The Demon King

by Cinda Williams Chima

  She’d thought of him often, since her adventure in Southbridge. She’d hoped he’d managed to avoid the Guard. Even wished she could see him again.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead. Murdered in Ragmarket.”

  “What?” She spoke louder than she intended, and he flinched, shushing her. “When? When did this happen?” she demanded, her insides funneling into her toes.

  “Likely it was last night. They found his things this morning on the riverbank.”

  She felt ambushed. Betrayed. It wasn’t possible. “His . . . things. They didn’t find a body?”

  He shook his head. “Just his clothes, and Ragger scarf. Whoever did it must have thrown him in the river.”

  “How did you know the clothes were his, then?”

  “They scratched his name in the mud,” Amon said. “A warning of sorts.”

  Cuffs Alister was dead. Raisa recalled the last time she’d seen him, on a street corner in Ragmarket, his sardonic bow on parting.

  I think you’re a Ragger at heart, he’d said.

  It wasn’t true. He’d been a free spirit, and Raisa was everybody’s prisoner. Was death the price of freedom?

  “You don’t know he’s really dead, then,” she said stubbornly. “If there was no body.”

  “It was . . . there was blood everywhere,” Amon said, glancing around, seeming to realize that this might not be the time or place. “I’m sorry, Raisa, I guess I shouldn’t have said anything, but . . . the good news is, maybe now the killing will stop,” he said. “You see, that same night they found another body. Boy named Shiv Connor, who’s streetlord of the Southies. He’d been tortured and killed, like the rest. We think Cuffs was done in revenge for that.”

  “Or maybe he had nothing to do with it. Maybe the same people that killed this Shiv killed Cuffs. If he’s even dead.” She looked up, hope kindling. “He’s tricky. What if he just wanted us to think he’s dead? The Guard’s been hunting him forever! Maybe he just decided to disappear for a while.”

  Amon didn’t reply, but he wore a pitying expression that infuriated her.

  “Fine!” she said, blinking back the tears that burned in her eyes. “You win. He’s dead. Are you happy?”

  Amon looked as if she’d struck him. “Rai, come on, I never wanted—”

  “I’d better go finish off my dance card,” she said, rising in a rustle of satin. “I’m sure I’m way behind.”

  She pushed blindly through the draperies separating the table from the dance floor and ran right into Micah Bayar.

  He gripped her elbows to keep her from falling. “There you are,” he said. “I was looking for you.” He focused in on her face. “What’s the matter? Are you crying?”

  “Oh,” Raisa said, swiping at her face. “I’m fine. I just ate some hot peppers is all.”

  “Hot peppers?” Micah laughed. “There is danger everywhere tonight. For instance, that Lady Heresford is cold as Harlotsborg at solstice. I tried to steal a kiss, and those guard dogs of hers practically assassinated me.”

  “What about Princess Marina?” Raisa asked, thinking that Tamron’s ways might be more to Micah’s liking. “She’s lovely.”

  Maybe a little too lovely.

  “Right now I want to dance with this princess,” he said, bowing gracefully. “I’ve just escaped from the aunts and grannies. Let’s take advantage, shall we?”

  He led her out onto the dance floor as the orchestra launched into a waltz.

  “Why aren’t you dancing with someone who might do you good?” Raisa whispered as they navigated their first circuit of the ballroom. “Missy Hakkam looks positively sullen over there in the corner. And you know Princess Marina is here for the wooing.”

  All this was true, and yet she had the urge to keep Micah Bayar entirely to herself.

  “You should make the most of your time tonight,” she said dutifully. “This must have cost your parents a fortune.”

  “I am making the most of my time,” he murmured, pulling her in closer than was entirely proper. His fingers burned through the fabric of her dress. Raisa felt dizzy again, as if the wine had gone to her head.

  “Or have you already made your conquests?” she said recklessly. “Any marriage contracts in the offing? Any trysts planned for later on tonight?”

  “There’s only one conquest I want to make,” he said, leaning down and speaking into her ear. “Only one heart I want to win.”

