by Eve Langlais
A shame. He wouldn’t mind seeing Titus die. The male interfered with Erela. Ingratiated himself to her in a way that roused Desmond’s jealousy. He wanted to kill the vampire, but Erela would be angry.
Which meant biding his time until she lost interest in the vampire. Then he’d do what his ancestors should have done centuries ago. He’d force the vampires to pledge allegiance and form a special legion. Being the only Dark Lord with vampires at his beck and call would raise his prestige. As would the heeling of a certain wolf pack. He’d especially enjoy seeing Logan lick his boots.
Although, he did find himself torn. The werewolf would make a good rug, too. It gave Desmond a perverse pleasure to imagine taking Erela on a floor covering made of Logan’s fur.
But the wolf was another he couldn’t touch. Not yet, which meant he had plenty of aggression and frustration coursing through his veins needing an outlet. And he knew just the thing to fix it.
With Erela safely on her way home, Desmond returned to his own world.
The portal to Ha’el was in a strange place in the Earth city. Inside a sewer, the grate easy to move from use, the putrid smell enough to deter all but the hardiest. It wouldn’t do to have humans accidentally stumbling across the gate. Their military had weapons that could cause an issue.
It was why a pair of demons guarded the gate at all times, and if a human found them…they also tasted good with a pomum in their mouth.
With a gate so easy to use, why didn’t the demons flood Earth with their presence? It was simple survival. Something in the air slowly killed them. They could last a few days, weeks at the most, before dying. Which made Earth a destination to visit only briefly.
The Ifrits didn’t suffer as much as the demons when they traversed, but neither did they like it. The metal all around weakened them, as did the lack of magic. Earth was a world ruled by science and technology. Unlike Ha’el.
The slit through the planes was a smudge of darkness that heated the flesh when touched. Stepping through it brought Desmond to a forgotten wing in his castle. Yes, his.
It used to belong to his father, only his father now resided in a cell courtesy of Desmond. While Erela had yet to finger anyone in blame, Desmond wasted no time.
He knew exactly who to start with. Mammon might have taken credit for his vile actions, yet Desmond knew he wouldn’t have acted without their father’s blessing.
Betrayed by my family.
So, he’d returned the favor and mounted a coup to take the castle.
When Desmond had appeared at the head of an army while his father ate, the old Dark Lord almost shed a tear in pride. His father pushed back from his chair and exclaimed, “About time you tried to depose me.”
The fight didn’t last long. Desmond didn’t want to kill his parent, not yet. So, he’d knocked him out, put him in a cell, and declared himself Lord of Tartarus. His new position meant he spent less time on the mortal plane of late, however. The thing about being a ruler was that it required Desmond to work. For that alone, he almost released his father.
Then he remembered Erela, and his resolve hardened. When she forgave him, he needed a gift for her, and what better gift than the title of lady of the castle.
Perhaps then they’d do something about this derelict wing. Desmond’s nose twitched as his boots stirred the thick dust in the lost hallway. The particles fluttered and hung, heavy motes of memory from a time when his family ruled all of Ha’el.
My ancestors were kings.
But power had a tendency to wane when it got too concentrated. Jealousies flared. Inner strife increased. Looking back at history, Desmond sobered to realize that it wasn’t the enemy that had brought them low, but their own greed.
Now, the Tartarus family was at the bottom of the ladder of power. Something Desmond was determined to change.
Exiting the lost wing—with the ghosts of his ancestors whispering in his ear—Desmond encountered a commotion.
“My lord!” His major-domo—an Ifrit of the lower ranks, barely above a wretched demon—immediately saw him. Desmond’s servant towered over many with his lanky frame and tried to hide it by hunching his shoulders. He bowed his bald and spotted head.
“What is it, Elk?” So named because he sported a mighty rack at every festival, thinking it impressed the females.
It didn’t.
“There are matters that require your attention.”
