Chapter 16
Slade
The Ninth Court glows like a cathedral carved out of dusk—gold-veined marble, black stone, and drifting motes of starlight that pulse in time with the Realm’s heartbeat.
Piper walks at my side, chin lifted, curls wild, blue eyes flicking everywhere they shouldn’t. She has no idea how many creatures would kill for that glow clinging to her throat. I lean down just enough for my breath to brush her cheek. “Remember what I told you.”
She mutters, “Don’t bow, don’t stare, don’t touch, don’t breathe. Got it.”
I stifle a laugh. “That is not what I said.”
“You said a lot of things very fast.”
I slide my hand to the small of her back—not to steer her. To keep idiots from getting close enough to smell her magic. “You’ll be fine.”
Her scowl says she does not believe me. Fair. She shouldn’t.
A servant stops in front of us, offering a chalice smoking with red mist. Piper reaches for it, and I snatch her wrist before she can touch the stem. “No.”
Her eyes widen. “I was being polite.”
“That is a binding oath. Drink that, and you belong to whoever poured it.”
She yanks her hand back so fast the servant flinches. “Why would ANYONE serve that at a party?!”
I murmur, “Because this is Hell, sweetheart. We don’t host cookie exchanges.”
A noble drifts toward us—tall, obsidian skin dusted with gold, eyes like molten brass.
Piper’s gaze flashes to hers. Full. Direct. Warm. In Hell, that’s practically an invitation.
A beat of silence ripples through the surrounding air. The noble smiles viciously. “How sweet.”
I step between them before Piper realizes she’s made a mistake. “Walk away.”
Her expression sharpens. “I wasn’t addressing you, Athalar.”
“I’m aware, and I don’t care. You can leave now.”
She tilts her head, assessing Piper like a rare gem she’d like to break.
“What are you, little witch? A gift? A promise? A—”
“Enough.” My voice cracks through the air like a blade.
The noble’s grin fades. She backs away with a lingering look at Piper—one I’ll burn out of her skull if she tries it again.
Piper whispers, eyes wide, “Was that—did I—”
“Yes.”
She winces. “Fantastic.”
Then, as if things couldn’t get any more dramatic. A familiar ripple of magic rolls through the ballroom—rich, old, edged in steel.
Draven.
My brother has always been a storm given shape. Dark hair, lighter eyes than mine—winter green instead of forest—and a beard shadow that makes half the Court reconsider their alliances.
He steps through the crowd with a predator’s confidence and a scholar’s precision. I smirk. He always did enjoy an entrance. His gaze locks on Piper first, pupils flaring. Then his eyes dart to me. “Slade,” he drawls, “you’re causing a scene.”
“I’m preventing one.”
“Mmm,” he hums, circling Piper with his gaze the way a hawk circles something shiny. “This is her?”
Piper blinks. “Her who?”
Draven smiles—sharp, lethal, entertained. “Your mate.”
Piper goes bright pink, averting her gaze quickly.
I growl quietly. “Draven.”
He holds up both hands as if innocent. “I’m only observing.”
A rustling of fabric catches my attention. And I realize a noble behind Piper brushes past too close—deliberately. Testing. I grab the back of the noble’s collar and yank him backward. “Try that again,” I murmur, “and I’ll break your fingers.”
He turns pale gray and scurries away.
Piper hisses under her breath, “Is it this dangerous everywhere here?”
“This?” Draven says, gesturing around with mild amusement. “This is the polite part of the evening.”
Piper visibly stops breathing. I step in front of her again, lowering my voice. “You’re safe with me.”
She lifts her chin—a spark of bravery or pure stubbornness. “Good, because I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.”
Draven grins. “Then this will be fun.”
I shoot him a warning look. He only smirks back, delighted.
The Ninth Court fills around us like a storm waiting to break. And Piper Bellamy—glowing, nervous, rebellious—stands at the center of it.
My mate.
Hell help anyone who thinks they can touch her.
***
The banquet hall unfurls before us like a spell cast for spectacle. Obsidian floors polished to liquid shine. Firelight trapped in crystal globes. A long table set with plates that shift colors depending on who looks at them.
Piper inhales softly. I feel the ripple through our bond—curiosity, nerves, and the smallest thread of awe.
Too many people notice. I position myself closer. Just enough to warn the Court… mine.
