Demon Lord’s Proposal (Marrying Demons #1)

1. Sage

1

SAGE

T he ancient floorboards creak beneath my feet as I pace the confines of my dressing room. Outside, the oppressive Louisiana heat presses against the windows, fogging the glass and blurring the view of the overgrown garden beyond.

I pause, pressing my palm against the cool surface, leaving a perfect imprint of my hand. For a moment, I'm transfixed by the faint, barely visible lines etched into my skin–alchemical sigils, a reminder of who–and what–I truly am.

"Sage? Honey, you in there?" Cora's voice, thick with her bayou drawl, drifts through the door.

I clear my throat, willing my voice to sound steadier than I feel. "It’s open."

The door swings open with a protesting groan, and Cora bustles in, her arms laden with fabric and flowers. Her eyes, warm and brown as chicory coffee, widen as she takes me in.

"Lord have mercy, Sage! You ain't even started gettin' ready?" She tsks, shaking her head. "We've got ourselves a weddin' to attend, remember?"

I manage a weak smile. "Hard to forget..."

Cora sets her burdens down on a nearby chaise lounge, its once-regal upholstery now faded and threadbare. She turns to me, hands on her hips, her expression a mixture of exasperation and concern.

"What's eatin' at you, sugar? You look like you've seen a ghost." She pauses, then lets out a soft chuckle. "Well, I reckon that ain't exactly unusual 'round these parts, is it?"

I can't help but laugh at that, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. "No, I suppose not."

Cora begins to unpack the dress, a confection of ivory lace and silk that seems to shimmer with an otherworldly light. "Come on now, let's get you dolled up. Can't keep your man waitin', can we?"

As she helps me into the gown, I'm struck by a sudden wave of nostalgia. "Do you ever think about the past, Cora? About... different choices we could have made?"

Her hands still for a moment as she's fastening the back of the dress. "Course I do, cher. Don't we all?" She resumes her work, her voice softening. "But today ain't about the past. It's about your future with Joesiah. You've got a good thing goin' here, don't you?"

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Cora's right, of course. I do have a good thing going here. But still, on days like today, the weight of my secret feels heavier than ever.

"There," Cora says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "You're a vision. Now, let's do somethin' about that hair of yours."

As Cora works, weaving sprigs of nightshade and yarrow into my auburn waves, I allow my mind to drift back to the day I met Joesiah. It had been at one of the town's grand masquerades, a swirling affair of darkness and light, of whispered promises and veiled threats.

I'd been there selling my "herbal remedies," carefully crafted concoctions that walked the line between medicine and something... more. Joesiah had approached my booth, his mask a work of art depicting a crow in flight. "What's your most interesting remedy?" he'd asked, his voice a low, enticing rumble.

I'd smiled, selecting a small vial filled with a shimmering, opalescent liquid. "This," I'd said, holding it up to the candlelight. "It's for vivid dreams. One drop for pleasant visions, two for prophetic glimpses. Three..." I'd paused for effect. "Well, let's just say three drops is inadvisable."

He'd laughed then, a rich, warm sound that sent shivers down my spine. "And what if I were to drink the entire vial?"

"Then I suppose you'd be at my mercy," I'd replied, surprising myself with my boldness.

From that moment on, we'd been inseparable. Joesiah had shown me a world beyond my small apothecary, introduced me to the town's high society. And I, in turn, had shared with him my knowledge of herbs and remedies, carefully hiding the true extent of my alchemical practice.

"Sage? Sage, honey, you with me?" Cora's voice pulls me back to the present.

I blink, realizing I've been lost in thought. "Sorry, Cora. Just... remembering."

She gives me a knowing look. "Thinkin' about how you and Joesiah met?"

I nod, a smile tugging at my lips. "Is it that obvious?"

"Sugar, you've got that look in your eye. The one you always get when you're thinkin' about him." She steps back, admiring her handiwork. "There. You're ready."

I turn to the full-length mirror, its gilded frame tarnished with age. The woman staring back at me is both familiar and strange. The dress hugs my slender frame, the delicate lace a stark contrast to my pale skin. My hair falls in soft waves, the deep auburn shimmering in the dim light. But it's my eyes that catch my attention–bright green with flecks of gold, hiding secrets I've never dared to share.

