Chapter 23
Aryana
The fiery depths of hell fell short of the pain shooting through every pore in Aryana’s body. She thrashed and screamed and someone murmured calming words.
But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
Two voices floated to her in her tortured, half-conscious state.
“You can’t leave her like this. Look at her,” said a dark, smooth voice, as if it came from the shadows itself.
“I’ve done everything I can,” added another voice with a gruff edge. “She will need to heal the rest on her own. Get her some blood, that is what she needs.”
“For her? That’s easier said than done.”
“If you wish her to heal, then find a way.”
“Neutrolisis. I need you to get more.”
“Are you going after the piece of the vampire scepter again? I thought you mentioned the potion didn’t work.”
A low snarl reached her ears. “It’s not your place to ask questions.”
“That potion isn’t easy to acquire. It will take time.”
“Whatever you need to do or pay to speed the process. Do it. Get it to me as soon as possible.”
“Yes, master.”
The voices fell silent and for a while, all she was conscious of was the lingering burning in her limbs.
When she finally opened her eyes, she stared at the ceiling of Zarathos’s bedchamber.
The soft satin sheets slid against the gauze wrapped around her entire body.
She turned her head to look at the silk chemise someone had placed on her.
She moaned. Moving made every muscle inside her scream with protest. Her skin was hot.
Much too hot, and she feared for a moment an invisible fire still burned through her flesh, sinking into her bones.
Zarathos sat in a chair near the bed, hunched over, staring at the floor. His hands, one bound in the same white gauze as Aryana’s body, clutched his horns.
“I feel terrible,” she croaked. The wrappings around her face pulled tight and her lips cracked as she spoke, causing a metallic taste to gather on her tongue.
His head shot up, and he rose to his feet, his eyes sparking. “You’re awake.” The earnestness in his gaze caught her off guard. He reached out toward her and for a brief moment, she thought he was about to take her hand.
But then he paused and pulled back. “It’s about time. You’ve been out for two nights. The Demon Trials start tomorrow.”
A low groan escaped her. It seemed she was going from one hellish situation to the next, with little opportunity to recover.
She looked at him, uncomprehending. “How am I even alive?”
He tensed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, my uncle had that doll. And you had that potion to get the scepter.”
“You thought I’d take the scepter and leave you?”
“I remember—”
“Stop. I don’t wish to know about any more of your memories. I’d rather bathe in a tub full of vipers than see into your mind ever again.” A tremor rolled through his body.
She felt she should win some sort of prize for making the demon king react in such a manner. But she wouldn’t let him change the subject. She stared at him, her heart rate picking up. “There wasn’t time for both the scepter and me. Was there?”
His eyes narrowed, and he looked away. “It didn’t work.”
“What?” She now desperately wished she hadn’t passed out in that room. That she’d been conscious for everything that had transpired in that alcove.
“The potion. It didn’t get past the spells your uncle had on the scepter. When that failed, I grabbed you and that doll and got us out of there.”
Her gaze dropped to his gauze wrapped hand, realizing what must have happened. He’d reached into the fire to retrieve the doll. Nobody got between her and her uncle and came away unscathed.
“Why would you save me? I failed you,” she asked.
“You said you’d serve me as my kalator in the trials. You can hardly do that if you are dead.”
Her heart stuttered and dropped. So there it was. She’d been the only choice. Did he want her to be his kalator that badly? Whether Zarathos succeeded in getting the vampire piece of the scepter, her agreement to be his kalator remained.
As long as she wasn’t dead. “So I was a consolation prize.”
He chuckled humorlessly. “I’d never describe you as consoling.”
“Where is the doll?”
“Buried where nobody will ever find it,” he said with venom.
“You could have kept it.”
“You think I need more power over you, Vampress? That doll would only serve as a liability to both of us in the end.” He ran a hand over his horns before dropping it to his side.
She gazed at her swathed body and pressed her fingers to her face, to feel the gauze wrapped around it. He was a puzzle she couldn’t quite piece together, or like mist always slipping through her fingers. “You bandaged my wounds.”
His teeth ground against each other and his jaw ticked, his voice coming out sharp and annoyed. “I told you. A dead kalator is of little use to me in the Demon Trials.”
“You seem agitated.”
He stepped forward, his eyes flashing. “Give me your hand.”
