Chapter 1 The Fool
THE FOOL
Ozirax
Ozirax would have preferred camping off the carved ways in the Dreadmoor than spend another minute in the stifling infirmary. Yet here he was, conducting debriefs and assigning watches over the humans who were still unconscious.
Including the spicy one.
He tried not to think of her, which had worked for all of five minutes as he was distracted by another human—the smart one, Rosalind.
This one hadn’t nearly decapitated herself on his sickle before trying to take a swing at him.
This human hadn’t been a fool, except for partnering with Argeth in the human-demon work sponsorship.
One conversation and Ozirax could already tell she was much too clever for the councilor.
And really, Oz was only distracted because this walking, talking one was so tiny. Tiny, like most humans should be.
But not her.
Not the nameless woman—with her bruised eye and split lip and numerous other injuries hiding under her shift—thinking in her drugged state she could land a hit on him.
As if years of training and a position in the best-trained squadron in Heck hadn’t allowed him to stop his weapon before learning what cargo those deplorable humans were carrying.
More humans, still disgusting, but not deplorable like slavers or sorcerers.
Except the murderer.
And the spicy one.
Fuck, he was thinking of her again. Hadn’t really stopped, if he was being honest with himself, which only added to the headache brewing behind his left eye.
“Ozirax?”
He blinked and pulled his stare away from the wide-eyed human hiding behind the demon. “Yes, Councilor Argeth?”
“I offered my congratulations. With… well, with Severath’s unfortunate accident, it seems you are likely the top candidate for promotion under Harrox. Particularly with your quick action under pressure regarding the slavers.”
Despite the twist of discomfort in his gut, Ozirax didn’t flinch as he changed the subject. “Please inform Tonomoch that I will be awaiting him for debrief.”
He didn’t wait for confirmation, though he did hear Rosalind’s terrified exhale after he spun on his heel to leave.
Ozirax found himself alone in front of the interrog—no, they weren’t interrogation rooms. Just empty offices in the infirmary being used to interview sponsors for the new humans.
Which one of them would be charged with the spicy one?
He snarled into the empty space, the bony spikes along his forearms standing up like they sensed a threat.
But the threat was still unconscious—drugged worse than the other women, according to Kizros.
Likely because of her size and temperament, also according to Kizros, but Ozirax could have deduced that.
Stupid warrior brute. The words rankled deep enough even the spikes along his spine pressed against the armor he wore, desperate to flare and prove his strength and intelligence. Who else was a top candidate for a promotion only considered for the strongest and smartest?
Who else only entered the running because Severath’s accident conveniently left a gaping hole for Ozirax to step into?
At least his father would be proud.
Despite the snarl still curling his lips, he managed to ease his body’s defenses until they were smooth against his skin again. He would sort his thoughts later, in the privacy of his room at the barracks.
Maybe.
Probably not.
He had to stop thinking about the spicy human first. Or the other humans he’d brought into his home, endangering their peaceful society.
Things would be different when he finally had the chance to return to the barracks.
Severath didn’t live there any longer, but the rest of his squadron did.
Ozirax had debriefed most of them and sent them back to their homes once it was clear they weren’t needed.
By now, they were surely fending off questions from the other squadrons about the slaughter and the humans they’d brought back, but also about Sev’s injuries.
The injuries that had Ozirax lingering in the infirmary giving orders instead of the red demon. Their real leader.
Maybe after all these years of competition, Ozirax had entertained some delight at getting his chance at leadership. At least until he’d discovered just how Severath’s broken horn and mangled eye had come to be.
Fucking human sorcery.
Now, that guilt ate at him. He’d ignored Severath’s barb in the Dreadmoor at suggesting they finish the slaver’s jobs, carting the women to their intended destination instead of bringing them to Heck.
He understood the real source of the red demon’s fury in that moment.
And perhaps Ozirax’s words at the first cooling dip of his own bloodlust had deserved the insult from their leader.
Not that he’d ever admit it beyond his own thoughts.
But days later, after he spent his nights trading watch with Tonomoch and Garion, he could only feel that pit of uncertainty grow.
Now, he was out of excuses. Out of reasons to avoid those unfinished papers sitting on his desk.