  “Oh, no,” she protested feebly. Don’t waste your time flattering me, she wanted to say, but somehow she couldn’t get the words out. It seemed that her wits had deserted her. So she gave in and rested her head on his chest, hearing his heart thump through the fabric of his coat. Even his scent seemed intoxicating.

  I only had one glass of wine, she thought.

  It seemed whatever she had to say, he had a clever answer. So they danced three more dances, and with each twirl she felt more weightless and insubstantial in his arms, like she was disappearing.

  “Can we . . . can we get something to eat?” she asked, thinking maybe food would help.

  “Of course,” he said, leading her through a maze of black and white fabric to a secluded table. He settled her into a chair, resting his hot hands on her bare shoulders for a long moment.

  He must have left, but she scarcely noticed. Even the music seemed diminished, as if everyone else were far away.

  Then he was back, with plates of food and two more glasses of wine, and she startled awake, although she didn’t think she’d been asleep. He pulled his chair next to hers and sat close, his leg pressing against hers. He draped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her head down on his shoulder, and fed her bits of food with his other hand.

  He raised the glass of wine to her lips, and she tried to say no, but before she knew it, she’d drunk.

  He cupped her chin in his hands and kissed her. And again, longer and sweeter. And again, and her resistance evaporated. He kissed her lips, her chin, her collarbone.

  Wizard kisses, she thought murkily, are dangerous things.

  And now she was kissing him back, snaking her arms around his neck, getting lost, wanting to somehow burrow into him. And he was laughing a little at her enthusiasm, but his breath was coming quicker too, and there were spots of color on his cheeks.

  I don’t care who you are, she thought. I don’t care about who I’m supposed to be. I’m tired of following old rules.

  Micah pushed his chair back and stood. “Come on,” he said, gently lifting her to her feet, steadying her with a hand under her arm. “I know somewhere we can go.”

  She nodded mutely and gripped his one hand with both of hers to keep from swaying. He led her through the maze of silk tents, past candlelit tables and murmured conversations.

  A sound insinuated its way into her clouded mind. A familiar voice, someone calling, as if from far away. “Raisa! Where are you?”

  Micah’s hand tightened on her arm. “Don’t answer him,” he said.

  “But it’s Papa,” she said. “He sounds worried.”

  “He just wants to keep us apart,” Micah said. “They all do. Come on.” He pulled her in the opposite direction. “Let’s go this way.”

  They ran, twisting and turning, toward the side exit, ducking away from Wil Mathis, who was chatting up a girl in the corner, and Mellony, who was edging close to the dessert tray again. It was exciting, like a game of hide-and-seek in dress-up clothes.

  They slipped out into the corridor, and came face-to-face with Amon Byrne, who blocked the way.

  “Oh!” Raisa skidded to a stop in her stocking feet. She seemed to have lost her shoes.

  “You again,” Micah said. “How is it possible you can be everywhere at once?”

  Amon ignored him. “Your father’s looking for you,” he said to Raisa. “Didn’t you hear him calling?”

  “Well, ah . . .” She looked at Micah, somehow at a loss for what to say. “We’re going . . . somewhere else.”

 
“This is none of your business,” Micah said, pulling Raisa forward as if he meant to bull right past Amon. “Out of our way.”

  Amon did not move, but looked from Raisa to Micah, scowling. “What’d you do to her?” he demanded. “She looks like she’s in some kind of trance.”

  Again, Raisa heard her father’s voice. Coming closer. “Raisa!”

  “Lord Demonai!” Amon shouted. “She’s here! In the corridor! With Micah Bayar. Hurry up!”

  “Blood and bones,” Micah swore. “When will you learn to stop meddling? You’ll pay for this.” He let go of Raisa’s hand and chose a pastry from a nearby tray. Then leaned against the wall, waiting.

  And suddenly her father was there, his face like a thundercloud over Hanalea.

  “Ah. Well. I’ll be going, then,” Amon said, edging back toward the ballroom. The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were pleased with himself.

  “You! Stay where you are until I get this sorted out,” Averill said, and Amon froze in place.

  Averill picked Raisa’s wrap up off the floor where it had fallen, and settled it over her shoulders. As he did so, he seemed to fix on Raisa’s necklace. He stared at it for a long moment, then turned back to Micah.

