Chapter 30
Zarathos
Every muscle in Zarathos’s body cried in protest as he stepped into the arena. Demons roared and shouted, setting him on high alert. They certainly were worked up over something.
He ground his teeth, resisting the urge to rub his aching bicep.
A chill had settled there, a silent alarm.
His vampire princess faced danger. He'd mustered up enough energy to get his armor on before the guards had brought him to this killing field, and yet he couldn't help but think of Aryana in her shredded dress, armor-less and vulnerable.
Every instinct screamed at him to act. But instead, he had to appear calm and composed, when all he wanted was to destroy whatever threatened her.
Guards and demon soldiers Zarathos didn’t recognize stood in a large semi-circle around the periphery.
That was new. He scanned the arena, noting the odd mounds off to the side.
Yet the figures kneeling in the center of the arena, commanded his attention.
Each one had a knapsack pulled over their head.
He did a quick count. Eight. One for each contestant.
His gaze fixated on the figure in the middle. He could tell they had a slight female form. Each of the figures wore a large burlap sack for clothes. That slight figure in the center had a ZA painted on her. Oh gods, what was happening?
“Welcome to the second round of the Demon Trials,” the announcer shouted out with his magically enhanced voice. “The second necessary trait for a ruler is to put his kingdom before all else. Our champions will prove that today by the sacrifice they are willing to make.”
Zarathos’s mouth had gone dry. The weight of the sword belted to his waist felt like a boulder dragging him down.
“As such,” the announcer continued, “we have gathered those known to have a special relationship with each of our champions. In order to move on, they must kill the one they find here to prove their commitment.”
The crowd faded. Zarathos’s heart did a slow, sickly thump in his chest. Nothing mattered except the person under the sack.
They knew. Somehow they knew, and now everything was coming to a head.
A guard walked up behind each of the kneeling figures.
There had to be a way out of this. A way to get her out of this.
Hell, in the end, the only thing he desired was for his little vampire princess to live.
She’d started off as a small thread woven into a greater masterpiece, an unassuming part of the whole.
Somehow, that thread had spun her way to the center of Zarathos’s life.
And yet, if he did anything except what he was supposed to, he suspected there would be no making it out for either of them.
The guard pulled the sack off of the head of the female kneeling only a few feet away.
Zarathos stared in shock.
Vivane knelt in front of him. Relief blazed through him even as he knew that was the wrong emotion to feel.
Still it went through him, rushed and light.
Aryana was safe, or at least had a chance at life.
A disgusting sense of guilt came right after.
Zarathos truly was monstrous, relieved about one woman’s safety while forced to kill another.
Someone who had done nothing but be there for him.
Vivane didn’t deserve to die any more than Aryana did.
And yet, he had to kill her.
“No, no,” Rebos, the half-basilisk from Misophae, said as emotion coursed over his face. “I will not. Do you hear me? She is my mother. My mother. I will not! I refuse, you bastards.” And he fell forward and wrapped his arms around the older demon female before him.
The air vibrated near Zarathos. A helpless situation with another female suddenly claimed him. Shit. No, he tried to push it aside, but he also couldn’t take his eyes off the pair, his body stilled and unmoving.
The guards surged forward with ruthless swiftness, drawing their weapons and falling onto the pair, striking them until they became motionless forms on the ground, blood seeping into the dirt.
That marked the second champion dead from that kingdom.
Their only path to victory now hinged on their kalators’ improbable success.
But none of the champions, nor the council, would allow that to happen.
Rage and sorrow rushed like a tidal wave through him at once, and he fought to control the tremors running through his body.
The lesson was obvious. If he refused to execute Vivane, the guard would end her anyway, then they’d be free to execute Zarathos because he had proven himself unworthy.
Just like with his father. Even after all this time, Zarathos still needed to kill to prove his worth.
He walked up to Vivane, and her eyes narrowed though he could smell the anger and fear drifting off of her.
“I’m sorry, Vivane.”
Her lip curled. “I lay with you. Comfort you when you need it. Keep your secrets. This is the thanks I get?”
Zarathos’s grip tightened on the sword. He’d make it quick and painless. That was the best he could offer her. “I didn’t choose this.”
“You have chosen it more than I have.” She dropped her voice to a harsh whisper, her eyes accusing. “I’m not even the one who is supposed to be here.”
His eyes darted to the guard and those nearby. “Watch what you say.”
The manic rage in her gaze gleamed brighter. “Still trying to protect her. You sorry bastard, she has turned you into her own bitch, heeling at her every whim, hasn’t she?”
If he didn’t kill Vivane, she would die anyway. Zarathos would die. Aryana would die.
There was only one path forward.
“I wish there was another way.”
The anger radiated off of her entire being. “You’re pathetic. You’re going to die in the end. She will die and I will have died for nothing.”
He laid his sword to her throat.
“Wait,” she said, her eyes wide and glistening with terror. “One final kiss, Zarathos?”
He hesitated.
“Come on.” Her voice shook a little. “Let’s give them a show. It’s the least that you owe me.”
He did owe her. Who was he to deny her last request? She’d die protecting the one he truly cared for, and they both knew it. Not to mention, if he kissed her here, and made it look convincing, perhaps he might prevent suspicion of where his true feelings lie.
He lowered his sword and stepped toward her.
Their bodies had entwined in brief instances of comfort, but tonight, everything was different.
