Chapter 43
Zarathos
Zarathos stood in the small room, staring through the bars out into the arena. Trees covered the area, but they weren’t as numerous as a typical forest. That way, those in the stands could still enjoy their entertainment.
Demons always needed their entertainment.
He tried to shove thoughts of Aryana away—how they’d stood there together at the opening ceremony. Even then, he was already lost to her, though at the time he’d lied to himself, pretending he could resist.
What a fool he’d been, thinking he was capable of loving without ruining it.
She’d finally done what she should have from the start. Escaped the monster.
Escaped him.
He glanced down the row of barred rooms, knowing the other contestants would arrive soon: Xaphoron, Tigon, and Noctyssa. Once, the odds would have been in his favor. He had bargains with both Tigon and Noctyssa—or at least he used to. Now, any of them might be the one to end him.
Was he really any better than the rest?
Did he deserve to win?
Marbas’s words echoed in his mind: Deals or no deals, you’re the best chance we have.
He’d been stripped bare. Every bargain gone, nothing left to shield him. And yet… did that mean he couldn’t honor the promises he’d made? Couldn’t fight for those he vowed to protect?
Would that make him worthy?
Did he desire the crown? Or did he simply not want to die?
It was futile. His weakness had crippled him, revealed parts of him he’d fought to keep hidden, leaving him exposed. Now Aryana was gone, and Zarathos was left to face death alone.
His fists clenched. It didn’t matter what she did to him. He deserved it. And at least Zarathos would die knowing she remained unharmed, far from this killing ground.
The door on the other side of the room opened. Zarathos turned in surprise. Braxia, the leader of the trial council, stepped in and he raised an eyebrow at her.
“Is there something I can do for you?” He failed to hide the hint of sarcasm coloring his voice. His nerves were taut.
She walked up to the bars and looked out over the arena. “You’ve hidden quite a lot from us over the past years, my king.”
“You think it matters? My father understood my nature and yet chose me.”
He was a bastard, and yet, he had chosen Zarathos—someone able to expose his father more than any of his siblings.
“Yes, that may be the most disturbing thing,” Braxia said, her head tilted as she studied him. “And then there was the vampire princess.”
His entire body tensed at her words. “It doesn’t matter. She’s gone.”
“She’s dead?”
Braxia probably had already heard the rumors. “She left.”
“Hmmm, I feared that.”
“And she won’t be returning.”
Her lips pressed in disapproval. “Unless you win the trials.”
Alarm sparked through him, and he shoved aside the fragile hope that sparked inside of him. “No, she won’t.”
She sighed. “So clever, so calculating, and yet, you can’t see what has been building right under your nose for months.” Braxia’s voice turned condescending and she laid her palm on his arm. “I’m afraid the trial council has decided you are unfit to remain our king.”
She reached out with her free hand, and Zarathos felt something jab into the side of his neck. He jerked away, but he was too slow. Braxia held a small needle the size of a toothpick, covered in his blood.
He snarled.
Braxia retreated from the room. “May the best demon win, Zarathos.”
Rage seared his veins, and he lunged toward her, but she exited through the door, a lock twisting before he could reach her. He called for the shadows, but the room spun. He staggered, his thoughts scattering, his connection to the shadows dispersing with them.
The poison was taking effect.
“Welcome to the final round of the Demon Trials. Tonight we will see who is worthy to be our next king. Champions, be aware that flying in this round will have dire consequences.”
The cage door burst open, leaving a clear path into the arena.
The last trial had begun.
I can’t stay here. His breaths came fast, and he stared out into the forest that would no doubt mark his end. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he leaned against the wall with a low moan. Staying in this small room means death.
He pushed himself up and lurched into the arena. At least he might find a space beyond the tree line to hide. He headed for it, but it only appeared more distant—like it had moved. He staggered and dropped to his hands and knees, another moan escaping from him.
“Zarathos.”
He glanced up and a young demon boy stood just before the trees.
It was his friend. His only friend. “Casiel,” Zarathos murmured.
“You’ve betrayed me.” The boy looked at him with such recrimination that Zarathos shrank back.
“I’m sorry. I had no choice. I—my father—”
Hate shone in the boy’s eyes. He opened his mouth and shouted. “You’re a monster!”
Casiel turned and raced into the trees.
Zarathos extended a hand. “No, Casiel. It’s not safe.”
