Prince of Hollow Desires (The Demon Reflected #2)

Chapter One

A PAINTING COULDN’T do Prince Ixthan justice. They had tried, the evidence was right here in front of Eric’s eyes. Two servants struggled to detach an enormous life-sized oil painting of him from the wall as Eric and Ix watched on.

“Do handle me carefully,” said Ix, amused at his own joke as the servants finally unhooked the painting from where it had been hung directly opposite the bed. He turned to Eric and clucked his tongue. “I can scarcely believe you don’t want to look upon me first thing every morning.”

The painting was well-rendered, commissioned from the same artist who had done his father’s portrait, and showed off his broad chest, his strong neck, and the long, thick hair any maiden would have been jealous of.

Perhaps it had been the artist, perhaps it had been at the directive of the king, but this painting had minimized Ix’s demonic features, so there was no sign of his charcoal-tipped fingers or his tail.

Even his amber cat-slit eyes were a more plausible honey-brown.

“I can hardly believe you had this hanging in here, you vaincock. I thought it was in the Royal Portrait Hall,” said Eric, ignoring the jibe.

There was no way for Ixthan to know whether he wanted that or not.

And besides, Ix was doing him a favor by emptying one of his rooms in his wing of the palace for Eric to stay in, seeing as how his family house had been seized for investigation after the high treason allegations against his father.

“The Queen was rather upset at the idea of me in there, I’m told. Ought I hang it in the bathroom, so you may gaze upon me while you are bathing?” said Ixthan idly, always knowing exactly what to say to rile Eric up.

“I’m going to hang a portrait of your brother in its place,” Eric threatened, then cleared his throat. “Anyway. I do appreciate it. The hospitality. And clearing everything out to make room for me.”

As expected, Ix batted it off, allergic to niceties. “I didn’t. The wardrobe is still half-full of my clothes. Borrow anything in there, if it suits.”

A ridiculous suggestion. Anything that looked good on Ix would only serve to make Eric look like a child stealing his father’s clothes.

Ix was a good head taller, his shoulders were broader and his skin was unnaturally golden all year round in comparison.

Not to mention that Eric had a mop of unruly red curls and a pale face with a propensity to blush.

In any case, Ix favored rich jewel tones and luxurious materials and Eric had the grim foresight to know he was likely wearing a lot of mourning blacks and grays for the foreseeable future. His father’s trial was still ongoing, but only a fool couldn’t see the inevitable guilty sentence.

“The emerald jacket will be perfect for the testimonies tomorrow,” said Eric, trying to make light of the matter, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“Will you attend?” Ixthan looked more concerned about the fact the servants had only brought in two boxes of belongings for Eric than the whole treason thing.

Eric didn’t tell him that everything else he owned was either part of the investigation or waiting for the debt collectors to see if they wanted it first.

“I don’t know yet. What does it say about me, that I refused to talk to the old man for six years and now I’m thinking about going to see him just to watch him lie in court?” Eric wondered.

“How very human of you. Well, come join me for a ride tomorrow if you don’t,” said Ix carelessly, following the servants out, no doubt to hang his portrait somewhere else obnoxiously visible.

After he left, Eric opened the wardrobe door.

If he squashed all of Ix’s clothes to one side, he could probably fit the clothes he’d brought with him in the other half.

He’d do it later. All the family servants had been dismissed and he was too drained to do it himself right now.

He left the wardrobe door open. As a reminder to himself to unpack, of course, and certainly not because the clothes in there smelled of Ixthan.

It was a week later when the verdict for his father arrived.

Guilty of High Treason. A hefty crime for the Earl of Marrawshire, who had once been a trusted adviser of the king.

Eric was in his borrowed rooms again. He’d tried to make it feel more like his own, but he feared the only things he’d added were stacks of ledgers and paperwork from a shocking amount of neglect that Eric had to sort out on behalf of the earldom.

As for the room, Ix’s touch was still everywhere, from the extravagantly gold-flecked wallpaper to the demon-realm-inspired art to the lush heavy brocades and velvets in the curtains and furnishings.

