Hunting Her

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

NOVA

My shackles scrape against the concrete floor, their familiar weight slowing my movement forward. The sound grates, echoing through the dungeon. It’s aggressively loud with nine other sets of chains also dragging with each step.

I’ve been marched between the rows of barred cells hundreds of times. Sometimes it’s to have me clean or assist one of the high-ranking demons that live here. Other times it’s so I can be tortured—waterboarded or beaten or whatever method they want to try that day.

I prefer the cleaning, but the beatings aren’t much different than what I grew up with back home.

I’d sold my soul so I could escape the abuse—but I was conned into being a demon’s slave.

We’re still in the human realm and not in the Underworld, and that’s how I hold onto my hope of escaping one day.

Maybe I’ll get to live without torture eventually, if I stay smart.

My feet are bare, tiny rocks digging into the once-sensitive skin. It’s been so long since I’ve worn shoes, my soles are calloused and rough. Nothing hurts them anymore.

The prisoner in line in front of me hasn’t been here as long. She winces with each step, letting out a whispered curse when her foot lands on a pointy stone. I keep my head down, hoping for her sake that our captors didn’t hear her.

When a set of dark boots comes up beside her, I know they have.

They don’t bother to pull her out of line. I pause in my shuffle as they halt her, stepping on her foot until she cries out.

“Be quiet,” the man in dark boots commands.

She makes one more soft sound of pain before succeeding at keeping the rest in.

We start forward again, rushing to catch up with the people at the front of the line.

Leaving the moist, stagnant air of the basement behind, we trudge upstairs and into the lofty hallway of the gothic castle.

Up here the floors are smoother, made of a dark polished stone.

The walls are black with lit candelabras mounted every few feet, and the flickering light is accented by purple-hued daylight coming in through stained-glass windows lining one wall.

I’ve been up here more than most of the prisoners. I play nice, so I’m allowed to help with cleaning and cooking.

They torture me less than the rest too—although everyone is subject to a session in that chamber from time to time. Our captors do something to our souls in there. I feel hollower with each visit, and it’s a gap that never gets refilled.

They think I’m resigned to my fate, but I’m only biding my time, hoping I still have enough of my soul left when I’m ready to escape.

One day, I’ll have this cursed castle mapped out from top to bottom. I’ll know how to kill these demons and send them back to the Underworld, and I’ll steal the weapon I need to do it. Then I can make my move, fighting my way out and fleeing for good.

Until then, I wear their chains and act the part of the timid human that they think I am.

Our line turns left, toward a set of double doors that are polished to a gleam. A pattern of silver swirls marks the purpose of the room in a demonic language I have yet to figure out—but I know which room this is. The chapel, where they pray to their gods.

Nuvelia, goddess of the end times.

Unos, god of destruction.

Ismos, god of death.

There are other, minor gods and goddesses, but those three are the Ascendant Triad. Their demon king reports directly to them and rules with their favour.

I’ve cleaned sacrificial blood from the dark obsidian floors and accidentally slashed my skin on the sharp edges of cracked tiles, but I’ve never been brought here with a group. A cold tendril works its way up my spine, my stomach tying itself in a thick knot.

I was one of the last to be picked up and added to our line of ten prisoners. There are humans of every age in the cells of this castle, but our procession doesn’t have much variety to it. All of us are pretty and young, nice to look at despite the callouses and grime from living as captives.

Are we sacrifices?

Digging my nails into my palms, I work to calm my rapid breathing. Through torture and abuse, I can stay impassive, closing up my emotions in a little box. But facing death? I can’t accept it—I’m not ready.

My escape plan is months or even years away from being plausible, but if they’ve decided today is my end, I’ll go down swinging.

There’s a row of people waiting for us in the chapel, but I don’t look up to their faces. I don’t do anything to draw attention as I scan what I can see of my surroundings. There must be something I can use as a weapon.

A nearby guard has a long, curved dagger at their waist, the bare blade catching the light.

The candlesticks on the walls can be pulled up and out of their holders, and they look to be made of solid metal.