Tonight, the end drew near, and nothing between them could ever be sufficient to change that.
They both knew the truth. Slowly, he leaned down, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was tender, yet devoid of the passion that had once defined their encounters.
A farewell kiss, quiet and slow, carried the burden of their unsaid words.
Her hands rested gently against his chest, not demanding, just present, as if to hold on to something for her last moments.
Then she reached up and unbuttoned his armor, yanking it back until it fell off his shoulder.
Revealing his mark.
“Zarathos is Bloodbound with his kalator,” Vivane shrieked. “The mark is on her right thigh. He has her under a bargain.”
Shit. Shit. He recoiled, pulling his blade across her throat, his heart pounding.
Crimson poured from her and her eyes went glassy as she pitched into the dirt.
Her body twitched once or twice before coming to rest. He watched, both sorry and desperate at the same time.
He looked around. Who had heard? Who believed?
He forced a laugh, though it was a bit too high. “Absurd. A frantic ploy to ruin me. This is merely a tattoo.” He tried not to appear too quick to cover it up, buttoning his armor.
Xaphoron stood not far away, a dead body at his feet. He tossed his sword to Balafur who caught it with one hand.
“A Bloodbond, Zarathos?” Balafur finished off his sacrifice as if they were strangers. A cruel glint came to his eyes. “To the vampire princess, no less?”
“You are a brainless idiot if you believe the desperate lies of a dead woman.” He attempted to seem unfazed, even as he watched the evil grin spreading across Balafur’s lips. Zarathos’s grip on his sword tightened. This demon deserved the edge of his blade far more than Vivane.
The others had already dispatched their person and were in a brawl over the crown. Tigon roared, pushed most of them out of the way with a powerful sweep of his massive fist. But the fight rebounded quickly. It was anybody’s game.
Balafur’s gaze swung to the mounds, and Zarathos spun in time to see Aryana and a couple of others push up from the dirt.
Had they actually buried them alive?
“Shall we discover the truth?” Balafur spread his wings and glided across the arena toward the mounds.
“No,” Zarathos growled and took off after him.
Balafur arrived right next to Aryana. She was half submerged in her mound. He reached down, clamped his fist around her throat and yanked her upward as if she was no more than a daisy.
Zarathos landed, his wings spread, a rage spearing through his veins. “Drop her.”
Balafur held her by the throat. Any second, he could squeeze his fist and crush her, or swipe his claws over her throat, and Zarathos’s vampress would be gone. The piercing coldness of his Bloodbound mark lodged into his bones.
Balafur’s grip tightened and she struggled, thrashing in his grasp. “Not until we have answers.” He had a manic gleam in his eyes.
If Zarathos made the wrong move, he’d get Aryana killed.
Balafur sliced his sword across her right thigh, cutting through the bandage hiding her Bloodbound mark.
Zarathos flinched as Aryana opened her mouth as if to cry out, pain reflected in her eyes. He’d shred Balafur, he’d pin his wings to the ceiling and watch him die a slow death. “I said drop her!”
Balafur used the sword to draw back the wrapping, revealing the serpents twining together on her leg. “Would you look at that? Looks an awful lot like yours, Your Majesty.”
Zarathos snarled, his fist trembling on his sword.
“You will watch as I kill everyone that you love if you don’t set her down this instant.
” His instincts cried to reach out to the shadows, and he felt their presence in the back of his mind.
But that wasn’t an option. According to the contract he signed, if he used his powers, he’d die. Then Aryana would die too.
A nasty look came across Balafur’s face.
“Like I have anyone left. That was the deal for coming here and facing off against you. Didn’t you know, arch king?
For those of us that you didn’t get to with your bargains.
Why should you be any different? And with a fucking vampire, no less. ” He brought his sword up.
A fear unlike any Zarathos had ever known pierced him.
Aryana swung up with her good leg, wrapping it around Balafur’s arm and twisting. A loud sickening snap sounded, and Balafur let out a roar of pain.
And Zarathos moved, ramming his sword through the demon’s chest so hard that the point came through on the other side. He pulled the blade out, the rage within him forcing him to yank the sword free and stab him a second time. And a third.
Balafur dropped Aryana. He plummeted to the ground.
Dead.
The horn blared, marking the end of the trial. Across the arena, Tigon had claimed the crown.
The crowd had gone strangely silent. Tension filled the air as their accusing stares burned into his skin.
His plans for the trials had been thrown into chaos.
Zarathos spun to face Aryana, despite everything, needing to ensure that she was all right. “We should—”
She lunged away from him over to a mound and started clawing at the dirt. He swore. That cut on her thigh went deep. Blood flowed from her at an alarming rate. What did she think she was doing at a time like this?
But she didn’t seem to care. She dug deeper, throwing soil and rock aside with the ferocity of an insane female until she released a sigh and reached down, pulling the human kalator out of the dirt.
He swore again. The bleeding heart. Didn’t she understand the human was as good as dead? They all were, now. And she’d be the first to expire if she lost all of her blood out of that wound. He stalked over and scooped her into his arms.
“We need to go, Vampress.”
Her gaze met his, but then she nodded, and he spread his wings, flying her from the field.
He looked up at the section of stands where the council sat and made a slight movement with his wings, adjusting his trajectory for a brief moment before straightening out and heading for the exit.
The sound of hissing and disapproval from the attendees in the arena marked them as the next to die.