“I’m busy, Elk.” Desmond strode towards the back of the hall and the heavily barred door with guards in front of it.
“I understand, however, there has been a summons from the King of Ha’el.”
“Beelzebub himself?” That gave Desmond pause. “What does he want?” The Dark Lords governed themselves for the most part. Creating their own laws over their minions. Enforcing them. However, they did have a king meant to unite them all should Ha’el require it.
“Beelzebub claims the Babylonian king is making things difficult.”
“I’ll bet he is,” Desmond muttered. The rumors didn’t just flit around his kingdom about Erela. They’d spread past his borders, too. Gossip claimed he’d fouled the king’s ward. Not that good ol’ king Marduk could use that as an excuse. Erela was Forsaken, a taboo subject.
“The Babylonian king is claiming you sent a legion to attack his walls and is demanding you surrender yourself for punishment.”
“Marduk can impale himself on a spear. Not happening,” Desmond growled. He narrowed his gaze on Elk. “Hold on, don’t tell me Beelzebub actually agrees I should turn myself over.”
Elk twitched and gasped. “Of course not, my lord. Our great, wise king has declared we shall not give in to the sanctimonious pricks and asks how many legions we can muster should it come to war.”
War…something almost unheard of in these days of truces and alliances. It stirred the blood to think of going into a true battle where victory could be achieved. The minor skirmishes he’d indulged in of late had only whetted his appetite.
“How many legions can we put in the field without leaving the castle defenseless?”
Elk didn’t have to refer to anything, he knew the answer. “Quickly? Three legions. If we put out a call to muster, then about twelve. Thirteen, if we pull raw recruits.”
Desmond frowned. “So few?” There was a time Tartarus ruled over a hundred legions. How the mighty had fallen. Still, at last count, they’d managed close to twenty-three. “What happened?”
“We lost some of the troops to other lords.”
Because his father was seen as weak. Blame Mammon for that. The unseemly affection he bore for Mammon’s demon mother meant that he’d let the half-breed live at birth. Desmond should have throttled him in the crib.
Desmond gave Elk his orders. “Apparently, they’ve ignored the news about the change in leadership. I won’t tolerate mutiny. The next demon or Ifrit who flees to join another Dark Lord will be hung outside the castle as an example to other deserters. And that goes for the half-breed djinn, too.”
“Yes, my lord.” Elk beamed in pride. “And what of the Ha’el king? What should we reply?”
“Tell the king we can send fifty.”
Elk gasped. “But, my lord, we don’t even have twenty.”
Desmond grinned. “Don’t panic, Elk. We won’t actually have to send them because I have a plan.”
Desmond would give the tribunal a chance to make things right, to reverse their decision on Erela. If they didn’t…then the secret council would find itself without any members.
Which was when Desmond would step in. Reform the laws. Marry Erela, and then when Marduk died of a heart attack from shock, he’d merge the two kingdoms under his and Erela’s rule.
The ultimate fantasy.
Desmond realized that Elk stared at him, waiting to be dismissed. “How has our prisoner been?”
“Quiet since we gave him books.”
“Books? With pictures?”
At the sarcasm, Elk’s serious mien twitched. “Words, my lo
rd. Histories to be exact. The more ancient we can find, the quieter he gets.”
His father, reading? It boggled the mind and made him wonder exactly what the old fool plotted. Because there was no doubt there was a reason behind this sudden studiousness.
Just like there was a reason behind why Mammon had taken Erela. Desmond didn’t believe Mammon when he’d claimed he did it to hurt Desmond. There existed a problem with his brother’s excuse. Desmond didn’t learn of Mammon’s actions until well after Erela escaped. Meaning there was another reason Erela had been taken, and someone had to know what that was.
Desmond stared upward at the vaulted ceiling of his great hall. As if he could see through stone and into the heart of the Ifrit who might know the answer.