  “What are you two doing back here?” he demanded, glaring at him.

  Micah shrugged and waved the pastry. He was trying to look casual, but his hand was shaking. “I was encouraging the princess to eat something. I think she’s had a bit too much to drink.”

  “Oh, really? Is that what it is?”

  Averill took hold of Raisa’s chin and gazed into her eyes. He looked so peculiar. She laughed, then flinched when he gripped harder.

  “Not so hard,” she complained, wresting herself free. Why was he being like this? “Micah and I were just leaving.”

  “Were you?” Averill suddenly seemed very tall and imposing in his clan robes.

  “I was going to show her the view off the terrace,” Micah said, popping the rest of the pastry into his mouth and licking his fingers. He had powdered sugar on his lips, and Raisa impulsively pulled his head down and kissed it away. His kisses had been sweet-hot already, and who knew how much sweeter they might be now.

  “Raisa,” Micah whispered rather thickly, sliding his arms around her again, ignoring Averill’s glowering expression.

  Micah seemed a little intoxicated himself.

  “Raisa!” Averill pulled her away and pushed her down into a chair. “You’re not yourself. I think it’s time we called for your carriage.”

  “It’s early yet,” Micah said. He cleared his throat, looking from Raisa to Averill, back to Raisa. “Please, Your Highness. Stay a while longer. It’s my name day, after all.”

  “I think not,” Averill said, his voice hard and even. “Go on back to the party, jinxflinger. But first I want to know where you got this.” Averill’s hand closed on Micah’s wrist. He lifted Micah’s hand, displaying an elaborately carved ring set with emeralds and rubies.

  “Let go of me!” Micah struggled to free himself. “It’s none of your business.”

  “It is my business, actually,” Averill said, releasing him. “I’ve seen this design, but only in old manuscripts. It predates the Breaking, and it’s forbidden these days.”

  Micah rubbed his wrist. “Someone sent it. A name day present. I’ve a whole vault full. What’s it to you?”

  Raisa squinted down at it, bleary-eyed. Somehow she hadn’t noticed it before. And now that she looked closer, she saw that it was a ring in the form of a serpent, coiled around Micah’s finger, with rubies for eyes. But there was something familiar about it.

  She reached up and touched her necklace. The gold pendant that rested against her skin matched Micah’s ring. It felt warm to the touch.

  Averill’s eyes flicked between the two pieces of jewelry. “Where did you get the necklace, Raisa?”

  “Hmmm?” For a moment she couldn’t remember. “Oh. It was a gift from the Bayars.”

  Averill gripped the pendant and lifted it away from her chest. Beneath it was a red mark burned into her flesh. A snake’s head.

  With a roar of anger, Averill ripped the necklace away, breaking the clasp and sending bits flying. He flung the jewelry into Micah’s startled face.

  “Just what was it you hoped to accomplish, jinxflinger?” he demanded.

  Micah blinked at him, then glanced down at the necklace on the floor. He looked completely bewildered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Raisa doubled over, pressing her hands to her breast, feeling as if her father had ripped out her heart. “Merciful Maker,” she gasped.

  Averill looked at her, then closed his eyes for a moment as if struggling for composure. He turned back to Micah. “I’m clan, remember? Demonai. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize it?” Averill gripped the front of Micah’s fancy coat and gave him a hard shake. “She’s not for you, do you understand that? That will never happen.”

  Now anger flooded into Micah’s face, replacing bewilderment. “Why not? I’m good enough for the princesses in Tamron.”

  “Then marry one of them,” Averill said.

  “Who said anything about marriage? Micah said, his black eyes glittering. “But, now that you mention it, why can’t we marry if we want? I’m tired of living by stupid rules made a thousand years ago.”

  “You try anything like this again, and the clans will go back to hunting wizards. Starting with you.”

  “They’ve never left off hunting wizards,” Micah said bitterly. “We know what you’re plotting, up in the camps. We know you’re a Demonai warrior. We have spies of our own. As for the necklace”—he nudged it with his foot—“all these tales of evil magical amulets are just that—tales. You Demonais always see a magical conspiracy where there is none.”

