Chapter 17
Zarathos
Zarathos stalked ahead of Aryana, walking down the worn and overgrown midnight path. Brush grazed up against his clothes and large pine trees rose on either side of them as they went deeper into the blackened woods.
He’d waited until nighttime, then transported her within the shadows out of the castle through the secret passageway.
“Where are we going?” Aryana asked. Her voice remained somewhat shaky.
“Someplace that might calm you.” He could have whisked her all the way there through the shadows, but he suspected the exertion would be good for her, especially after being trapped in King Salen’s tower and then Zarathos’s chambers.
Or perhaps he just craved the exertion. Gods, the princess’s life was a constant cascade of misfortune, each disaster worse than the last. Zarathos’s life hadn’t been easy, but his struggles seemed smaller when faced with the terrors of her past, making him wonder how she still clung to her sanity.
And yet Aryana was up and fighting. Somehow filled with her unyielding determination and passion.
His vampress was a force to be reckoned with.
A sourness churned in his gut. Here he was dragging her into the damn demon trials, as if she needed any more horrifying experiences in her life.
They walked for almost an hour in silence.
Zarathos kept close tabs on her breathing.
Now more stable than before. The instant things in that room had started to worsen, he’d attempted to remove her from the crystal ball.
But she’d somehow tuned him out, as if she had to relive every moment of that nightmare before she could leave.
And Zarathos had to watch with her until she finally let him reach her and pull her from that hellscape.
When he heard the trickling of the stream, he picked up his pace. After arriving, he paused by the water and stared up at the moon, closing his eyes and sucking in his own calming breath. “This is the place.”
Zarathos had always found the sound of running water soothing.
Along the edges of the stream, moonmire lilies bloomed—flowers with silvery, translucent petals that reflected the moonlight and only opened under its glow.
The soft sounds of toads and other nocturnal creatures trilled in the background.
He turned to see Aryana’s face as she observed her surroundings. Like the lilies, a silvery radiance danced along her long dark hair, and her wide crimson eyes shimmered with curiosity. One word rose unbidden in Zarathos’s mind.
Lovely.
“I recognize this place,” she said. “This is the tapestry that hangs on the wall in your bedchamber.”
“Yes, it helps to bring serenity when my thoughts are unsettled,” he said, noticing a small frog make its way across the stream. “But it’s nothing compared to the real thing.”
Aryana’s brows pulled together, and her face pinched tight.
“What is the matter, Vampress?”
“It’s so… beautiful.”
He narrowed his eyes. “And demons cannot appreciate beauty?”
“Not openly.”
He pressed his lips. “Fair enough.” And perhaps that was the actual problem with demons. Aryana thought them incapable of enjoying such things, but they were very much capable. They simply always forced themselves to conceal it.
Just as Zarathos had to hide himself. How long had he wished to be like other demons? And yet, despite being king, he remained hidden, always cautious.
“It is peaceful here, though,” Aryana admitted. “And I am grateful to you for freeing me from King Salen.” She glanced at him. “Even if it was only because you want the scepter to win the trials and hold on to your power.”
He frowned. Certainly, he intended to preserve his power. Any other reason would be weakness. Dangerous. Forget that when he saw the controller on her, on his Bloodbound, he’d wanted to rip out King Salen’s heart and offer it to Aryana as a feast.
Tearing off the bastard’s arm had been restraint.
He held the cursed Bloodbinding responsible. It was warping his instincts in ways that caused him to almost regret striking the deal with her.
But if he got the scepter, then everything would be worth it, he reminded himself.
And then he could dispose of the vampire princess as he pleased.
Then the bond, her fiery determination, and the way her past made him believe she might actually understand him better than anyone else would no longer affect him.
She reached down to put her hands in the stream, but Zarathos grasped her arm and jerked her away. She stumbled into him, and he placed his palm against her spine to steady her.
“Do not touch the water. The stream is the home to a very jealous river goddess.”
“Jealous? What does that have to do with anything?” But then realization dawned on her features, followed by disgust. “Let me guess, she’s one of your many paramours.”