Wariness stole through her. “What for?”
He extended his palm to her. “Your wounds are healing, but you are weak. Human blood will accelerate the process, and I have found someone willing to let you have all you desire.”
She froze, glaring at him. “What did you do?”
He pressed closer. When she didn’t take his hand, he sighed and reached down, taking a hold of her arm. “Why don’t you find out?”
And the shadows closed around them. They moved through the tunnels and out into the night. Zarathos swept her raging body up into his arms and shifted into darkness yet again.
They appeared inside a small jail cell. Gray bars and wooden walls surrounded them. A large burly man sat on the rickety bed that looked ready to collapse under his weight.
“Is this her?” the man asked, eyeing Aryana.
“It is,” Zarathos said, setting her gently on her feet. “This human is a murderer, per your specifications. He will be hanged in the morning. I’ll leave you to it.”
He steadied her as she stumbled, agony surging through her body. Zarathos frowned. “Or I can stay.”
She retreated until she leaned against the wall. Each move sent her nerves screaming, but she shook her head. “Go.”
“Are you certain—”
“Go.” She needed him gone to talk to this man alone. To find out for herself if what Zarathos said was the truth.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll see you soon, Vampress.” And with that, he disappeared among the shadows.
Aryana forced her searing back into the brick to steady herself as she regarded the man before her. “You’re a murderer?”
“Aye, miss. I got mixed up with the wrong people. I thought I’d make a fast profit… But that’s not an excuse. The person I killed didn’t deserve to die, and now I be paying for my misdeeds with my life.”
Could he be saying what Zarathos told him to say? But no, he had the mark on him. On his neck was the branded skull and cross bones of a killer. Those who were condemned murderers bore that symbol. It looked scorched and painful, much like the condition of most of her body.
He stared up at her with pleading eyes. “But my family, they’ll be left with nothing. Nothing but my dirty name and I’ve got small ones, miss. Three of them. I need to leave them with something.”
“What does your family have to do with this?”
“He didn’t tell you? The demon king offered to take care of them, give them a hefty sum of money if I allow you to feed off of me.”
Aryana blinked. “He did?”
“Yes, miss.”
Zarathos knew her rules. He knew this man was a murderer, that he met her requirements on its own, and yet he’d offered the man the deal. Why? Was the demon king able to have compassion for this person? This human who Zarathos saw as being beneath him?
“And you want me to feed off you? You want to give me your blood for your family?”
“I am a dead man, miss. This is the last thing I can offer my family. To make amends before I go.” He drew his collar back, exposing his throat. “Please, you’d be doing me a favor.”
Who was she to stand in the way of this man’s atonement?
She pushed herself off the wall, the gauze on her body straining at the fire in her muscles with each movement.
She pressed her teeth together and fought to hide how each step was agony as she came up next to him.
Reaching out, she tipped his head to the side, taking in his scent, the desperation, the slight sense of fear, and still noting the determined clench of his jaw.
Her mouth flooded with saliva, a ravenous clenching in her stomach. She needed his blood.
“Will it hurt?” he asked.
“Only slightly at first,” she forced out in a rough voice. “Then the venom will take control and you will feel nothing.”
“Then… I want you to take it all.”
She stilled. “Pardon?”
“End me,” he said. “Heaven knows it will hurt less than hanging from a rope, and no offense, but you appear as if you could use the blood.”
Aryana spent her time being an instrument of justice, because even though she loathed taking blood from humans, she had to do so in order to survive.
How many times had she thought of letting herself waste away into nothing to spare the humans her wrath?
But she could never do it. So she had gone after murderers and rapists, those on whom she was able to impose some amount of recompense.
But even this man, this murderer, showed remorse, and was willing to die for his sins.
While she… She swallowed a thickness in her throat.
But in this instance, if she managed to exact both justice and mercy, she might surpass being simply a vampire.
“Lay on the bed.”
A sadness filled his eyes, but he displayed no regret. He nodded, and the mattress underneath him creaked as he spread his large frame over it.
“What is your name?” No matter how badly she hurt, no matter how badly she craved his blood, she wouldn’t let this happen quickly. Aryana would remember this experience.
“Bartholomew, miss, but my friends always called me Barty.”
“Barty. Is there anything else you’d wish to say or do before I start?”