19
The crowd roars, and bloody chunks of flesh fly.
Darya strides towards me with large steps, colliding halfway with the furious form of Léthé.
Their words are drowned out by the battle cries erupting from the demons, and war rages for the free meats.
Whatever they may be saying, the mermaid remains Darya’s inferior.
With an offended and angry look, she stares at me when Darya continues approaching me.
Nárs hasn’t moved from my side since then.
Darya takes a knee before me and looks at my shoulder.
Blood still flows, the burning sensation stronger now that the adrenaline has subsided.
“Nárs,” Darya commands, his voice filled with disturbing pleasure. “Give me tendrils.”
I’ve never seen Nárs’s power before. The man with orange hair flicks his wrist, and dark green vines rise from the ground, then clusters of narcissus flowers bloom. Darya tears a green tendril, removes my cramped hand from my shoulder, and binds the wound with the plant. His gaze finds mine.
“I like the way you look,” he remarks, surveying my blood-spattered clothes and smeared makeup.
“You enjoy it when I suffer. When I’m wounded,” I accuse, my voice barely a whisper.
Darya shakes his head. “There’s no point in looking perfect in an imperfect world. If you don’t have, or don’t show your wounds, it’s because you’re hiding them. That’s a lie, and we don’t do that.”
I roll my eyes. Of course. Of course, they don’t lie.
They only butcher children on a fucking stone table!
Did Darya enjoy that, too?
“I can’t see any scar on you either.”
“Oh, but they are spread all over my body,” the Demon King says with a knowing smile. He then leans closer to me, whispering in my ear. “If you want, I’ll show you later.”
Instead of cold, that cursed heat courses through my thighs again; something I only feel in Darya’s presence.
My muscles tense for a different reason than before, and I gulp as the Demon King breathes on my neck.
How can I be attracted to such a monster!
He tore apart a child’s body, after separating him from his mother.
But the child’s gaze… It seemed as if they had never truly been themselves.
Could Darya’s method serve some twisted good?
I gulp as the Kraldem grabs my face. He leans in closer and kisses me softly, licking away the blood from beside my lips.
He closes his eyes as if he’s just taken a drug.
When he opens them, from the cloudy gray gaze, a large, black misty circle forms. I recoil against the backrest of the chair.
The Kraldem’s eyes revert, then he turns to Nárs.
“Good job,” he says, and Nárs bows theatrically. He lifts his nonexistent hat and blows a kiss towards me, then glances sideways towards Kripot before throwing one his way, too. The blue giant tenses up.
The Kraldem stands and walks down the stairs.
I place my finger where he kissed away the blood. I shake my head.
Okay, I tell myself , it continues. Just a few more of these screams, and then…
And what comes after? Just thinking about the few minutes spent with Darya by the tree fills me with desire and curiosity.
Guilt gnaws at my body for realizing how good it feels to be chosen by such a powerful demon. He wants to keep me alive.
He comes up and binds my wound. He desires my body as much as I desire his. I’m not na?ve; I know he needs me for other reasons too, but what’s wrong with that? I need him too… But why?
For his power. Because no one has ever looked at me like this before. He doesn’t blame. Well, he doesn’t know the whole truth about my past, either. I have a feeling that, even if he did, he wouldn’t care. He hurts me. But he also lifts me up. Strengthens me. Holds me in his arms.
I desire him.
Very much.
Almost as much as the drugs.
I bite my lip at the thought. I’m here to open a stupid door for him. In return, I can become stronger, become a beautiful demon. What is wrong with that?
With renewed confidence, I lift my head and look at the king of demons. His muscles tense beneath his tight clothes, and the shimmer of his wings is unmatched by any other subject’s. I glance towards Léthé. To my surprise, our gazes meet.
And I respond to her shocked expression with a wicked smile.
For centuries, he was yours. Now hand him over to me.
The feast is over, and the sturdy door swings open again.
Two guards hold a blond boy in between them.
He’s different from the last, and his bulging blue eyes marvel at the dreadful world around him.
Even if he hadn’t been broken – I don’t yet fully understand what that means – the dark circles would still be under his eyes.
His blond hair is almost white, his pale skin resembling Darya’s.
He seems much younger than the previous victim, but perhaps it was just the determination in the last child’s eyes.
This little boy trembles. Every fiber of him is afraid.
With tear-stained red eyes, he gazes at the row of stairs.
There won’t be any harm. It’s hard, but he’ll endure it, and afterward, he’ll be reborn in his full strength.
Seeing the happy moments after the previous child’s suffering, I truly believe he just needs to get through this. He has no choice. Darya gives no one a choice.
The little boy timidly stumbles toward Darya, and the Kraldem kneels beside him again. He asks his name in demon language, which I can now distinguish from other languages because it pains my heart as the boy speaks.
“Egil.”
Swedish. The child is Swedish. Just like me.
I should run to him and reassure him in his native language that everything will be alright. That he’ll survive. That it’s just a scratch or two, and it’ll be over. But I do nothing.
Darya nods, then asks if he has chosen another name for himself, to which the boy straightens up and looks into the Kraldem’s eyes with surprising determination.
“Goran,” he says, and I bite my lip so hard it almost bleeds. This is also a Swedish name. Maybe his father’s?
The boy’s determination doesn’t last long. The lines on his little face fall like a mask, and he begins to cry. I should go to him and hug him. But I don’t.
Darya looks at him for a moment, as if pondering something.