The guards at the doors to the dungeon—heavy metal things that took two men to open—parted to let Desmond through. Ignoring the various tapestries, brightly stitched to depict the various forms of torture practiced over the years, he took the winding stairs upward, two at a time. In Tartarus, the prisoners they kept weren’t buried underground where someone with a rock-eating snake could steal them.
Prisoners were stored in the highest tower, shielded with spells and, as an added layer of protection, guarded against flying menaces by archers. Not that anyone ever tried to rescue someone incarcerated.
When a prisoner was tortured, his screams rang out for leagues around. It acted as an excellent deterrent to crimes.
The heavy door at the top of the stairs boasted another guard, who stepped aside with a bob of his head at Desmond’s approach.
Desmond entered the vast chamber, the light of the magical orbs strewn around enough to illuminate the three cells. Only three, because they didn’t keep prisoners for long.
The center cell showed movement—his father, hair gone the deep auburn of an older lord, face still mostly uncreased. Funny how he seemed larger than ever behind the bars. A man who always barked at his son and never talked gently. Who always expected Desmond to be better than the rest.
Even when Desmond excelled, he never got praise. Except when he tossed his father in a cell and slammed the door shut. Then, for the first time in his life, he heard, “About time you showed some balls.”
Desmond stood in front of the cell, hands clasped behind his back, waiting. It was a trick his father had taught him, one meant to intimidate and gain the upper hand.
Problem with using it against the male who’d taught it was that the silence stretched for a long time.
But Desmond didn’t break it.
A heavy sigh came first. “Could we get started with the torture already? I’m getting bored.”
“Is that why you’ve begun reading?”
“Never too late to educate yourself.”
At the statement, Desmond snorted. “What happened to the only knowledge you need is how to wield your fist?”
“At times, that is the smartest course. But not always.”
A strange admission. “What have you learned?”
“Interesting things. But that’s not why you’re here.”
“Can’t a son visit his father?”
“Cut the shit. I know we received a missive today.”
“Who told you that?”
“No one. I just know things,” was the smug reply.
Casting a glance at the lone window that let in light and air, Desmond smirked. “Saw one of the winged lizards fly by, did you?”
“Not just any lizard. The blue-skinned variety, which means you got a message from the king.”
“I did.” That was all Desmond said, knowing the lack of embellishment would bother his father more than any torture. His father could handle pain, but he didn’t like being in the dark. Couldn’t take not being in control.
“Let me guess,” his father mused aloud. “He demanded you put me back on my throne. Can’t blame him. The Tartarus family must remain strong on the border.”
“Actually, he didn’t inquire about you at all.” Desmond offered a small smile of triumph at his father’s disgruntled mien.
“What did he want then?”
“Nothing that concerns you. Lord business. You know how it is.” The same words his father had recited to him when Desmond confronted him about his role in Mammon’s actions.
“Are you still whining about that female?”
Desmond didn’t whine. He moped and then mounted a coup. “I couldn’t care less.” Such a lie. “However, King Marduk is quite agitated and making demands. Threatening action. Was that your plan all along with Mammon?”
“Never wanted a war with the Babylonians.”
“Says the man who thrives on violence.”
His father shook his head. “Violence against others, elsewhere. We are the borderlands. If we go to war with those sanctimonious bastards, our territory will be the one overrun. Everything around us will become the battlefield. Our crops will burn, our homes will be looted.”
“Assuming we lose.”
His father met his gaze with a steady one. “If Babylonia marches, unless all the forces of Ha’el amass, then our lands will be lost. Even if the king of Ha’el himself brings all the spawns from the pit, we’ll be screwed. It’s been too long, and we’ve been lax.”
“We can draw more legions than you think.”
“Even if we could, we haven’t the resources to handle it. Any helping legions would strip us clean and never pay back a coin.”
Even in a cell, his father knew strategy. So why had Desmond been able to conquer him so easily?
“Well, war might be our only option given you and Mammon took Erela, which started this mess.”
