Chapter 5
Aryana
Aryana sat in her corner and fumed.
That cursed demon king. His last words after their kiss kept replaying through her mind.
I now claim you under my power.
As if she was his to have.
As if she was his prisoner.
But she was. She was as much his captive as she was King Salen’s captive.
Maybe more so, considering her binding to him would last longer than her imprisonment in this tower dungeon.
Provided Zarathos could break her out before she was killed.
She hadn’t missed the loose language in his bargain. Nor the cruel twist of his wording.
I will expend a reasonable effort to ensure you stay alive…
As if the scepter and her living were of equal value and deserved the same investment.
In truth, the demon arch king probably wanted the scepter more.
Something told her that he’d purposely left it open so that he could leave her for dead if everything didn’t work out.
Damn it, she should have thought it through more, should have made him clarify.
But she’d been so focused on getting her wording of the agreement right, to make sure he accepted, that she hadn’t taken the time to pick apart his phrasing.
But a plan was forming in her mind, creeping up on her slow and steady like a shadow at dusk, stretching longer with each passing moment until it consumed her thoughts.
She’d fulfill the bargain she made with Zarathos, even get him the vampire portion of the scepter to help him win the Demon Trials. Then, once the deal was complete, she’d be free.
Free to kill the arch king and claim the throne for herself.
Once she reunited the vampire nation with the demon alliance, she could rule all of it and ensure human safety from all of their kind. With the scepter’s power behind her, she’d be a force to be reckoned with.
And she’d get Zarathos back for kidnapping her and trapping her into this bargain.
He returned that night as promised. The darkness gathered within the shadows of the room; the moonlight cast a dull shine through the barred window. But Aryana, being a creature of the night, saw better in the blackness.
He took form, his ash-like features set in a cocky half-smile, black silk hair swept back with effortless precision. Shadows coiled around him like worshipful hands, making the golden gleam of his eyes burn all the brighter.
Her pulse sped up at the sight of him.
He fixed his gaze on her, the ring of light in his eyes flashing. “Good evening, Vampress. I know you must have been so saddened to be deprived of my presence for the last several hours.”
“Like a deer deprived of a hunter’s arrow in its side.”
He pressed his lips together as if to hide a laugh, and she tried not to think about how it felt to have that wicked mouth on hers. That kiss was a one-time thing and would not happen again.
Zarathos motioned toward the spinning wheel resting in the room’s center. “Are you ready?”
She stared at the mechanism for creating thread, wondering what sort of task he’d require of her. “I’m ready.”
He reached into his cloak. “I need you to sign this, in blood, if you don’t mind.”
“What is it?”
“The contract that binds you as my kalator. It requires that you serve to the end of the trials on the pain of death. The trial council requires it.”
She took it from him and looked it over, though there wasn’t anything she could do. Per her bargain, she had no choice but to sign it. “Keep your distance,” she said to Zarathos.
He held up his hands in a facade of innocence.
Never taking her gaze off of him, she let her incisors drop and bit into her fingertip, bringing the smallest prick of crimson.
Zarathos’s nostrils flared slightly, but other than that, he didn’t move, watching her with those glowing eyes.
Her skin scraped against the dry parchment as she signed her name.
Curling her finger inside her fist to staunch the bleeding, she held the contract out to him.
“Very well.” He took it from her and folded it, turning away. “Let us begin.”
With a dramatic swirl of his cloak, he stepped up to the wheel and pulled out a long sharp silver needle the length of her pointer finger from the recesses of his clothes.
It was attached to an odd wooden contraption.
He secured it to the spinning wheel above the spindle.
It fit perfectly, its pointed tip glistened in the low lighting.
The wooden part had a small carved trench with a hole the size of a coin on one end.
Aryana swallowed, staring at it. “What is that?”
“This, my dear, is how we are going to turn straw into gold.” He beckoned to her with a long finger. She eased forward, watching him closely, her muscles tensing.
“You touch the needle and let your blood run down its edges while I spin the straw and cast my spell and there you have it,” he said. “Straw into gold.”
She frowned. “You need my blood?” Her stomach clenched at the thought of drawing more in front of him.
