Chapter 3
CASSIA
The man standing before her was a study in contradictions.
At first glance, he didn’t look like the rest of them.
If he was a demon, he had no horns or markings, no Daemaric blue draped across his frame.
Instead, his tall, broad form was wrapped in shadows—charcoal and ink-black layers, precisely cut but free of excess.
Tailored restraint that suggested wealth without announcing it.
His fingers curled around her wrist, a firm but careful grip. Her other hand clutched her bakery box closer to her chest.
“You are in the heart of the Demon District,” he murmured.
His voice was low and unhurried, with a richness that reminded her, absurdly, of dark honey dripping off a spoon.
“This area is teeming with law enforcers. Your magic will draw attention, and subsequent penalty. How much do you imagine a Nightwatch patrol will enjoy hauling an Untethered into custody for breaking the law?”
Cassia swallowed hard. The air around her still hummed with the remnants of her gathering power, but with this stranger’s hand around her wrist, she hesitated. He wasn’t human—that much she knew. She’d wager he was a demon.
But . . . what kind?
Her mind raced, scrambling to place him. Every Meredithian child learned the five demon archetypes: Furia, the Rage-Brutes; Therian, the Beast-Shifters; Amoret, the Desire-Weavers; Sanguine, the Bone-Feeders. But none of them seemed to fit.
Which left only one: Nocturne—the Shadow-Strikers.
She didn’t have time to dwell on it. She pulled against his grip, her voice sharp. “I need to teach them a lesson.”
A flicker of recognition crossed his eyes. “Understood. Allow me.”
He released her and turned to stare at the group of drunken demons who had frozen in uncertainty the moment he’d arrived. The shadows at his feet stirred, a solidifying, obedient presence.
A Nocturne. Her theory confirmed, a fresh chill seized her.
She watched as the shadows deepened, coalescing into something solid that flowed out from him like a spill of ink.
The gas lamps flickered and dimmed, the light itself seeming to bend away from his form.
A wave of pure, intimidating authority, cold and silent as a midnight eclipse, washed over the group.
Colour drained from their faces.
“Forgive us,” the leader stammered, the words a choked whisper. “We didn’t . . . We didn’t know—”
“Now you do,” the Nocturne said, his voice flat. The creeping shadows snapped back to their natural places as though they had never moved. It took only a second, one blink of an eye, so fast the revelry around them didn’t even pause. The gas lamps brightened, and the oppressive chill vanished.
Her demon assailers scattered, running toward the direction of the garden.
Cassia exhaled slowly, her gaze settling on the Nocturne.
His short black hair was tousled, but not with the carelessness of a man who let the wind decide his appearance.
It looked like it had been combed once and then abandoned to its own devices, settling into a state that was neither strictly formal nor truly unruly.
Something about him shimmered at the edges—a faint, almost imperceptible haze, the way heat rises off summer cobblestones.
A glamour, hiding his true self beneath the skin he chose to show the world.
Then, there were his eyes. A dull gold, like a coin worn smooth by time. They flicked over her, unreadable and watchful.
An Echelon-rank—she was certain of it. He carried himself like someone who didn’t need to remind others of his place—who knew, without question, that he belonged wherever he chose to stand.
He also looked somewhat . . . familiar. Didn’t she see him earlier, standing beside Agmon Alderrath?
Her eyes narrowed. “Did you follow me all the way from The Ivory Club?”
He offered a languid smile. “You made quite the entrance. How could I possibly resist?”
She took a step back. He didn’t radiate the same predatory energy as the pack of young demons from earlier, but if he kept company with Agmon Alderrath, he wasn’t someone she could trust.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mister—” She paused, her eyes meeting his again. “How may I address you?”
“I am Varil Arkenoth,” he said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Aura Cassia.”
Varil Arkenoth. The name clicked into place, and the world tilted slightly.
The Varil Arkenoth? The Reluctant Heir? The Idle Prince who’d spurned his seat on the Regency Council and left his father, the Daemar, to shoulder the weight of their house alone?
The gossip pages painted him as a disappointment—‘cunning when it suits him, absent when it matters.’ They made him out to be a recluse who shunned the excesses of demon society, rarely appearing at the endless soirées and highborn gatherings that lit up Angelene’s Demon District each evening.
They said, unlike his peers, he didn’t bask in frivolity or political attention.
He simply stayed away, leaving them all to speculate.