“If we’re going to place blame, then I will note I didn’t take her. I knew nothing about the plan until after it happened.”
“But Mammon told you, and you did nothing.” This much Desmond had already ascertained.
“Told me because he thought I’d reward him for being stupid.”
And this was the part that frustrated Desmond. “If you knew he was making a mistake, then why didn’t you stop him?”
“Because it was already too late.” His father spread his hands wide. “At that point, the best option was to cover it up. But he wouldn’t let me kill her.”
His brother wanted her alive. “Mammon didn’t do this alone. He had to have help.”
“Did he?”
Desmond growled. “We both know he lacked the intelligence to pull this off. And then there’s the fact the tribunal got their hands on her at some point after she escaped.” Because how else had her memories been wiped? Mammon didn’t have the skill to do it.
His father’s gaze took on a thoughtful cast. “Do you know it’s been close to fifty years since the tribunal forsook someone?”
“I am surprised you remember,” was Desmond’s sarcastic retort.
“That serving wench I met at Marduk’s castle should have kept her mouth shut.” But she’d blabbed her sin to another, who in turn tattled.
The wench was forsaken, but instead of remaining on Earth, the plane for the banished, she came looking for the lord she’d bedded. Showed up at the castle doors, or so the stories claimed. Desmond’s mother had been the one to answer.
They said the wench stopped screaming three days before his father returned. But they kept her in the cage at the front of the castle for months. A reminder that there was only one lady who mattered. How Desmond missed his mother. A pity she’d tried to kill his father and failed.
“Forsaking people for having sex is stupid,” Desmond grumbled.
“The laws are there for a reason.”
At the reminder, Desmond rolled his eyes. “Because centuries ago we were almost wiped out, to the point of extinction.” Some sort of viral calamity. The history books were vague on that point. But after it had happened, fear of races dying out, or even getting too diluted, forced the creation of the laws. While visiting and trading was allowed between the planes, mating was not.
“It doesn’t matter if you thi
nk the laws are outdated or foolish. They are in place for a reason, and we must obey!”
“Or else, what? What would really happen if I married Erela? Would the sky suddenly rain down meteors? Would the floods return?”
“Do not jest. In times past, infractions have been punished. And I don’t know why you’re arguing about this now. I think it’s become more than apparent that the female was unfit to rule by your side. Now that you are no longer under her spell, you can find yourself a proper mate and keep the bloodline pure.”
“Pure from what?” Desmond snapped. “Have you truly looked at our lands of late? Perhaps it deserves a better ruling family.”
“If that were the case, then why did you take my place?” His father gripped the bars and smiled. “I know why. Because you’re a sly manipulator like your father. I see what you’re doing. Consolidating your power. Making yourself a lord to be reckoned with.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“It is when your sole goal is to force others to accept your Babylonian whore as your wife.”
“She is not a whore!” Desmond slammed the bars.
“Mammon spread her thighs more times than you ever did, and he wasn’t the only one,” was his father’s cruel taunt. “Do you truly think you’ll ever be able to sink into her sullied hole and not remember those who came before?”
Desmond shut his eyes against his father’s words. Tried to ignore them. But they had a way of worming inside. Of exposing the ugliness within.
“It’s not any worse than the many women I’ve slept with.”
“It’s not the same, and you know it,” hissed his father. “She is unclean. Unworthy.”
At that, Desmond roused himself and roared, “You are unworthy.” He spun and left the room, barking orders as he stomped to the main level. “Have him placed in the cage by the front gates at dawn.”
“My lord—”
He fixed Elk with a gaze to shrivel most men. “Do you disobey me? Perhaps you’d like to join him?”
“As my lord commands.” Elk bobbed and then practically ran off.
The next day, his father said not a word as he walked, head held high, to the cage, a book tucked under his arm.
Several times a day, Desmond found himself staring out a window at him. Hating him. Hating himself. Because once again, poison swept through his mind.