11. Syrus
Syrus
She was wearing one of my shirts. I recognized it instantly when I found her at the lake, though I haven’t seen it in at least a century.
I had most of my clothes from the early days of my reign packed away somewhere even I didn’t recall.
Though now it’s clear some of them must’ve ended up in the northern apartments, preserved for the day when a hapless human with eyes green as demon blood and a spiky mind would go rifling through them.
It suited her, even if it was several sizes too big, the white fabric contrasting with that bright red hair and pink skin. Skin dusted with freckles, of all things.
Demons don’t have freckles. You need the sun for freckles.
They somehow take the edge off her sharpness, despite the hard set of her face and the quick retorts she hurls my way. There have been several times since meeting her I’ve needed to press my lips tightly together so as not to laugh at something she’s thought or said.
But it won’t do to ignore that edge. I can’t afford to soften toward her. Not when I need to use her, bending her to the task my duty demands of me.
Only after I sent her back to her room, the image of her in my clothes lingering in my mind, do I realize she must’ve been in search of something to wear that didn’t have blood on it.
And something about that thought is oddly…painful.
Leah
Before I can climb into bed, Vizmodeus arrives at my door again to toss a pile of clothes at me. I assume Asterim must’ve said something about having clothes that actually fit me. He doesn’t lock the door behind him this time, and I don’t try to leave.
Frankly, I’m so exhausted that even if I wanted to attempt another escape, I know I’d need to get some sleep before trying.
If I’m going to pass out somewhere in Malice, I’d rather it be here with a set of high castle walls in between me and most of the realm’s demons.
At least the ones inside those walls have a good reason not to kill me.
And if that isn’t the stuff of sweet dreams, I don’t know what is.
When I wake, I don’t know how long I’ve slept. It’s hard to tell these things when there’s no sun. I don’t even know if they have a night here. Maybe I slept through it. Or maybe demons don’t bother with shit like that.
What they do bother with, it turns out, is underwear. Because I find a small selection among the pile Vizmodeus handed me last night, and thank goddess for that. Of all the unpleasant things about being here in Infernum, going commando felt like the icing on the crappy cake.
Speaking of which, I’m starving, and I figure I need to take matters into my own hands on that front. It’ll probably take the demons as long to realize I need food as it did to remember I need clothing.
But when I open the door, I see why Vizmodeus didn’t bother locking it again.
The hell cat, Triya, lies across the doorway, her huge, sleek body blocking the bridge outside my room.
She lifts her three heads at the sound of my surprised inhale, throwing a lazy look in my direction.
I stand there, hand tight on the doorknob, ready to slam the door shut between us if it looks like she’s going to strike.
It’s very possible she’s been waiting here to eat me while her master’s not around, whatever Syrus said.
But she looks unbothered as she eases herself to her feet and stretches. Then she turns and starts padding across the bridge, pausing to sniff at something on the wall. Eventually, she looks back at me, and the six pairs of eyes seem…expectant?
Maybe my mind is already starting to unravel from being possessed, but I follow her.
She leads me through the corridors, the gray stone of the outer buildings shifting into a darker, glittering kind of rock as we get deeper into the castle.
It’s quiet, almost serene, and once again I wonder where everyone else is.
We did away with kings in Strata a long time ago, but I learned enough history to know that rulers typically have some kind of court.
And why am I wishing there were more demons around, exactly?
It’s the hunger. It’s definitely pushing me over the edge into some kind of delirium. So when Triya stops outside what is obviously a dining room, doors pushed open to show a table laden with food, I’m surprisingly grateful.
“Thanks,” I say, wondering which of the three heads I should address. I play it safe and nod at all of them. She blinks slowly at me and then lopes away down the corridor, presumably to go play with someone’s entrails like they’re a ball of yarn.
The dining room is brighter than the corridors, lit by a set of tall lancet windows at one end through which that purple light pours.
It illuminates various wall hangings, the largest of which stretches along the wall opposite the door.
There are two figures depicted on it, both reaching for each other from banks of black and white clouds.
I barely glance at it—the food is calling to me much louder than any tapestry could.
“Oh good. When you weren’t in your room I thought you’d done another runner.”
Vizmodeus drops the stack of books he’s carrying onto the dining table, sending several loose sheets of paper flying. He deftly snatches them out of the air, sitting down and stuffing them between book covers before reaching for a plate of toast.
