Chapter 25
Pretty Dumb
Brioni
There was finally light. Once Brioni had worked up the courage to shove her head through the stone illusion, she found a small platform beyond the door, stairs that headed downward, and a dim glow at their end.
Brioni always possessed a very specific kind of bravery that stemmed from a brain that rarely stopped long enough to be afraid.
Unfortunately, her mind emptied out just then, and that unique spunk failed her, a cold shiver running up her spine and clamminess coating her palms. But it didn’t matter, not when she thought Ragnar was at the bottom of those stairs.
He might not be, said a little overthinking voice that definitely wasn’t hers in the back of her head. It might just be a spooky basement.
“Oh, shut up,” she whispered, and stepped all the way through the illusion.
Cottages shouldn’t have basements, she decided as she crept down into one.
No place should. They should be illegal.
Maybe attics too. Not lofts though, they can stay, but we definitely need some new rules.
Dim lighting like this shouldn’t be allowed.
If you have to go underground with only one way out, there should be some kind of minimum lantern regulation.
What’s the point of a rudiment department if we don’t even have that?
At least the light was warm, almost like a candle, but it didn’t flicker in the same way.
There was a wall on her left and a single lantern affixed to it, but she would see whatever was spread out to her right soon.
She hunched over carefully, her next step squeaking on the dried-out boards, then came to a stop, waiting for a strange voice to call out and catch her.
A different strange sound came from below, though, a sort of pulsing that pushed on the back of her skull, and she could feel that stormy buzz that always danced around the portal chamber at the post.
Her next step was quiet, more of the basement revealing itself as she ducked her head farther, ever careful and slow until—
“Ragnar!”
Brioni tripped down the rest of the stairs, sight set only on Ragnar’s slumped form as she scrabbled blindly for the railing to stay aloft. The giant gray demon dwarfed the chair he was tied to, head hanging, tail limp.
I’m going to kill whoever did this, that voice in her head said, a total surprise and yet not at all, not when her heart pounded with the relief of finding him and the fear of losing him all at once.
When she finally reached Ragnar, she took his face in her hands and lifted it.
Cold skin met the sweat on her palms, and her heart dropped into her belly.
His eyes were closed, face slack, but he still breathed.
She called his name and clumsily ran hands through his hair, over his horns, across his cheeks, but he barely roused.
He made only a sleepy mumble of a sound, but at least that meant he was alive.
Fine, she would carry him if she had to, lamenting only for the briefest of seconds how big he was.
He was going to be heavy enough on his own, so she at least needed to detach the added weight of the chair.
She moved to the back of it, grunting at the complex knots, but then her gaze fell to the glow beneath him.
Runes were carved into the floorboards just under his involuntary seat. She couldn’t read them, but she knew they were no good, and getting Ragnar away was doubly important. She lifted her head to search for something to cut his binds, but her breath caught on what she found.
Well, if this place didn’t qualify as a spooky basement before, it did now. Sure, it had the damp stone walls, shadowy corners, and ambiguous linen-draped shapes one might expect of any terror-inducing place, but the vaguely medicinal and distinctly sinister set up was an extra horrifying touch.
Two bodies lay on cots beside one another, unmoving but illuminated from below by more runes carved into the floor.
Some kind of magic to keep them immobile, she assumed.
A male demon, green and unfamiliar, was covered only by a linen over his lap, bare chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly slow.
Across from him lay a woman—a human woman—deeply tan, breathing just as slowly, and just as much a stranger as the demon.
New friend? an animalistic part of her brain asked, but then the delusional human part kicked in. Okay, well, what’s two more bodies to carry?
Brioni crept closer to the table littered with tools between the unconscious pair. There were unmarked bottles and spilled ingredients, but also sharpened instruments that Brioni didn’t want to think about too long, especially not the ones with ominous stains.
She swallowed hard, inching close enough to swipe a knife, but froze when she saw the terrible gash on the demon man’s thigh.
He’d been messily stitched up by hands that clearly didn’t care and then carved into again by hands full of malcontent.
She slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming or vomiting—she wasn’t sure which—then snatched the knife and turned.
“You weren’t supposed to come inside.”
The orange demon emerged from beneath the staircase and stepped into the lantern light, also orange, she now realized, though it was hardly a surprise.
Had he been there all along? Was there a secret entry?
Did it even matter when Brioni was the only conscious being suddenly charged with protecting three others from a magic-wielding demon?
“But I should have guessed,” he went on, voice filled with an unnerving humor, “considering you’re so observant.”
Brioni put on her forty-second best smile.
She didn’t mean to pick out one so low on the list, but considering the circumstances, it was quite impressive.
“Oh, I was just making a delivery,” she lied as smooth as Alamar’s porridge.
“But if I’m supposed to go, no worries! I’ll just grab my friends and—”
“Don’t. Move.” The demon’s face fell, severity carved into his shadowy features like the runes in the floorboards.
The step she was taking toward Ragnar’s sleeping form halted. Never had a game ended so quickly, but then there was hardly any point. “What did you do to them?”
“Oh, lots of things. Magical things. Things your pathetic little brain couldn’t even imagine.” He limped under a second lantern, illuminating a black ring around one eye and bruising along his neck, injuries he no doubt got from Ragnar.
Brioni’s eyes watered as they darted over the two figures again, finding more cuts on their skin, then flicked back to Ragnar, still largely unharmed.
Would she and he replace the others? Would they be killed?
How in Heck was she supposed to help them all?
She squeezed her fists and felt the knife’s handle dig into her palm.
Oh, right—I have a weapon.
Brioni shrieked louder than she had ever shrieked in her life. She flew across the basement, knife brandished, body, heart, and soul thrust behind the blade. She swung with abandon at the orange demon, the briefest glimpse of shock painting his face right before the pain.
Her blade caught in the midst of its wild thrashing, and Brioni’s stomach flipped—she’d only ever cut into her food before, and meat didn’t exactly scream in agony.
But then there was a blast of orange so bright she was blinded, and fire burst in her palm.
She could only release the knife or risk losing her hand as she stumbled away and metal clanged across the floor.
Her back slammed not into a wall but something that rattled and gave until she flung her arms out and fell into stillness.
“Oh, you little bitch!”
When Brioni blinked the stars out of her eyes, she saw the blood. There wasn’t nearly enough of it, not after being called that, but when the demon pulled his hand away from the side of his head, oozy blackness was smeared all over his ear and dripping onto his shoulder.
“I did it! I got you!” Brioni clapped then inhaled sharply at the pain still in her palm.
Now she just needed to do that…about seventeen more times, and she might make an actual dent.
But there was no knife to retrieve, just a pile of drayk feathers on the floor where she had dropped it, the sizzle of orange magic wafting away.
Creation and destruction, the other demon at the Scholar’s Hall had said, and so he had taken away her only weapon.
Ragnar made a grunting, angry sound then, his head rolling on his shoulders, but his eyes didn’t open.
Brioni gasped and tried to go to him, but the orange demon swung his arm out. No magic came, but the possibility was enough to stop her. What if he turned her into a pile of feathers? Or Ragnar? Or either of the strangers?
“Okay, okay, I get it. Don’t move,” she said, magicless hands out in defense as she backed up into the looming cabinet once again.
Something inside fell off a shelf and crashed, and then there was another noise from overhead, but the demon shouted over the cacophony, “Be careful you clumsy idiot!” He snatched a stained linen from another worktable and pressed it to his ear to quell the bleeding.
“If you weren’t still useful, I’d slit your throat. ”
Brioni touched her neck and stifled a whimper, voice shaky. “You know, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I mean, clearly you were doing”—she gestured about and shrugged—“some special magic down here, and that’s fine, but I thought I was just delivering love letters.”
“Love letters?” The demon snarled, his disgust plain, but the tiniest bit of intrigue played at the edges of his features—intrigue that Brioni was bound to recognize and latch onto.