. Next is the fighting portion of your improvement regime. Viz will handle that.”
I release a huff of despair and take the opportunity to sit on the ground, resting my arms on my bent knees and letting my head dangle between them.
“You’re going to make me go back to that warehouse, aren’t you?
” I say. I’ve been trying not to think about the man Syrus strangled with his shadows.
It’s a small mercy the Lord of Malice didn’t use my hands to kill that time, but I can still clearly recall the sounds he made as he had the life choked out of him.
“Not necessarily. But those men said it was their territory, which implies there’s a gang that claims the neighborhood.
Someone in their group may have seen something.
I’m not sure if they will have understood what they saw, but questioning them is the next logical step.
” As if I’m a planet in his orbit, I unintentionally lift my head just as he bends down, bringing our faces too close together.
“That may require you to be forceful, and to defend yourself from force too.”
I can see that violence in the red of his piercing eyes, and I look away, pressing my cheek against my shoulder. It might bring me closer to freedom, but this training is just about making it easier for him to use me as a tool to rip people apart.
Not that it matters how I feel. I don’t get a choice, and that’s a much heavier weight to carry than an old bit of masonry.
I do a double take when Vizmodeus turns up.
By now, I’ve worked out that pin on Syrus’s collar summons his chamberlain, but the skull-faced demon who arrives today is almost unrecognizable.
He’s shed his dishevelment for a smart fighting uniform—a padded tunic, fitted leather breastplate, and dark pants.
It even looks like he’s brushed his hair.
“You’re really going to be the one to teach me?” I ask when I see the pair of daggers in his hand. I’d pictured the skull-faced demon reading instructions off a scroll while I ran drills.
Vizmodeus lifts a pale eyebrow. “Yes, mire rat, I am.” He tosses one of the daggers at me and—I think to both our surprise—I manage to catch it by the handle. It’s only then I realize the blade is blunted for training.
“Viz is an excellent shadow slinger,” Syrus says.
“Not that you’ll be able to wield shadows yourself.
I’ll handle that. But we need your body in fighting shape so you can stay alive long enough for me to channel my magic.
Lucky for you, Viz grew up with a blade in his hand, thanks to his mother.
She was one of the best generals Infernum’s army has ever seen. ”
“Was being the key word there,” Viz says, his deep-set eyes flicking over me. “Before she died in a pointless, unwinnable war.”
A chill sweeps over me, and I drop my gaze.
I’d wondered about Viz’s constant exasperation with me, his insistence on calling me a mire rat with such enthusiasm.
Now it makes sense. If his mother died out on the plains—where most of the war’s casualties do—then her body was probably picked over by scavengers like me.
Seen from that light, I’m surprised he hasn’t treated me worse than he has.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. He scoffs, and I understand my condolences must sound hollow. I search around for anything to show him I mean what I say. “When my mother died, I knew nothing would ever be the same again. A loss like that changes you.”
He blinks at me, clearly surprised by my response, and I feel Syrus’s presence prickle over my neck as if he’s considering entering my mind.
The sensation retreats before I can look at him, however, and then I’m distracted by Vizmodeus spinning the dagger in his bony hands.
Dark shadows undulate over the metal. It occurs to me I’ve come a long way from not even wanting to touch the demon mists on the plains.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s get on with this.”
It turns out “getting on with this” doesn’t actually get us very far.
Viz can show me the basics, refining what I’ve picked up about fighting stances from watching the battles play out from afar.
But after that, he seems lost. He keeps trying to give me tips to disarm him, but everything I try doesn’t work.
I chalk that up to a natural learning curve until he forces the knife from my hand with a brutal twist of his bony fingers and sighs.
“She’s too human.” He turns to Syrus with an exasperated shrug.
“I can’t train her. Even if she had a normal amount of strength, she doesn’t have any of the equipment.
Have you noticed how soft she is?” He says the word like it’s vaguely distasteful.
“And not a fang or claw to speak of. No offense, mire rat, but you have thin skin.”
For the first time, “mire rat” sounds a little more like a nickname than an insult. I rub my thumb over the back of my hand, mentally comparing it to the hard, bony surface of Viz’s flesh. Not all demons look like him, but it seems most of them have thicker hides than me.
“My usual tricks won’t work for her,” he finishes, handing both daggers to Syrus. “You should do it.”
He says something in Cyrax next, and Syrus responds.
It’s odd for two reasons. Firstly, because I’ve noticed they rarely use the demon tongue with each other—no one in the castle does.
Secondly, because I feel like I can actually get a vague sense of what it means.
Which is crazy because of course I don’t speak demon.
But it feels like Viz is telling Syrus why he’s the obvious choice to teach me, and Syrus is only half agreeing.
Viz leaves anyway, and he’s barely two steps out of the courtyard when Syrus spins and throws a dagger at me.
“Hey!” I protest, using the heel of my hand to smack the knife away before it hits me.