Ozirax flexed his hands, turning over his wrist to inspect the black ink against his dark purple skin. The first rune he’d created to hone his skills lined the crease of his wrist, meant to sharpen his already heightened magic. Intentionally placed to be nearly invisible.
“Didn’t think I raised a cheater,” his father had first said of it, dropping Ozirax from where he’d been yanked out of his dinner seat. “Do you think Severath takes shortcuts like this?”
Never mind that he’d created the rune out of nothing, inked it himself with a pattern no other demon could replicate.
Perfect memorization of the star charts, and a magic never before attempted.
The moment it had been cast, he’d felt the first sense of calm in his body in years.
A quelling of the rage and agility magic passed on by his parents that was wreaking havoc on his growing body.
But, yes. He was cheating.
Still cheating, since the rest of his tattoos were runes of his own making alongside ink to celebrate the beasts he killed in the surrounding woods. A secret he would take to his grave out in the Dreadmoor when his recklessness finally got him killed or a rune he tested finally failed on him.
But the rune right there, the very first, was the reason the spicy woman was simply unconscious, not headless. Rand was skilled, but not so skilled to reattach limbs. Or heads. Or horns—at least, the ones not destroyed by sorcery that would grow back.
Ozirax studied the gaps between black ink, wondering what rune he might add to celebrate the defeat of those slavers.
Slaughtering men that even the humans considered scum wasn’t all that impressive, nor was the decision to bring six human women inside the wards of their city to save them, but even small ink could be powerful.
A vine, perhaps, one to hone his divination so he could better prepare for the strange happenings in the Dreadmoor.
“Ozirax!”
He dropped his arm and turned in time to see Garion skid around the corner.
The very last demon he wanted to see right now, which was saying something when his father existed.
The scaly blue demon’s eyes were wide, powerful tail flicking for balance as he halted a step from Ozirax.
“Stepped away for just a minute,” Garion started, then frowned at the sickle Ozirax had drawn. “Okay, don’t think you need that.”
“What is it?” Ozirax growled. “Why did you leave your post?”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal. Took a piss. No more than a minute, but the door was open when I got back—”
“Fucking imbecile, where is she?” He shoved past the blue demon, heading toward the room where the spicy human was meant to be unconscious.
“I tracked her this way, but her movements are erratic.”
No fucking shit they were erratic—she was a feral human who had just woken up from a multiday sorcery-induced coma.
Ozirax turned the corner and sniffed, then headed down the next corridor. Her scent lingered, but it bounced from wall to wall, like she’d stumbled and braced herself as she plowed on. Searching for… what?
Likely an escape, just as the murderer had tried in the Dreadmoor.
Ideally, catching her inside an infirmary wouldn’t result in the same trauma Severath had suffered, but he’d seen the fury on her battered face and knew the lengths she would go for survival. In that moment she’d faced him, he’d seen something deeper within that had called to him—
No. He was not relating to a human.
Absolutely not.
Never.
Down the hall, a mass of gold and gleaming weapons came into view. Tonomoch. He briefly met Ozirax’s gaze, cocking his head like he always did when Ozirax was projecting his emotions too loudly.
But before he could silence his mind, a blur of dark fabric and bland-colored skin charged into the open space.
Spicy.
The human leaped, a feral screech bursting from her throat, and Tonomoch didn’t have time to defend against her.
Ozirax froze midstep as she collided with the gold demon…
And took him to the ground.
Ozirax heard the impact of Tonomoch’s skull and was unsurprised to see the gold demon rendered unconscious with the blow. It was, however, a shockingly precise strike from a woman who had lethargically stumbled through the hallways to get here.
He refused to be impressed.
She snarled at the gold demon, blunt teeth bared like that was threatening, before whipping her head up. She narrowed her gaze down the hall in the opposite direction of him, and it was easy to assume she’d spotted a new target, but Ozirax wasn’t going to give her the chance to follow through.
He tossed his sickle aside, not willing to give her such easy access to his deadliest weapon, and was on her before she could stand.
Ozirax’s leap was much more coordinated than hers as he tackled her off his warrior. Despite knowing her size, the impact was surprisingly solid. Surprising, considering her wobbly condition.