He urged her back another step, a slow grin spreading on his face. “If it makes you feel any better, it didn’t last long.”
Aryana smelled of lavender from her recent bath.
Her clothes gave off a hint of honeysuckle.
Gods, he loved those smells, and on her it was as if discovering it again for the first time.
His arm tightened on her as his gaze traced the pale curve of her skin, a yearning growing within him to experience its softness beneath his fingertips.
And for some strange reason, she hadn’t withdrawn. “And why would that make me feel better?”
The challenging twist of her mouth did things to Zarathos. He wanted to catch those defiant lips between his. The beast inside of him stirred, taking notice. He should release her and step away.
Instead, he reached up and drew a knuckle over her cheek. “I don’t know. My past exploits seem to upset you.”
Her eyes widened, and she stepped back, pulling from his grasp. “You only prove that my assessment about demons and love is true.”
He clenched his jaw. He was glad she moved, so the sting in his chest at her lack of warmth could shrivel up and die.
The damn little princess. The bond mark burned on his bicep, and the beast inside him growled, wanting to break free.
His potion was wearing off much too soon.
This marked the third time it had done so. Damn it.
The timing was irrelevant. He needed it.
He needed it now. Consequences would follow if he kept taking it so often, but that mattered less than the results of going without it.
Scrounging around in his pocket, he lifted the bottle and only hesitated briefly before downing the contents with an unsteady hand.
The taste was ash on his tongue. It always had that flavor, and still he forced it down.
She watched him closely, curiosity mingled with a guarded look that said she wasn’t sure what to make of him.
He stoppered the empty vial, storing it in his clothes. “Demons do love, Aryana. I assure you of that. I simply choose not to.”
“I know demons can love, but it’s never a selfless love. It can never be used for good.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Demons don’t care about good and bad. Selfish or selfless… We fall in love with passion and fierceness, determination and loyalty. Will you hate us if we show our devotion differently than humans?”
“Demon love is worthless unless there is selflessness to it.”
“All affection is inherently selfish. Would we not love unless it brought us some level of pleasure? But it is always dangerous because it leaves us exposed and easy to exploit.”
Those pretty lips curled in disgust. “And that is why your love will always pale compared to what humans are capable of.”
“What about you, Aryana? Is your love so weak?”
Something vulnerable flashed across her face and he thought of her memories with her uncle and his manipulation tactics and instantly regretted it.
He turned away. This wasn’t working. Somehow, Zarathos was making everything worse. Sitting down on a log next to the stream, he said, “Forget what I said. Come, sit.” He patted the spot next to him.
She stared at him but didn’t move.
“Or stand there. Whatever you like.” He relaxed as he stared out over the stream, listening to the gentle sounds of the night.
After another moment, Aryana lightly sat on the log, leaving plenty of space between them.
“Your father was wrong to do what he did to you,” she said after a time, her voice soft.
Something painful worked its way up his throat, but he swallowed it back. “Your uncle is a bastard.”
That was all that needed to be said. It was as far as he’d allow himself to go.
A tacit recognition of how much they shared in common.
He sensed that bringing up her experience with Vallin wasn’t a good idea so he let it go.
They both sat for a bit, looking out into the darkness not saying anything.
He listened as Aryana’s breaths became deep and steady.
“This place is calming,” she said.
“Let me know when you wish to return to the castle.”
They sat for a while longer before she rose to her feet. “I am ready.”
Without another word, they started back along the path that wound through the trees in the direction of the castle.
As they walked, the world around him grew hazy. He blinked, trying to sharpen his vision, a sudden fear tightening in his chest. No, not again. It had been so long, surely it wouldn’t come upon him now.
Eerie stillness pervaded the surrounding forest, and a fresh, unconnected worry gripped him. He paused, again attempting to clear his vision while he scented the air. Yes, demons were nearby. Demons from kingdom Aeria. Were they seeking to take him out of the running before the trials started?
And if they managed to remove him early, before his bargains with others took effect, all the better for them. He was fortunate. He only detected them because the breeze had shifted.