Draven falls into step beside her because of course he does. “First time at a Hell banquet?” he asks, voice dripping charm.
Piper shoots him a tight smile. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yes,” Draven and I say at the same time.
She rolls her eyes and mutters something about “overgrown demon men and their commentary,” but she walks straighter. Gods, she doesn’t even realize how her determination glows.
We reach the table just as the herald announces the seating. “By decree of the Ninth King,” the herald booms, “Lady Piper Bellamy shall sit at the right hand of Lord Slade Athalar.”
A susurration spreads across the hall. Piper turns her head toward me, whisper-shouting, “I’m a lady now?!”
“No,” I say. “But they’re calling you one so no one attempts to court you.”
Her cheeks flush. Then quieter, “Is that a thing here?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” She swallows, but doesn’t argue. Good. She takes her place beside me. I move her chair in—too close, but I don’t care.
The bond hums with approval, brushing across my ribs like warm static. Draven drops into the seat across from her, smirking. “Try not to say anything idiotic,” I warn him.
“I never do,” he lies.
Piper snorts, rolling her eyes, just as a servant places two glasses before her. One clear, one faintly shimmering with gold.
She reaches for the gold one. I catch her wrist under the table. “Not that.”
She glances at me. “Why?”
“That one reveals your deepest secrets aloud.”
She yanks her hand back and whispers, horrified, “Why is that ON THE TABLE?!”
Draven grins. “Entertainment.”
Piper shoots him a glare that could curdle wine. I feel my mouth twitch again, and fight to keep the smile off my face.
She really is magnificent.
I’m forced to take my eyes off her when I feel the shift ripple across the room.
The hall goes quiet—heavy, reverent, electric—as Lucifer rises from the head of the table.
He lifts his goblet in greeting.
“Welcome, guests of the Ninth.”
Piper, being Piper, lifts her own cup instinctively and chirps, “Um—hi?”
The entire hall freezes. A single fork hits a plate somewhere down the table. Draven chokes. I inhale very, very slowly.
Lucifer’s smile spreads—sharp, delighted, dangerous. “Hello, little Bellamy.”
Piper blanches. “Oh God. I wasn’t supposed—”
“No speaking,” I murmur under my breath.
Her eyes are huge. “You said that too late.”
Lucifer chuckles. “Let her speak, Slade. I find her refreshing.”
Every creature in this room hears his interest. It rolls across the table like a breeze made of knives.
I slide my hand beneath the table until my fingers brush Piper’s knee. Steady. Grounding. Possessive.
Mine.
Lucifer raises a brow, amused at the gesture but not challenging it—for now. “Proceed,” he says, settling again.
Piper sinks two inches in her chair.
Draven leans forward. “I like her,” he whispers to me.
“I’m aware,” I whisper back. “Don’t.”
He smirks. “No promises.”
The first course appears—literally appears—in front of us in a shimmer of smoke and candlelight. Piper’s plate is filled with something golden and delicate. She leans in cautiously. “Is it safe?”
“For you?” Draven says. “Probably.”
She gives him a dry look and lifts her fork anyway. Brave. Foolish. Very Piper. She takes a bite—and her eyes widen.
“Oh my God,” she says, forgetting the rule again. A hundred gazes snap toward her. She claps a hand over her mouth. “I—I mean—your Majesty, sorry, that was—uh—really good—”
Lucifer laughs. Not a polite laugh. A full, delighted, amused sound that ripples like thunder. “Slade,” he says, “your mate is extraordinary.”
I grit my teeth. “I know.”
Piper goes bright crimson. The curse pulses between us—warm, sharp, intimate. My blood heats instantly in response.
Draven watches me like he’s seeing something unfold he’s waited centuries for. “She’s unraveling you,” he murmurs.
I don’t deny it. Because my pulse is loud. My magic is sharper. And Piper—gods, Piper is sitting beside me glowing like she’s the only thing alive in this hall of ancient predators.
And every one of them sees it.
The bond crackles under my skin like a warning—or a promise.
Either way… Tonight will not end peacefully.
***
The Ninth Court’s dinners are never relaxed, but this one feels tight as a drawn bow.
Piper sits beside me, trying very hard to pretend the room full of demons isn’t dissecting every shift of her breath.