Eventually, he gestures for the boy to lie down on the table.
He hesitantly climbs up, and before leaning back, his terrified gaze finds mine.
The pain and fear in his eyes penetrate me to my core; I feel him trembling.
I conjure up a gentle, encouraging smile and nod towards him.
In Swedish, I shape silent words on my lips: Everything will be fine .
The boy’s eyes widen. He understands the message, but the fear in his eyes mixes with the colors of hatred and betrayal. He doesn’t trust me, but I do know that everything will be fine.
“Allt kommer att bli bra,” I whisper in Swedish, repeating the reassurance.
The whole cave falls silent. Darya closes his eyes and begins chanting in the ancient language.
Alright, Lotte , I tell myself, you know what’s coming . Darya just needs to make one stab.
Still, as the dagger reaches the boy’s heart, his scream shakes my stomach. Blood spurts from his naked body, staining the marble floor red. The blood will turn soon. It’ll be better soon.
The boy screams and pleads in Swedish. I understand every trembling word as he calls for his mother.
He asks Darya to stop. He then just screams, Please, please .
I can’t do anything but watch as he bleeds out before me.
His agony is mine, his words are my homeland’s.
His suffering leaves such a mark on my soul that I know, even if I can someday escape the nightmares filled with monsters, this sound will haunt me for the rest of my life.
It’ll be over soon. It’ll be fine soon.
I hope for it. And hope has a fiery scent, just like Darya’s.
The dagger is deep in the boy, and he now barely has the strength to scream.
He turns his head to me one last time, staring straight at me.
There’s hatred in his eyes; it sears into me, and I know I’ll never let go of it, whatever happens.
I owe it to him to hate as fiercely as he did in his final moments.
A tear rolls down his cheek, and his eyes become like glass marbles.
“Alright,” I whisper to myself. “Now come back!”
I watch the blood on the ground. It’ll move soon, turn black, and the child will come back to life in his demonic form.
But nothing happens.
I wait. Not just me, everyone does. Even Léthé stares sternly at the spilled blood.
The liquid doesn’t move. I can’t bear it any longer and instinctively jump out of my chair, holding my breath as I watch for it to happen.
Perhaps a little later. Maybe we have to wait.
Every human is different, maybe demons are too. He’s just slower.
But no matter how long I wait, nothing happens. I step down the stairs, not knowing what drives my legs downward. I can’t stop my tears – they burn my face.
This face. Lifeless blue eyes. Just like my brother’s were.
I stop where Kripot is. His features are inscrutable, just like the Demon King’s.
The child doesn’t come back to life.
I tremble, but the hatred the boy handed over to me with the last of his strength doesn’t allow me to collapse. The hatred tears me apart.
I hate myself. I hate Darya so much. I feel like the anger becomes a part of my inner self, and that I can’t live without it anymore. Like I’m burning from within. I would kill.
He was like him.
He was like Bengt.
My stomach tightens. I would kill for the boy. I would kill just for the amusement.
What happens next is even more horrifying.
Darya stands beside the child and plunges his sharp claws into the boy’s chest. He rips out the child’s heart. He bites into the no longer beating, bloody organ. The red liquid drips down his chin like wine.
Heat surges up my legs. It reaches my hands, enveloping my brain.
“No!” I scream, and everyone stares at me. I collapse.
“No, no, no!”
Everything’s a blur. I can barely see, and only the dead boy’s eyes drill into my view.
I’m so hot, I can feel the burning from within.
Kripot tries to pull me up, but suddenly jumps back when my skin burns him.
Nárs tries to hold me, but with a hiss, he also stops, groaning as his flesh is seared.
I sense noise around me. No one knows what’s happening.
The boy was right in front of me, and I didn’t help him. I lied to him that everything would be fine. And he died. Darya killed him. Slaughtered him. And I trusted him. Trusted this monster that everything would get better.
More arms grab me. More palms burn as they try to drag me away.
I just scream, and I’m even hotter. I smell scorched flesh.
In my field of vision, Sylla’s serpentine hair sharpens, but the boy’s face is so deeply imprinted on me that it doesn’t affect me now.
The woman can’t cause me more pain than I already have.
This child was someone’s son.
Someone’s brother.
I scream. As another hand touches my shoulder, an uncontrollable groan breaks from my lungs. Not only do I burn, but I also disintegrate the interfering demon’s skin.
The room seems emptied, and it’s just me here with the little boy lying on the altar, hacked apart.
His eyes are wide open, marveling at the world – at this horrible, messed up place.
Where they killed him. Then he gets up and rushes to me.
His image is so blurred, and I’m screaming so much that I scorch him when he touches me.
He shouldn’t be here. He’s dead. And I didn’t help him.
The blue eyes are so familiar.
Like his.
Darya’s stern face appears before me. He calls Léthé. I hear the sound of rushing water as it pours from the walls. I feel my body cooling down, my strength leaving me. I’m suffocating.
I start to see clearly. The mermaid stretches her two arms out, holding a huge water bubble.
I’m in it. I can’t breathe, but Darya doesn’t say it’s enough, only when I’m almost out of strength.
He gestures, and the mermaid instantly lowers her arms. Within the water bubble, I crash onto the marble stairs.
My skin cools down. I’ve never been this exhausted. I can’t move a finger. I look at the altar.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the little boy. His blue eyes don’t respond.
“Drom sott.”
Sweet dreams.