How did they find him?
He threw out a hand. Aryana breathed in deeply. She must scent them too.
“Take my arm,” he said. His vision deteriorated. Zarathos clenched his teeth. The collision of his oncoming seizure and an unknown enemy stalking them couldn’t be worse. They had to get to the castle before it was too late. Her fingers closed over his forearm, and he called to the shadows.
Before he grabbed onto them, his sight clouded over, and his muscles locked.
The shadows abandoned him. A cold ache raced through his bicep and a small panic sparked through him.
Aryana was in danger. His mouth fell open to tell her to run, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
His last clear thought was that if the seizure didn’t kill him, then the demons coming for them certainly would.
And then his mind fled, and he was on the ground, spasming, the world rushing about and the pain and panic of death rolling over him in waves. Oh, gods, he was going to die. Somehow through it all, he vaguely sensed Aryana leaning over him, her hands on his clothes, and distant panicked words.
Then he had the impression of moving fast, the earth underneath him rushing by. Zarathos was flying. No, that couldn’t be right. His wings weren’t out. Or maybe they were? The world passed by in shades of black and deep greens.
When his senses returned, he realized he was lying on stone in the dark tunnels leading into the castle. A thousand swords felt as if they had rammed into every part of his body. A disgusting, decaying sensation lingered in his mouth.
Aryana sat next to him with a bottle of his clear potion in her hand, staring up at it in the darkness.
“What are you doing? Give that to me,” he snarled.
She lifted an eyebrow at him. “What is this, Zarathos? I know it is the same potion that caused you seizures when you were a child.”
Damn her and damn that memory she saw. Damn the spell and the night he’d given her his blood that made that possible. “It's nothing. Give it to me.”
“You can’t even move.” Her mouth turned down. “And it seems like you taking this will make you quite the liability in the Demon Trials…”
“I said it is not for you to worry about—”
She shot him a fierce look. “And yet I will, because if you die, then I die, remember?”
He let out a frustrated growl. “How did you get us here?”
“How do you think? I’m not some weak human. I carried you. It was close, but I lost them before entering the tunnel.”
She’d saved him. She’d carried him on her back the entire way here. He was impressed and a tad… touched. Despite the fact that she was under a bargain, it made him feel as though he owed her.
He didn’t like that.
Shit. These feelings pricking inside him were a nuisance. He searched for something to say. “Ah, so you admit humans are weak.”
“Only in muscle strength.”
“You think them better than yourself?”
“In the one way that matters, yes.”
He remembered the man she’d killed that first night he’d followed her and shook his head. “Not all of them.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Stop changing the subject. Tell me what this potion does or I’ll have to take it myself.”
“You’ve seen its effects. That would be very ill advised.”
She sighed. “Look, Zarathos, you have me. I’m bound to this bargain, forced to keep you alive no matter the cost. I’m your Bloodbound. You have me chained so tightly to your power, what could I possibly do with anything you admit to me? If I expose it, I’m only going to cause my own death.”
Her words intended to reassure him, but all he could picture was his father looming over him, eyes cold with the threat of death, or another beating.
He couldn’t confide in the vampress, even if he wished to.
She may be bound to him, but she already understood too much.
She was already a liability. He’d be a fool to make that worse.
“The sun is coming up. I suggest you get some rest.”
Her hand drifted to her thigh. “The mark grew cold. It ached when they came after us. I suppose I knew Bloodbindings warned us when the other was in danger. I just hadn’t expected what it would feel like.”
Had that happened to him? He thought back. Yes, there had been a moment when he’d felt a cold ache in his bicep, and a fear for her well-being possessed him, even as his seizure loomed.
“Good to know everything is working as it should,” he said, letting his disdain show through. “Once I’ve regained some strength, we’ll go to my bedchambers. The next time the moon is out, the opening ceremony shall begin. That is what you should focus on, Vampress.”
Her soft expression soured and she looked away, her jaw clenching. Finally, she responded. “As you wish, master.”