A bludgeoning weapon, or something I can toss through one of the windows to create an improvised exit.

I don’t know what’s outside them. We may be a thousand feet up, leaving me looking at a steep drop to my death.

But I won’t get farther than that hallway, if I even get that far. None of my captors are human. Demons are faster and stronger than us, which is why no one has ever escaped before. The brute force approach is a recipe for disaster—that’s why I was crafting a plan before trying to flee.

If it’s a choice between being a sacrificial lamb and dying in an escape attempt, I’ll choose the latter.

Only if I must, though.

We still haven’t been told why we’re here, not even as we’re lined up in front of the first row of chapel benches. It’s possible—though not probable—that we’ve been gathered here for something completely benign.

When the sound of moving chains fades and silence descends, I can hear my panicked breathing. At least I’m not the only one. The woman next to me is hyperventilating too.

I try to centre myself and calm down. I can’t afford to be scared; not now.

“Look up.” The firm command is issued by a nearby guard.

My head rises in unison with the others, and my attention is immediately drawn by the four men on the raised dais.

They’re all ethereally attractive and strikingly inhuman. With their sharp jawlines and toned bodies, I might have thought them to be angels, but the rest of their features say otherwise.

All four have horns upon their heads in different shapes and sizes. Their skin tones range from a deep burgundy to a midnight blue, with markings like tattoos on their flesh. Each of them has a set of folded wings, varying in size.

When the one closest to me smiles, it flashes his sharp canines while light glints off his devilishly slitted eyes.

I’m used to seeing demons, but I’ve never seen any this handsome.

“This is the best selection you could put together?” one man asks our captors.

He’s the bulkiest of the group and dressed in the most clothing. While the rest are shirtless, he wears a flowing linen shirt with a V cut and long sleeves. His skin is a burgundy red, his hair a dark brown, and the markings on his body are drawn in charcoal grey, the shade almost black.

His wings are the only ones that are feathered instead of leathery, and even folded they’re wider than the width of his shoulders and taller than the high back of the chair he sits in.

I stare at him as he lounges in his seat on the dais, the others standing behind and sitting beside him. He’s a central focus; a feature of this meeting, and I want to know why.

“The finest souls we have to offer, Your Grace,” our guard responds.

There’s a soft gasp from further down the line, followed by the thump of the shocked prisoner being hit.

I clench my jaw, scanning to find out if the guard with the curved dagger is still nearby. Our hands aren’t bound, only our feet, so it should be easy enough to jerk forward and grab the weapon. It’s everything after that would be a deadly challenge.

Especially if that man is who I think he is. They’re calling him ‘Your Grace’—does that make him the king they worship so dutifully? Are the other men his protectors or advisors?

“What do you do to make them so… passive?” he asks.

The guard puffs up in pride. “Baron Donovan’s methods are ground-breaking. It’s a long process, like any training, but I can assure you they’ll serve you well.”

We must not be sacrifices, but slaves. Pretty slaves for the king. Is he taking all of us, or picking his favourites?

“How much soul essence has been removed to get them to this point?”

“It varies, Your Grace. Some are much harder to break than others.”

“Which prisoner has the most remaining?” His gaze scans down the line. I meet his eyes for a split second before realizing it’s safer to avoid looking.

The speaking guard gestures to another. There are heavy footfalls behind us, and then a hand lands between my shoulder blades, shoving me forward. I stumble but catch myself before falling to the floor.

“That one. She’s the most obedient we’ve had. Fell in line quickly after arriving.”

My heart races. I have the most… soul essence? I knew they manipulated our souls, but is this the purpose? To remove pieces of us until we’re empty husks, doing their bidding without complaint?

Faced with the demon king, a beast who’s said to feast on human souls, I don’t think it’s a good thing that I have the most soul left.

Do I make a move? I’ll die trying to escape, but at least I’ll keep the remaining shards of my soul.

“You say she’s obedient?” the king asks.

“Yes.”

“What work does she do in the castle?”

“She’s cleaned the palace top to bottom, organized the library, and washed the feet of visiting officials. Everything a good servant would do,” the guard lists.