  Micah stooped, scooped up the necklace, and put it in his pocket. “Take her home, then. I’m going back to the party.” As he passed Raisa, he leaned down and kissed her lips. Then he looked up and grinned crookedly at Averill. “But I like kissing her, and from what I can tell, she likes it too. Just try to keep us apart.”

  And he was gone.

  Averill stared after him for a long moment. Amon shifted his weight, as if unsure whether to stay or go.

  Raisa’s insides churned. It was as if her body were a battleground, sensations rushing out and rushing in like the surf at Chalk Cliffs. Her lips still tingled from Micah’s kiss, and she wanted to run after him, to tell him she was sorry her father had gone barking mad. She felt dizzy, sick with need. Putting her head between her knees, she breathed deeply, determined not to faint.

  Amon knelt in front of her, gripping her hands in both of his. “Rai . . . Your Highness,” he said, his face drained and pale. “Can I . . . get you anything?”

  She looked up into his face, and he looked wary, yet determined, as though he were afraid she might spit in his face, but willing to take the risk.

  Instead she vomited all over him. And herself.

  Horrified, she tried to apologize, but he looked so solemn and ludicrous with sick in his hair and all over his dress blues, that soon she was laughing. He glared at her, then pulled out a handkerchief and carefully wiped off her face.

  Averill grabbed her wrap out of danger. “Where are your shoes, Raisa?” he asked, glancing about.

  She shook her head helplessly. Now she was crying, big fat tears, shivering uncontrollably. What was wrong with her?

  “Don’t take my shoes,” she said, struggling to rise. “I’ve got to find Micah. I need to . . . tell him something.”

  “Amon,” Averill began, “go tell the queen ...” He took a better look at Amon and reconsidered. “No. I’ll go tell the queen that the princess heir has taken ill. You take Raisa back to Fellsmarch Castle. Don’t let anyone see you. Take her to her rooms and keep her there. No matter what. Don’t take your eyes off her for a moment. Stay there until I come.”

  He turned on his heel and stalked away.

  Amon helped Ra
isa to her feet, but she nearly collapsed again, saved only by his grip on her arm.

  Amon glanced around for witnesses, then whipped a tablecloth off a nearby table, flinging the devil weed and calla lily centerpiece onto the floor. He draped the tablecloth over Raisa, covering her head to toe, then tipped her into his arms.

  “Amon! Put me down!” she protested, struggling feebly, her voice muffled by linen. “I’ve got to . . . I’ve got to go....”

  He put his lips next to her ear, and she could feel his warm breath through the fabric. “Come on, Rai,” he said, desperation edging his voice. “Don’t make this any harder, all right?”

  He carried her through several twists and turns, the light changing as they passed through darkened hallways and brightly lit rooms. Finally, Raisa breathed in the night air and knew they were in the courtyard.

  She recalled Micah’s kisses, his hands on her shoulders, and her heart beat faster. Desire crashed over her again. “No!” She began squirming again. “I’ve got to . . . go back and get my shoes.”

  Amon whistled, and she heard the squeak of carriage wheels coming toward them.

  “Wot you got there, soldier?” the driver asked, laughing. “Souvenir from the party?”

  “My sister,” Amon said, sounding unamused. “She’s not well.”

  Raisa heard laughter. “Care to introduce us, Corporal?” someone shouted.

  “I ...am ...not ...your sister,” Raisa growled. “Why do you keep saying that?” But Amon was wrestling her into the carriage, and she heard the snap of the reins, and they rattled off into the night, farther and farther from Gray Lady and the fascinating Micah Bayar.

  She must have slept, because the next she knew, Amon was clumping up a flight of stairs, still carrying her in his arms.

  He turned and walked a hundred paces down a corridor, then carefully set her down on her feet. He unwound her from her makeshift shroud like a corpse from its wrapping, keeping one hand fastened around her arm. They were standing in front of the door to her room.

  “Let me go!” Raisa said, trying to pull away. “I forgot something. I need to go back to Gray Lady.”

  He pounded on the door. “Open up!”