“So,” she said, her voice tight. “The Idle Prince does leave his castle.”
His mouth quirked, a flash of dry amusement in his ancient-coin eyes. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin the mystique.”
She didn’t know what to believe. He could have walked on, but he’d scattered her harassers with a single look that was neither absent nor idle. Even now, the weight of his gaze made every hair on her arms rise.
“Would you care for some tea?” He glanced at her clenched hands, and one dark brow lifted. “Or something stronger, perhaps?”
Varil Arkenoth had just asked her to tea, or something stronger. Her mind couldn’t compute the invitation. She flexed her wrist. His grip hadn’t at all been rough, but she needed time to think, to regain her footing in a conversation that already felt dangerously off balance.
Cassia slipped her hand into her coat pocket, one foot angling toward the direction of the train station. If she hurried, she could catch the eight o’clock train to go home to Little Mineola. “I should be going.”
He didn’t take his eyes off her. “Are you not the least bit interested in what I have to say?”
His deep, rich voice made her want to lean in and step back at the same time. “What could you possibly say that would interest me?”
“I have a proposition that could benefit us both.”
A proposition?
Her pulse gave a slow, wary beat. “I have been warned,” she said carefully, “never to bargain with a demon.”
Amusement flickered across his face, and for a moment, she thought he might actually smile. He tilted his head, raven-dark locks catching the streetlight, glinting almost copper at the edges.
“You’d be missing plenty of opportunities if you heeded that warning.”
She shot back, “But I wouldn’t spend my days regretting my decisions.”
This time, the corners of his lips twitched. “The key to dealing with a demon is knowing precisely what you wish for, and how much you’re willing to give up.”
Cassia resisted the urge to scoff. Whatever he intended to offer, the price would most likely be steeper than she could afford.
He cocked his head. “It’s only tea and a little conversation.”
Under her breath, she retorted, “Obviously you don’t know how much chaos can come from tea and a little conversation.”
She blinked when he laughed—a low, resonant chuckle that sent a shiver from the base of her spine to her nape.
“Come,” Arkenoth said, inclining his head toward a teahouse at the end of the street, its bright interior a stark contrast to the dark, fire-lit establishments of the Demon District. A gilded sign hung above the entrance, its delicate script reading ‘The Gilded Lily.’
“Allow me ten minutes to explain my proposition,” Arkenoth continued, voice silky as a spider’s web. “If you do not like it, we will part ways, and I will not disrupt your evening again.”
Cassia hesitated, fingers tightening around her bakery box. Every instinct screamed at her to refuse—to turn on her heel, march to the train station, and leave this entire evening behind.
Yet . . .
A proposition. One that might benefit them both.
And tea.
And possibly . . . cakes?
Her stomach gave a traitorous growl at the prospect. She’d been so focused on her mission that she’d missed dinner.
She sighed and met his gaze. “Fine. But if I don’t like what you have to say, I’m leaving.”
Arkenoth’s lips curved in a faint, knowing smile, as if she had given him the only answer he expected.
They strolled together to the teahouse. He stepped ahead to open the door for her. Cassia hesitated for only a moment before sweeping past him.
The scent of bergamot, orange blossom, and spice greeted her.
Inside, the teahouse gleamed with understated opulence: tall arched windows, white marble counters, crystal chandeliers.
Glass cases displayed delicate pastries, their sugared surfaces glistening.
White marble tables lined the perimeter, each adorned with fresh-cut flowers.
It was refinement and indulgence—a world away from her bakery’s rustic charm.
They took a table by the window. Outside, the Yulefrost revelry of the Four Factions continued—laughter, distant music, and the occasional burst of celebratory fireworks punctuating the winter air.
Cassia ordered a pot of spiced black tea and a slice of angel sponge cake, light as air, soaked in orange liqueur and layered with vanilla bean cream. A dessert that felt almost too decadent for the circumstances, but after the evening she’d had, why deny herself the comfort?
But the demon ordered nothing but hot water with a slice of lemon.
No tea. No cake.
When their orders were brought to their table, she asked, “You don’t take tea? Coffee?”
“Caffeine has the strangest effect on me.”
Cassia lifted her cup, inhaling the warm, spiced aroma. “Stranger than a demon ordering plain hot water at an establishment like this?”
The corner of his mouth tilted, but he let the remark slide. Instead, he regarded her thoughtfully. “Are you aware of the significance of Yulefrost to Nocturne Demons, Miss Aura?”