“Good…morning?” I say, taking an educated guess from the type of food on the table. Working against my theory is the fact that the skull-faced demon looks like anything but someone who’s just got dressed for the day, with wild hair and crumpled clothes scattered with ink blots.
He throws me a calculated look. “Good morning to you too,” he says, before pulling a pencil from behind his ear and starting to note something down, still buttering toast with the other hand.
I reach for the nearest dish, which has slices of bacon on it.
“Stop.” Vizmodeus sighs, standing up and rounding the table to take the dish from me.
“What, I’m not good enough to eat your food?” I ask, my hunger making me testy.
“Not demon enough—so, yes, not good enough,” he says, setting down the plate. “That’s not from one of your mire pigs, you know.”
He lifts an already filled silver goblet on the table to his nose, sniffs it, then nods as he puts it down in front of me.
“What’s that?” I ask warily.
“That most dangerous of substances, fruit juice,” he says, not bothering to hide his exasperation.
“And?” I ask, waiting for an explanation.
“Your body isn’t used to food from this world.
You’ll have to ease yourself into it. Avoid the heavy stuff—meat and dairy—for the first few days.
Stick to bread and fruit and vegetables.
” He puts his bony hands on his hips. “Or don’t.
Gorge yourself on that duskboar bacon if you prefer, but don’t come crying to me when you can’t get off your chamber pot for a week. ”
I eye him as he returns to his seat, but then carefully lift the goblet.
“Well, since you paint so vivid a picture…” I sniff the liquid as he did, making him roll his eyes, but he looks pleased when I decide it smells fine and proceed to drink it.
It’s delicious actually, fresh and citrusy, but not like anything I’ve had before.
In fact, none of the fruit on the table looks familiar.
Of course, it’s still a surprise to me that Infernum has plants at all.
Now I think about it, I find myself a little excited by the possibilities.
If I’m going to get slowly leeched of my vitality while possessed by a demon, I might as well learn a few new plant names first.
“So what’s that called?” I ask, pointing to slices of seeded fruit with a purple peel neatly lined up on a dish.
“Pontivel,” the silver-haired demon says, glancing up from his parchment.
“And this?” I pick up a bright orange fruit shaped like a teardrop.
He huffs, giving me a do you mind? sort of look.
“It’s called dar’qaier,” the voice slides softly into my mind as Syrus enters the room. “It’s Cyrax for ‘fire on the branch.’”
I immediately go tense under the sudden onslaught of his presence, both in my mind and in the room itself.
He sweeps toward the head of the table without looking at me—though I’m watching him, startled by how casual the Lord of Malice looks, as if he’s just risen from bed.
He’s barefoot, wearing a pair of dark cotton pants and a nightrobe tied loosely at the waist. When he sits, the front gapes to reveal an expanse of tanned chest. I glance away, back to Vizmodeus, who is studying Syrus with a raised eyebrow.
“You look…neat,” the pale demon says to his lord. I can’t say it’s the word that came to my mind, and surely everyone looks neat next to Vizmodeus, but Syrus just glances briefly at me before reaching for a plate.
“Lady Jing sent a message,” Vizmodeus says, holding up a letter for Syrus. “She says she wants to make changes to the latest weapons delivery—more arrowheads, fewer blood shells. Given Malice is due to supply the blood for the projectiles this time—”
“No,” Syrus says in a tone of instant finality. “She won’t be changing it.”
“Her letter says it’s more cost-effective—”
“Arrows are cheap, but death isn’t, Viz,” he says, the red in his irises brightening.
“Burning them from the inside out is the best way to kill a pale-blood. It’s quick and agonizing, and they can’t use lightning to stop it.
She’ll make the shells we ordered, and Infernum’s soldiers will thank us for it when they’re littering the plains with feathered corpses. ”
I try not to wince. Demon blood is like acid to the ephilium, and vice versa. Some of the most brutalized bodies I’ve seen on the plains were the ones hit with blood-loaded projectiles—for precisely the reasons Syrus describes with such relish.
The chamberlain nods. “I’ll compose a reply.”
Syrus casually leans across the table to serve himself eggs, as if breakfast always comes with a side of murderous strategizing. Which it probably does, for him.
“You will have a few days to rest,” he says.