Chapter 28 #3
She glanced up at the room. In the shadowed grandeur of a castle hall, a royal feast was laid out beneath flickering candlelight.
The air was rich with the earthy scent of cooked flesh and fresh blood.
Polished silver platters, laden with delicacies of tender venison, deep red fruits, and flavorful cheeses gleamed on the long wooden table.
The demons, regal in their dark finery and flowing black silks, gathered around the table.
About half of the seats were filled with the remaining champions.
The other half were occupied with demons from Kingdom Inferna.
Noctyssa and Lentira, the Inferna twins, sat with their people, their pupiless eyes pooling the light.
Tigon from Terra Monstrum took up about three places on his own.
The rest of the champions sat toward the front of the table.
Zarathos took his place at its head, and the feast began.
The kalators of the other champions, the ones that remained alive, lined the room.
Aryana looked at them in horror. Their clothes were nothing but scraps, their faces torn, skin ripped, shoulders hunched, struggling to stand.
Her heart twisted for them and the pain they’d no doubt gone through.
Even those with healing abilities like Aryana seemed on the verge of collapse, as if they’d been beaten over and over—which they most likely had.
“You, vampire, come here, I’m thirsty,” Balafur commanded in a dark voice. He motioned toward the pitcher sitting in front of him.
Aryana steeled her nerves, climbed to her feet, and walked over to the demon.
He watched her with a fierce, violent glare as she tipped the pitcher to pour the blood into his chalice.
Without warning, he reached out and grabbed her, slamming her cheek against the table.
His body leaned over her, pinning her in place. His grating fingers dug into her skin.
He ran his nose over her, rubbing it along the side of her throat. “I smell Zarathos on you. How does it feel to be hidden safely away in his chambers while the rest of your kalator companions suffer in the dungeons below?”
“Balafur, what have I told you about touching what is mine?” Zarathos glared hard at the other demon, his own chalice resting on the table clutched somewhat too tightly in his grip.
“Just wondering why she should get special treatment over the others, Your Majesty. Perhaps we should give her a taste of what they have endured.” His tongue flicked out, gliding over her cheek and lips.
Aryana tensed, trying to hold her breath against his foul air.
She twisted, searching for a vulnerable spot, a loose grip.
A harsh laugh released from Balafur and he pressed her harder, the edge of the table shoving into her side, his weight on her chest crushing her.
Her bare feet grazed the stone floor, looking for purchase, unable to find it.
She couldn’t fight. He had his body forced over her, her arms pinned to the wooden table.
He knew how to incapacitate someone. Her heart hammered within her.
“Ah, there it is,” Balafur purred in delight. “Fear.”
Zarathos lifted his chin, his eyes flashing with a deadly threat. “I think you should take your hands off of my property this instant,” he said in a low voice. His clenched jaw ticked.
The tension between them crackled in the air like a storm about to break, each silently daring the other to make the first move.
Zarathos released a harsh snarl and lashed out, lunging forward with his knife and driving it into Balafur’s right hand. “Release. Her. Now.”
Balafur roared and jerked his hand back, giving Aryana the room she needed to take action. She twisted and brought her knee up, ramming it into Balafur’s balls and was able to pull free as he released another howl of pain.
He turned on Zarathos. Fury wove into his expression, a fraying thread about to unravel as blood dripped from his impaled hand.
Anger coursed through Aryana’s veins. She wanted to strike out. To teach Balafur a lesson. But instead, she stumbled backward. The pitcher was still in her grip and somehow she’d kept it from spilling.
Xaphoron leaned back in his seat and rested his fork on his plate. “Balafur, sit and eat. If you wish to make a show of power against our arch king, save it for the arena. We both know where he is most vulnerable.”
Balafur gazed around the room. Half of the demons from Kingdom Inferna were on their feet, gripping their weapons.
The tension was at a fever pitch. He ripped the knife from his hand.
“Fuck you. Fuck all of you.” He moved and grabbed the next kalator closest to him, a hobgoblin.
Balafur bit into him, causing a wild scream to rush out and blood to spill onto the dining table.
Aryana glanced at Zarathos, gratitude burning in her chest despite the horror playing out before her.
Her heart plummeted. He was gripping the table, leaning forward, stiff, his eyes glassy. His trembling fingernails dug into the wood.
Shit. He must be having another one of his episodes. But why now? She’d thought that the potion caused the seizures and she hadn’t seen him take it recently.
She looked around desperately. The other demons were turning back toward their meals, back to face Zarathos. She raced toward him, clutching the pitcher in her hands.
“Master, allow me to provide you with more drink.”
She dumped it into his lap. Zarathos peered up at her, fear reflected in his eyes.
He didn’t even have the ability to react.
So she did instead. She gave a sharp gasp, then fell to her knees.
The screams from the kalator on the table continued, and she wasn’t sure how many demons were watching, but she focused on her part.
“My master, I’m so sorry. Please forgive my clumsiness. Here, let me get you cleaned up.”
She seized his sleeve and pulled him to his feet.
He stood awkwardly, and she spun him away from everyone to hide his face, to hide his trembling.
She put her arm around him and rushed him toward the door.
“My master, please, please don’t be angry with me.
I know what your temper is like, and I beg of you to show mercy on your poor kalator. ”
Gods, it had been such a flimsy act. But she wasn’t sure at this point if it mattered if Zarathos had most of the room in his pocket, anyway. And yet, it was better to be safe than sorry. The door shut behind them.
He reached for her with a trembling hand. “Ary…ana.” Before pitching forward into her.
She held him against her as his body began to spasm.
Her gaze swept the hallway. Nobody was around, but they couldn’t stay here.
The curtained alcove, meant for secret trysts, caught her attention.
She gripped him and pulled—mostly dragged—him into it, shutting the curtains behind her and laying him out on the stone bench, his head in her lap as he twitched and shook uncontrollably.
“Zarathos,” she whispered, running her hands through his silken hair. “This is getting out of control. If you’d only just tell me what is going on. Then I could help you.”
This was the second time he’d had an attack. Had he always been like this? How had he handled his seizures before she came along?
“I don’t understand why you are doing all this.” Her teeth sank into her lip, remembering what the demon in the banquet hall had said.
We both know where he is vulnerable.
If he was only going to kill her in the end, why did any of it matter? And yet it did. His actions mattered to her.
She stroked his hair with her fingers, over and over. Until the shaking stopped and stilled, his eyes half open.
And although a part of her only insisted she was acting to get him to fall for her, a deeper part of her was grateful for the way he had protected her. The way he seemed oddly possessive of her. Even if it ended up being for only his own ends.
He lay there, staring up at her. He looked spent. She leaned over and pressed her lips to his forehead.
“Thank you, Zarathos, whatever the reason, for looking out for me.”