The glow of her curse is behaving like flickering candlelight—subtle, unpredictable, catching the attention of anyone who cares to look.
And too many are looking.
She lifts her fork carefully, eyes on her plate, shoulders squared with a kind of determined grace… until a noble three seats down stands and raises his glass.
“Bellamy,” he says, voice smooth and rehearsed, “your ancestor used to open Ninth Court feasts with a verse. A tradition from her line. Perhaps you would honor it.”
Piper freezes. Her fork clinks softly against her plate. I feel the drop in her stomach through the bond before she even looks at me.
“A verse?” she whispers.
The noble smiles in that serpentine way demons have perfected over millennia—courtesy wrapped around hunger. “A simple invocation. A greeting. A phrase carried through your bloodline. It’s customary.”
Lucifer doesn’t intervene. He doesn’t need to—his interest is obvious in the stillness of the room.
Piper sits a little straighter, but her pulse kicks under her skin. She tries to find something—anything—appropriate to say, but the curse reacts to the attention long before she does.
I feel the swell of magic rising through her like a tide, ancient and instinctive. She doesn’t even know she’s doing it. Her lips part. A whisper escapes—quiet, tremulous, but saturated with power. “Veda’ren.”
The entire banquet hall goes still over a single invocation. One spoken like a name and a command, answering itself through five centuries.
The floor responds first. Sigils buried beneath obsidian tiles ignite in a gold-patterned spiral beneath Piper’s feet, rising in delicate lines around the base of her chair like vines made of starlight. Nobles recoil from the table’s edge, their instincts older than their manners.
Piper startles and grips the table with both hands. “Slade—”
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, placing a grounding hand at her spine as the air vibrates with pressure. “Just breathe.”
But the invocation is already unfurling, pulling threads older than memory straight through her skin. Draven, two seats down, pushes back from the table and circles behind us. “You didn’t tell me she was carrying a Bellamy Memoriam,” he mutters.
“She isn’t,” I snap.
“She is now.”
Piper looks between us, terrified. “What’s happening?”
Before I can answer, the air above her begins to condense—mist, light, shadow, memory—forming the faint outline of a woman wrapped in winter-pale garments and moonlit authority.
Not alive. Not dead. A record with its own heartbeat.
Veda Bellamy’s echo lifts its head. Nobles stiffen. A few rise from their chairs. One whispers a prayer to a deity that hasn’t answered in ages. And the apparition speaks directly to Piper, “Find my grimoire.”
The words ripple through the hall—soft but sharp enough to cut the silence into clean ribbons.
Piper flinches like she’s been struck. I feel the echo hit her through the bond—cold, bright, demanding.
Draven moves too close. “We need to break the line before someone binds it—”
The magic reacts badly to his interference. A blast of energy cracks across the table, toppling goblets, extinguishing the floating candles overhead, sending several nobles reeling backward. Piper cries out and presses her palms to her ears as the chandelier above swings in a violent arc.
Draven curses under his breath and jumps back, shaking his hand. “That’s not an invocation. That’s a call-through. She opened a channel.”
Piper gasps, trembling. “I didn’t mean to.”
“It wasn’t choice,” I murmur, cupping her jaw to turn her face toward mine. “The curse used your voice.”
The silhouette flickers once, twice—then dissolves into a shower of fading gold. She sags forward, panting. Around us, the nobles are already recalculating. The dangerous ones inch closer, sensing opportunity.
Lucifer doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak, or even fucking blink. He simply watches.
Draven leans close and murmurs, “We need an exit. Now.”
He’s right. I rise smoothly from my chair and place a steadying hand at Piper’s back. “We’re leaving,” I say.
She nods, dazed, gripping my sleeve.
Draven gives a sharp grin—half apology, half enjoyment—and raises his hand. Blue fire erupts along the far wall, dramatic and harmless but enough to send half the court gasping and recoiling. It’s all the distraction we need.
I guide Piper out of her chair and toward the side corridor. The chandelier steadies above us, the plates settle, the room stirs and recovers. But Piper doesn’t. She looks up at me, eyes wide, voice barely audible. “Slade… what did I just do?”
“Not… what,” I say quietly as the corridor swallows us in deeper shadow. “Who.”
Her breath shivers.
And I tell her the truth she already fears. “You answered the first Bellamy.”