And it’s all served me well to gather information for my eventual escape. Information flows freely in the presence of unassuming servants they think wouldn’t dare to use it.

“Has she pleasured any of them?”

Bile rises in my throat. That’s one task where I might have broken my obedient streak. I’m lucky it was never demanded of me. I know some of the other prisoners were not so fortunate.

“No, Your Grace. She came to us untouched, and we didn’t want to break her chastity for just any official.”

How do they know that? When I sold my soul, not knowing I would end up here, I never volunteered that information.

I am a virgin. I was only eighteen when I asked desperately for help I thought would never come—barely starting my life when I accepted the assistance that turned out to be a life-long curse. But they’ve never mentioned that they knew… or that they were saving me for anyone.

Shuddering, my head spins and I clench my fists at my sides, resisting the urge to look up to meet the eyes of the demon king once again.

I don’t like how I’ve been called out as special in this lineup of slaves. I want to blend in with the rest—maybe it would be better if I’d had more of my soul torn from me before. Now, it’s too late to escape the piercing gazes of the king and his advisors.

“I’ll be taking her back to the Underworld with me,” the king proclaims. “The rest can go.”

Lips parting, I stay stock still as the room bursts into action around me. The guards start urging the rest of the line to walk, the sound of their chains jangling against the floor once again harassing my ears. Our head guard starts walking toward me.

It sinks in that the decision has been made. I’ve been chosen, and whatever the demon king has planned for me, it’s not going to be good.

This can’t be how it ends.

I’ll die with my soul intact, thank you very fucking much. Even if my only option is to fling myself through a window, here and now. Maybe the ground will be close and luck will be on my side, giving me a thick forest to flee to.

More likely, I’ll at least have a quick death.

But I have to try. It’s not in my nature to be passive. That’s why I’ve been plotting my escape since the moment I arrived here.

The guard with the curved dagger passes within reach as he takes up position at the back of the ambling line. I dart my hand out and grab the weapon, swinging around and slashing at the guard who’d spoken to the king. Blood spurts from his forearm, and he shouts a curse.

A hush falls over the room. I take steps as big and fast as the shackles allow. I’m not getting anywhere fast, waddling like a penguin in these things, but I use every second of their shock to my advantage.

No one grabs me until I’m halfway through the chapel, making a beeline for the double doors. I grunt and swing the knife again, but one of the king’s advisors grabs it in his bare hand, his other holding my shoulder in a bruising grip.

His lips are curved into a smirk, black shaggy hair falling partially in his eyes. When I try to yank the knife back from him, he chuckles. “Feisty.”

“Let her go, Iz,” the king commands. “I want to see what her plan is.”

He releases me and my knife in an instant, bringing his injured palm to his lips and licking a long line down the wound. My gaze darts up to the king, who hasn’t moved.

“Proceed.” He waves a hand to me. “Show me how you’re planning on leaving.”

None of our usual guards dare to move as I shuffle backward a few feet. I have a sinking feeling he’s only letting me do this so that he can stop me at the last possible second, crushing my rising hope to smithereens. My only choice is to take my chances.

At a laughably slow pace I drag my chains to the chapel doors, lifting a candelabra from a holder beside it. I walk halfway across the wide hallway, then pull my arm back and use every vestige of strength I have to throw it at the ornately designed, purple stained-glass window.

I close my eyes and turn my head away, lifting my other arm to protect my face. There’s a collective gasp behind me as it shatters. A piece of debris catches me in the arm, but it’s easy to ignore the pain when I open my eyes to the light.

Sunshine pours through.

I stare up at the sun, basking in it with a soft sigh.

The breeze rushing through cools me as fast as the sun warms, and I already know there’s no surviving the fall from this window.

The scent on the wind can only be mountain air.

I can’t see anything through the window except the blue sky and a snow-capped mountain in the distance.

Even knowing that, I drop the bloody dagger, step through the broken glass, and haul myself onto the window ledge, brushing away the largest of the shards.

Without giving myself time to second-guess my choice, I hold my arms to my chest and jump.