Chapter 26 #2
When his gaze rose to her again, the faintest smile touched his lips which was far more terrifying than what she had witnessed.
“Wandering about?” Deimos mused with interest. “Perhaps I should accompany you. There are many demons prowling the halls.”
She hesitated, unnerved by the normally indifferent Harbinger. “I was looking for Calla.”
He blinked and his old self returned with the curl of his lip. “Ah. That would be … ill-advised. Best return to your chambers.”
“I will not.” Alora walked past him, but he cut her off.
She narrowed her eyes. “I am your queen, Deimos. And you will not challenge me or treat me like a captive. So either escort me to Calla or move.”
Her words reverberated through the hall, carrying the weight of her command even though her heart fluttered wildly beneath his cold stare.
Then Deimos glanced at the faintly glowing markings on her hands, and she arched a brow in challenge.
What magic was that?
Nexus meowed, swatting at Deimos’s twitching tail. He hissed at it softly in warning. His sharp claws clicked together as he seemed to weigh a choice in his head, then he turned away, slipping into the shadowed hall.
His voice drifted back to her. “This way… queen.”
Alora exhaled quietly, the tension loosening from her shoulders as she followed. “I half expected you to leave me.”
“I would prefer it,” he admitted, “but my sire would not be pleased. And I’m rather fond of my head.”
She blinked, wondering if Rune would truly punish Deimos to that extent. They walked in uneasy quiet, the only sounds the soft patter of her feet and the occasional whisper of wind through unseen tunnels. Deimos moved soundlessly.
“What was that thing?” she finally asked.
“Hallowkin,” he answered shortly. “Of the Sloth Court.”
“Was it going to eat me?”
“The Hallowkin feast on nightmares, not flesh. You were not in danger.”
Alora raised her brows. That explained why Nexus hadn’t reacted. “Then why did you kill it?”
The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “For defying my sire.”
A shiver crawled down her spine. She glanced at his satchel, where dark glass jars glinted faintly. “Why keep the heart?”
He withdrew one, holding it up to the torchlight. Inside, beetles gleamed like jewels, pinned to bark. “I’m rarely allowed to collect anything else.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I lived among the Sloth faction, my Lady wanted me destroyed for being too… curious,” Deimos said with a strange smile. “I dissected many living things, but none proved as fascinating as demons. A delicate process, as our kind tend to turn to ash upon death.”
The quiet stretched.
Alora’s stomach turned as sick understanding dawned.
“I observed my subjects from the shadows first, noting their habits and weaknesses. Then I began my work.” His red eyes gleamed as if recalling it.
“It took time to learn exactly where to cut so they would remain alive long enough. Until I was commanded to stop.” He smirked at his long claws plated with Nightstone. “I suppose it unnerved them.”
Alora swallowed back the bile in her throat as she studied Deimos in the flickering torchlight.
When he wasn’t scowling, he had a boyish cast, lean and graceful.
Messy hair that turned blue in certain light, falling around small, almost childlike horns.
Nothing about him screamed danger, yet perhaps that was the point.
Some predators appeared harmless until it was too late.
She took a subtle step back. The ends of his lips curved faintly.
“But Rune spared you,” Alora said carefully, “and chose to give you a position as one of his Harbingers?”
“I am useful to him,” Deimos replied simply.
“My skills make me an excellent spy. I understand patterns. Anatomy. Behavior. And he understands me.” Deimos turned the jar gently, studying the curve of the beetle’s carapace.
“Sire allowed to live as long as I follow two rules: I may only dissect insects. Should I attempt to study anything else, he will remove from me whatever I remove from them.”
Alora’s throat went dry when she caught the jagged tear in his left wing, a perfect crescent missing. “I see…”
Deimos shrugged, the motion unconcerned. “On occasion, sire allows me to unleash when whispers turn to treason.” He smiled wistfully at his satchel. “I look forward to those days.”
Alora had watched the Harbingers long enough to know where they fit in Rune’s circle. Calla directed with poise and Hadeon with quiet weight, and Deimos executed assassinations or secrets. Their roles were clear, personalities wrought from their factions.
Yet the lethal spy stood out. He didn’t look like other demons, and his unnerving energy fit nowhere she could name.
“What kind of demon are you?” Alora asked softly.
Deimos’s smile faded. His tail flicked once, sharply, as though the question had struck a nerve.
His eyes narrowed. “I am Abyss-born.”
The word meant nothing to her, yet it landed with weight.
“What is that?”
“Not all demons are born from mating,” Deimos said flatly. “Most are derived from the mist that bleeds into the Netherworld from the Abyss. During the full Blood Moon, sire gives us form and places us into one of the seven factions in his court once the Netherworld chooses our nature.”
“And what is yours—?”
“Why do you care?” he snapped, bearing his fangs in a snarl. “For my size? I am part imp and something else too restless for Sloth’s rot.” His tail lashed once. “Do not ask me again.”
The Shades flitted around him, wailing in agitation.
She had seen Deimos annoyed before. Irritated by inconveniences or inefficiency.
This was different.
“I’m sorry,” Alora said quietly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Deimos made a tsk sound, disquiet flickering briefly across his face before he turned away.
Watching him go, she understood. It wasn’t merely that others had used his uniqueness to belittle him. It was that even Deimos didn’t know where he belonged.
And that uncertainty was perhaps more dangerous than knowing.
They soon reached a door in a section of the mountain Alora didn’t recognize. Deimos pushed it open, revealing an antechamber that unmistakably belonged Calla.
It was decadent. An indulgent blend of war and vanity.
Weapons gleamed along the walls beside gilded mirrors; velvet draperies the color of wine softened the black stone.
A dozen candles burned in gold sconces, their wax dripping slowly down carved holders.
The air smelled faintly of perfume and smoke.
Deimos crossed to a lounge area where leather chairs were set before a roaring hearth, its fire casting amber light across the velvet carpet. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he arranged his glass jars in a neat semicircle around him, like a child laying out treasured toys.
“She’s in there,” he said dismissively, nodding toward a gilded door.
Then he lifted the jar containing the heart and studied it with quiet glee.
Alora lingered near the threshold, torn between curiosity and unease.
Rune had found a way to give Deimos purpose when the world chose to discard him. It spoke of mercy cloaked in cruelty. Of salvation shaped through consequence.
Yet it worked.
Her fingers brushed her sleeve, where faint light pulsed beneath her skin.
Perhaps some monsters could be tolerated.