"You look beautiful, Sage," Cora says softly. "Like somethin' out of a fairy tale."

I laugh, a touch of nervousness creeping into my voice. "A rather strange fairy tale, I'd imagine."

Cora clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "Now, none of that. This is your weddin' day. You're marryin' the man you love, and that's worth celebratin'."

She's right, of course. I take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of my dress. "You're right. I'm ready."

As if on cue, there's a knock at the door. Cora opens it to reveal Joesiah's best man, a tall, imposing figure with a stern face and piercing eyes.

"It's time," he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the floorboards.

Cora turns to me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "You got this, sugar. Go get your happily ever after."

I nod, taking one last look in the mirror before following Joesiah's best man out into the hallway. The old plantation house creaks and groans around us, as if it too is preparing for the ceremony.

As we descend the grand staircase, I can hear the murmur of voices from the ballroom below. The scent of magnolias and decay hangs heavy in the air, a reminder of the strange duality of this world; beauty and rot existing side by side.

We pause outside the closed ballroom doors. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, a rhythm that seems to echo the weight of my secret.

"Are you ready?" Joesiah's best man asks, his gaze fixed on me.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "I am."

He nods, then pushes open the doors. The murmur of conversation dies away as all eyes turn towards me. The ballroom is a sight to behold–candles flicker in ornate holders, casting a warm light over the assembled guests.

And there, at the end of the aisle, stands Joesiah. He's resplendent in a suit of deepest black, his dark hair swept back from his forehead.

As I begin my walk down the aisle, I can't help but wonder: If he knew the truth about me, would he still look at me that way? Or would those loving eyes turn cold with fear and betrayal?

The guests watch my progress, their expressions a mix of joy and curiosity. I recognize some faces–friends I've made since moving to this town, clients who swear by my remedies, even a few who've whispered suspicions about the true nature of my concoctions.

The officiant, a tall, austere man in flowing robes, raises his hands for silence. As he begins to speak. The officiant, a tall, skeletal figure in flowing robes, raises his hands for silence. But as the ceremony progresses, a strange unease begins to creep over me. The candles seem to flicker more erratically, and the shadows in the corners of the room appear to grow deeper, more menacing.

Joesiah begins his vows, his voice strong and clear. "Sage, from the moment I met you, I knew you were special. Your brilliance, your compassion, your strength–they've captivated me from the start. I promise to stand by your side through whatever challenges we may face, to support your dreams and share in your joys. I love you, all of you, including–"

He pauses, and in that moment, I feel a chill run down my spine. Something's wrong. The room has gone deathly quiet, the air thick with tension.

Joesiah's grip on my hands tightens, almost painfully. When he speaks again, his voice has changed, become harder, colder. "Including your hexeblood heritage."

A collective gasp runs through the crowd. I feel my blood run cold, my mind reeling in confusion and growing horror.

"W-what?" I stammer, trying to pull my hands away, but Joesiah's grip is like iron.

His eyes, once warm and loving, now burn with a terrible, righteous fury. "Did you think you could hide it forever, Sage? Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

The room erupts into chaos. Guests recoil in fear and disgust, their whispers growing into a roar of condemnation. I see Cora pushing through the crowd, her face a mask of shock and concern.

"Joesiah, please," I beg, my voice barely audible over the growing tumult. "I can explain–"

But there's no chance for an explanation. The doors burst open, and men from our church storm in.

"Seize the witch!" their captain bellows, pointing directly at me.

As rough hands grab me, pulling me away from Joesiah, I can't help but wonder: How did it all go so wrong? And more importantly, what happens now?

The world spins around me, a blur of accusation and betrayal. As I'm dragged towards the doors, I catch one last glimpse of Joesiah. His face is set in stone, eyes cold and unforgiving. In that moment, I realize that the love we shared, the future we planned – it was all built on a foundation of lies.

The ballroom erupts into pandemonium. Guests shriek and scramble away from me as if I'm carrying some contagious disease. Their faces, once smiling and congratulatory, now contort with fear and disgust. I catch glimpses of former friends backing away, hands raised as if to ward off evil.

