Chapter 2
Two
Poly, the Plane of Lost Years (Maybe)
Silt’s bed—normally filled with soft concubines—felt cold and hard. And his arms hurt.
He dimly heard two voices. Males? In his lair?
Not possible.
He wanted to wake. Couldn’t. His head swam. So he inwardly shrugged and relaxed into opium’s embrace once more— float away, Silt —to return to his dream of an oasis.
Waves of sand crested in front of the sun, a golden backdrop to a pool of azure water. This wasn’t merely a dream, but a memory. And over his thousands of years of life, he’d ached to return to that one idyllic moment in time.
Yet here he was, trapped within his lair, a pyramidal fortress that was both his pride and his exile. As a fugitive from the Gaolers, he could never leave this place.
Outside, a sandstorm raged, while the monsters guarding his keep slithered and skulked along the exterior walls. Inside Silt’s bedchamber, a dozen concubines slept all around him, while his giant scorpion Sequara curled up beside the hearth. Firelight glinted off the shelves of Silt’s revenge trophies: everything from stolen crowns to sacred treasures. The smoke of opium—his beloved dragon’s breath —hung heavy in the air.
He assumed all these details of his home were true. His senses were so blunted he wasn’t aware of his surroundings. Except this bed. Cold? Hard?
No, float .
Anything outside of floating brought pain. Earlier, when he’d drifted away from reality, hadn’t he vaguely heard his concubines discussing him?
“He smoked enough to incapacitate a troll.” Easily.
“No wonder he can’t stay hard.” His face had flushed even in his daze.
“It’s like he’s imbibing to avoid us.” A truer statement had never been spoken. “Oh well. So sad.”
Laughter had pealed all around.
Revenge, his true mistress, had bade him to wake and deal with these females, throwing them all out into the sandstorm.
No slight unpunished. No affront unreturned. Over the millennia of his life, he’d meted retribution so savagely that humans had considered him a vengeance god.
Revenge and sand had become intertwined, deserts emblematic of how unforgiving and lethal he’d been.
Yet now he remained sprawled naked on the bed, his godhood a distant memory. Maybe it was time to back off his habit.
Smoke whispered, You belong to me.
He did. Earlier, when his erection had waned, he hadn’t missed it?—
A threat shivered in the air. Those male voices pierced the veil of floating once more. Though the Gaolers couldn’t enter Poly—he didn’t know why—they posted bounties for hunters who could, and he was worth forty pieces of priceless dragon’s gold.
Had someone come to collect?
Impossible. Silt’s physical and mystical boundaries had kept intruders out of his pyramid for more than half a millennium. Scores of hunters had arrived to claim the Gaolers’ bounty, and they’d all been eaten alive.
No more denying it; Silt wasn’t in his bed. He lay on what felt like a cold, dirty street. He struggled to rise, finally managing to sit upright. His head swirled. “Where’m I?” Had someone dressed him in his pants?
He opened his eyes, his vision blurring. “The hell’s going on?” Adrenaline surged, clearing his sight. Two males stood before him, a black-haired vampire with clear eyes and a blond demon with horns. “Who’re you?” The fuck is happening? Am I shackled?
Seeming apologetic, the vampire said, “I’m Mirceo Daciano. My mate and I have captured you for the bounty. No hard feelings.” These two hunters had breached Silt’s every defensive measure to abduct him!
Daciano? This Mirceo must be a Dacian, a super vampire. Supposed to be a myth.
When Silt’s breaths condensed, his gaze darted around to find that his nightmares had arrived. The Gaolers. Like rotted horsemen of the apocalypse.
The four had tattooed their faces to resemble skulls, but over the millennia, their regeneration had slowed, their skin peeling from the bone, their eyeballs shriveling to nothing.
These silent enforcers took lawbreakers to a dimension from which there was no return: Nightside. After all these eons of dreading his delivery to hell . . .
It was about to happen.
“Can’t be. No!” Silt thrashed against his shackles, calling forth the emergency sand he always kept in his pocket, but the shackles neutralized his already withered sorcery. “I’ll kill you two for this! I’ll destroy anything you care about and murder anyone you love.” Lips drawn back from his teeth, he hissed, “I’ll replace the blood in your veins with sand!” Revenge roused inside him like a dragon stretching its scales after slumber, ready to lay waste to everything .
“Note to self”—the vampire tapped his temple—“beware of the Sandman.”
One of the Gaolers dropped a clinking coin bag at the demon’s feet. Transaction complete. Nothing remained but to deliver Silt to hell.
With a wave of that Gaoler’s hand, Silt’s consciousness dimmed, but he fought it. He caught Mirceo’s gaze a final time and mouthed, You’re a dead man.