Abaddons and other non-vampire demons didn’t require blood the same way vampires did, but demons were just as capable of falling into bloodlust. The scent turned into a craving to feast on the flesh of their victims—vampire, demon, human, animal—they didn’t care.
His lips split into a mocking grin. “Are you frightened?”
Hot anger tore through her even as her heart pounded in answer. How dare he tease her. “Of you? Never.”
His cruel, knowing smile grew. “Poor judgment on your part.” He chuckled. “Shall we get started, then?”
Throwing her shoulders back to show that he wouldn’t intimidate her, she walked up to the needle. Unballing her fist, she pressed her already bleeding finger against its tip. Pain struck her as a trickle slid down its silvery length. She looked to Zarathos in challenge.
He seemed satisfied. She lifted her finger while he sat down at the spinning wheel and grabbed a handful of straw. When he glanced at Aryana, he frowned. “I’m afraid it’s not only a solitary prick. I need a continual flow of your blood.” He gestured around the room. “Until we finish.”
She grit her teeth. “Of course you do.”
His expression shifted, just slightly. It was wicked but laced with an elegance that made it hard to look away. “I don’t make the rules, Vampress.”
“I don’t believe that for a damn second,” she snapped, returning her hand to the sharp needle.
He tsked, enjoying her discomfort. “Remember, once I start, avoid lifting that finger until I am completely finished or the spell won’t work. And then, I’m afraid I won’t be able to do anything to save you from King Salen’s deadly wrath.”
“Wouldn’t that break our deal?”
“Is stripping me of my powers worth your life?” His gaze challenged hers.
She ran her free hand over her skirts, attempting to hide her surprise.
Zarathos’s power came from never breaking a bargain.
She had thought that if he ever did, it might kill him, but apparently, that wasn’t the case.
According to him, it would only strip him of the ability to uphold the other deals he’d made.
Unless, of course, he was trying to trick her, as demons often did.
She raised her chin. “Maybe it is.”
“I don't enter into deals I will lose,” he said, knowingly. “Let’s find out if I’m right, shall we?”
Despite her threat, she saw to it that her blood ran down the length of the needle by the time he started.
The wheel spun around and triumph flashed across Zarathos’s face as he muttered a spell under his breath, one hand guiding the straw through the feeder and the other summoning more to his side.
Crimson flowed from her, dripping off the needle’s base and gathering in the little wooden indentation beneath it. When enough gathered, it trickled down through the open hole and onto the straw twisting onto the spindle.
She watched in wonder as the straw did indeed change into gold as the spindle spun, curling around it in long, golden threads.
She’d never seen anything like it.
Aryana had always enjoyed the art of tapestry weaving.
Her threads were typically dyed in a myriad of colors, each chosen with care.
But spinning straw into gold? That was something entirely different.
It wasn’t just about transforming color.
Straw was abundant, nearly limitless. To turn it into gold would mean an endless supply of precious thread for whoever could master such a feat.
“How…” Her words trailed off as a misty grayness obscured her view, her head spun and she felt lightheaded. Suddenly, the mist took over her entire vision, blocking out the room and the stinging pain in her finger as her reality clouded over, drawing up memories from her past.
Aryana danced around the sword that struck at her.
Her opponent retreated, readjusting his saber, fixing his grip, his eyes constantly on her.
She raised her awl pike, a short, square, rapier-like spear that ended in a deadly point.
She couldn’t wound or inflict injury in the manner of a blade, but if she got close enough, she could impale her opponent on its end.
The stone floor muted the sound of their movements. Large braziers brightened the throne room, standing out against the burgundy curtains that were open to let in the moonlight, giving the entire hall a silvery-orange tint.
The male moved closer, a sneer on his lips, but she noted the sweat on his face, the light scent of desperation rising from him.
He understood this wouldn’t end well for him.
She remained focused as he came in at her again, and she parried his erratic and wild blows.
She crossed him, taking advantage of his sloppiness.
Moving in close, she stabbed her pike into his arm, drawing a cry.
His grip loosened on his sword and she tore it from her opponent’s grasp while swiping her feet under his legs, laying him out on his back.
She pushed the sharp point of her pike to his chest.
“No, please.”