"Please, listen to me!" I cry out, my voice barely audible over the chaos. "This isn't what you think!"

I struggle against their grip, my mind racing. How did Joesiah find out? How long has he known? The questions swirl in my head, making me dizzy.

"Sage!" Cora's voice cuts through the noise. She's fighting her way towards me, her face a mask of determination. "Let her go, you brutes!"

But it's no use. The guards are too strong, too many. I feel the cold bite of iron shackles around my wrists, and suddenly, it's as if a part of me has been cut off. My connection to my powers, to the very essence of who I am, feels muted and distant.

"No," I whisper, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. "No, no, no..."

They drag me out of the ballroom, my wedding dress catching and tearing on the rough wooden floor. Outside, the sky has darkened, angry storm clouds gathering overhead. A crowd has formed, their faces a blur of anger and fear.

"Witch!" "Hexeblood scum!" "Burn her!"

The shouts assault my ears as I'm roughly pushed to my knees in the center of what was supposed to be the reception area. A group of men in religious robes hurry forward, their faces grave.

"We will hold trial here and now," one of them announces, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd. "The evidence of her witchcraft is clear. We must act swiftly to protect our community."

"This isn't a trial!" I shout, struggling against my bonds. "You can't do this!"

But my protests fall on deaf ears. Father Thomas turns to address the crowd, his voice dripping with righteous fury.

"We have among us a creature of darkness, an unholy witch who has deceived us all. She has used her unholy powers to infiltrate our society, to corrupt the very sanctity of marriage."

Fat droplets of rain begin to fall, quickly turning into a downpour. The crowd doesn't disperse; if anything, they press closer, their eyes gleaming with a fervor that chills me to the bone.

"The penalty for such deception, for the practice of witchcraft, is death," the religious leader continues. "Do you, assembled witnesses, find the accused guilty?"

A resounding chorus of "Guilty!" echoes through the rain-soaked air.

I feel numb, disconnected from my body as the guards haul me to my feet. This can't be happening. It's a nightmare, it has to be. But the rain soaking through my torn wedding dress, the mud squelching beneath my bare feet as they drag me towards the old oak tree at the edge of the property–it's all too real.

"Sage!" Cora's anguished cry reaches me. I turn my head to see her being held back by two men, tears streaming down her face. "Sage, I'm so sorry! I'll find a way to fix this, I swear!"

But we both know there's no fixing this. As they secure the noose around my neck, I can't help but think of all the choices that led me here. Should I have told Joesiah the truth from the start? Would it have made a difference? Or was this always going to be my fate, no matter what I did?

The rain is coming down in sheets now, plastering my hair to my face. I taste salt and realize I'm crying. Through the curtain of rain, I see Joesiah standing at the front of the crowd, his face an unreadable mask.

"Any last words, witch?" the executioner growls.

I open my mouth, but what is there to say? How can I possibly explain or defend myself to people who've already decided I'm a monster? Instead, I close my eyes and reach deep within myself, past the dampening effect of the iron shackles, searching for that core of power that's always been a part of me.

There–a flicker, a spark. I grasp onto it, feeling it grow stronger, hotter. My eyes snap open, and I hear gasps from the crowd. I know what they're seeing: my eyes glowing with an otherworldly light, the sigils on my skin burning bright enough to shine through my sodden dress.

"I am Sage," I say, my voice carrying clearly despite the storm. "I am a hexeblood, an alchemist, a woman who only wanted to love and be loved. Remember that."

The executioner moves to pull the lever, but not before I see a flicker of something–regret? fear?–cross Joesiah's face. Then the world drops away beneath my feet.

For a moment, there's nothing but pain and the roar of blood in my ears. Then, suddenly, a strange calm washes over me. The rain on my face feels cool and soothing. The wind whispers through the leaves of the old oak, almost like it's calling my name.

As my vision begins to darken at the edges, I feel a surge of power unlike anything I've ever experienced. It flows through me, around me, filling the air with crackling energy. The last thing I see before darkness claims me is a bolt of lightning striking the old oak, splitting it down the middle in a shower of sparks and splintered wood.

Then, nothing.