He forced himself to his feet, staggering forward, catching his weight against each tree. Casiel’s image flickered through his mind, steady, loyal, and undeserving of the pain Zarathos had brought him. He had to protect his friend now. It was the only way to begin atoning for the unforgivable.
What kind of creature harms the few who still believe in him?
A monster. A beast.
That was what he was.
Every step forward felt like a lie. No redemption existed for his actions. Only the hollow hope of making sure Casiel didn’t suffer for Zarathos’s sins again.
His foot caught, and he landed again on the mossy earth. When he glanced upward, Casiel had vanished, and Aryana looked down on him with her glittering eyes, like crimson rubies. His beautiful vampress demon queen.
“Aryana, you’ve returned.” Zarathos reached out to her, and she drew closer, her dress billowing around her with each step. She leaned close and ran a sharp finger over his cheek.
“I’m sorry for everything,” he said. “I want to be better… I’ll be better for you…”
She leaned closer, her gaze wide, curious. Her hands came to his shoulder and pushed him onto his back, her eyes sparking with desire. She curled a leg on either side of him, straddling him, and though the world spun, Zarathos would let her. Let her do whatever she intended to him.
“Aryana,” he said again. She was all he wanted. All he’d ever want for the rest of his life.
She pressed a finger to his mouth as if to silence him. Leaning close, her beautiful hair fell in sheets around him as she moved her hand, tracing his lips.
His limbs were heavy and sluggish. Her finger glided along his lips again and again, then slipped inside. It felt sharp, and strangely cottony against his tongue.
Zarathos choked. Something twisted in his mind.
The world flickered—and a monstrous creature straddled his chest. Spindly, black, with eight gleaming eyes and eight twitching legs.
Smaller versions of the beast crawled across his arms and lower limbs, weaving sticky webs that pinned him to the ground.
He roared, but the cotton clogged his mouth, muffling the sound, smothering him.
Sword. He had a sword.
His right arm, the only limb that obeyed, twitched as he fought to reach for it.
And then everything spun. Aryana’s face appeared close and calm, her voice a whisper against the chaos.
“Hold still, Zarathos,” she breathed. “This time, it’s my turn to do what I desire to you.”
He struggled to retain the idea of the sword at his waist, the nasty wet cotton clogging his throat. Aryana leaned forward, her lips parting. Long mandibles protruded from them, dripping with venom.
His fingers moved toward his waist, wet and sticky, fighting the force holding him.
They slipped around the hilt and he grasped it.
With one more thrust, he tore it from its sheath and slammed it forward into the beast on top of him.
Aryana stared at him with horrified, betrayed eyes as he pressed harder, driving the sword into her chest.
The beast reappeared, and he forced the blade deeper into it and it shrieked, falling back. Other little spider-like creatures squealed and rushed around the creature. Zarathos chopped wildly, unable to aim, but forcing them to retreat. He broke through the webbing holding him.
Spitting out the sticky silk stuck to his mouth, he stumbled to his feet. He hurried away from the death trap.
Hallucinations. Zarathos was hallucinating. He attempted to remember why. He pressed a hand to the minor ache on his throat. A pinprick, a consequence. Someone had poisoned him.
Gods, this had spiraled out of control. He had trouble recalling his whereabouts and purpose.
His legs trembled, nearly giving out beneath him.
Up ahead, a large stone boulder jutted from the earth, and Zarathos forced himself through the remaining steps to reach it.
He slumped against the rock, chest heaving, eyes lifting to the enclosed ceiling above.
The sound of rushing gave way to shouts.
Where was the sky?
He closed his eyes, willing focus to return. Cheers. Demons. Trials.
Zarathos was in the midst of the final demon trial.
And he couldn’t think straight.
Pressing his palms to the stone behind him, he fought to slow his racing heart, to anchor himself in the present, to stop the damn forest from spinning like a cursed top.
Then the stone shifted.
A hand burst from it and clamped onto his arm. Horror ripped through him as the world around him flashed—and two furious eyes stared into his, crowned by a triumphant, savage grin.
Tigon, the half-giant.
It was fine. Zarathos had a deal with him. Didn’t he? He had a deal with most champions in this round.
Except Aryana had left him. She’d left him and stripped Zarathos of his power, of his bargains.
The giant held a large spear in his hand, and he shoved it forward. Zarathos’s body jolted, but the weapon didn’t enter. Tigon frowned.