Eric hadn’t attended the trial or the sentencing in the end, partly because of the estrangement and partly because he didn’t dare do anything that might imply that he supported his father’s actions.

It was Johann, his father’s old valet, who had attended in his place and who gave him the news.

Eric sat like a lump, staring at the wallpaper peeling in the corner and swallowing down that lurching in his stomach before he threw up, as Johann recounted the sentencing.

They’d set the execution date for two days hence, which seemed simultaneously so soon and yet not soon enough.

Johann was peering at him with a face creased with worry; Eric batted him away with false reassurances, his voice sounding strangely tinny and far away to himself.

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” said Eric with a ghost of a smile as he forced his eyes to focus on Johann. “You go on, I don’t want to keep you, you’ve done more than your share already.”

Johann looked as though he wanted to say something.

He’d known Eric since he was a child after all, had been there when Eric’s arguments with his father got worse and worse, until they existed in parallel in the same house, both of them studiously avoiding the other.

But in the end, he just nodded, and left.

The rest of the household staff had already moved on to new employment.

Petrella, Eric’s twin sister, was lodging indefinitely with their aunt while Eric was here in the New Palace with Prince Ixthan and would be at least until King Ruben’s investigators were done with their manor.

He’d have to go tell her the news. Speaking of Ixthan, Eric expected him to come knocking at any moment now.

He willed himself up out of the armchair.

He was decent, at least. Johann had bullied him into shirt and waistcoat and socks this morning with silent disapproval, when he’d come to check if Eric definitely hadn’t wanted to go with him to court.

There it was, two raps against the door and then Ix walked straight in as if the room belonged to him. Which was fair, as it did. “You’ve heard?”

“Yes,” said Eric. “Johann told me.”

“You’re all right?” Where Johann had been genuinely concerned, Ix sounded as if the words were a formality.

Eric didn’t take offense; that was just how Ix was, his half-demon nature a mismatch with human niceties.

It pulled Eric out of his numbness as Ix’s eerie cat-slit eyes bored into him, his indifference somehow more comforting than any sympathies.

Ix looked good. His long, thick hair was unbound at the moment, draping in waves across his shoulder.

His deep green waistcoat must be new, Eric hadn’t seen it before, the color striking against his cream shirt and bringing out his eyes.

But then, Ix always looked good. Eric had never been able to figure out if it was the royal blood or the demon blood that gave him his lithe grace.

Eric saw Ixthan catch sight of his lack of boots, and wondered if it was a breach of decorum for royalty to be able to see his socked feet.

That was when he realized how close to hysterical he must be.

He’d been friends with Ix for over twenty years, for gods’ sakes, of course Ix didn’t care about seeing the outline of his toes.

He clenched his fist hard enough for his nails to bite into the heel of his palm, the burst of pain clearing his head.

“Yes, I’m fine,” said Eric instead of explaining his ridiculous thoughts about toes. “I didn’t even like him. And besides, it was to be expected.”

“Good,” said Ixthan, ignoring that Eric was obviously lying. “Are you attending tonight?”

Gods, Eric had forgotten about that. Another one of Ixthan’s infamous winter parties.

Half of society was convinced they were secret orgies and revelry of the most debauched sort, which was funny because the most appalling thing they did was sit on cushions on the floor while they drank instead of the chairs.

And maybe the occasional sword fight. He suspected it was mostly because the parties were exclusive, with mixed company, and people were jealous.

Eric couldn’t complain, it was just poor timing.

He enjoyed Ix’s parties the rest of the time and this had been planned since before the sentencing date had been arranged.

And yet… all of their friends would know about his father.

It would be the topic hanging over them all night, whether anyone brought it up to him or not.

“Would I prefer to sit alone in the dark as the sound of your party wafts through the walls, or would I prefer to bask in your company all evening? What a choice,” said Eric as dryly as he could manage.

That was better. It was a half-decent imitation of Ixthan’s drawl and earned him a snort from Ix, at least.

“See how you feel. Can’t have you dampening my fun,” said Ix airily, fluttering his fingers mockingly as he left again. Eric threw a boot at his back.