Charms & Demons

by Kim Richardson

  “Where are you taking me?” I was a curious creature. I couldn’t help it. All witches were. How did that saying go? Curiosity killed the witch—and her cat? Yeah, we were always meddling in things that didn’t concern us.

  The minotaur demon’s muzzle clenched, but he said nothing.

  “How come I’m still alive and breathing?” I waited a beat longer. “I’m mortal. I shouldn’t be alive. How is it that I’m still alive?”

  Andromalius shifted his gaze down to me, and for a moment I thought he was going to answer. His yellow eyes blazed, but then he looked away and kept walking.

  “Not much of a talker.” Grimacing, I trudged forward, my hip and shoulder throbbing as another wave of nausea hit me, making me stumble. I caught myself before I fell flat on my face. I refused to show this demon how much pain I was in as I followed him.

  The floor sloped slightly up, where a mound in the cave floor gave rise to an enormous steel door.

  Andromalius pulled open the door and beckoned me to follow.

  So I did.

  With a curious sideways shuffle, I stole a peek behind the giant minotaur’s back, but I saw only darkness and shadow. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I felt it.

  For one breathless moment, I felt as though my entire soul chimed with sound of dark laughter. Demonic magic.

  The air shimmered before me like heat waves. The pull of magic was strong, and it was making me feel even more nauseated.

  When the world stabilized around me, I stood in a ballroom.

  What the hell?

  I stumbled into the massive room that was easily the size of a grand cathedral. Iron chandeliers hung from twenty-foot ceilings held by pillars decorated with paintings, depicting various demons battling winged angels. Orange light fell from overhead, illuminating the polished black floor into a myriad of colors. Iron tables lined the walls, laden with bottles, decanters, chocolates, cakes, and hundreds of different types of hard and chewy candy.

  Across the ballroom, a group of demon musicians with several arms played instruments straight from the dark ages on a dais. The music was dark and medieval, sounding like a close version of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana.

  The air was not better in here, and I tried not to take deep breaths though my lungs needed it.

  The music turned faster, louder, and though I’d grown accustomed to the smell of demonic magic, my nose pricked and burned with the rising tang of sulfur, stronger than I’d ever sensed it.

  The dancers were a spectacle on their own. Poe would have loved to see this.

  Hundreds of demons danced about the room, mid-demons in their humanoid forms by the looks of them. There were no imps or ghouls here, though I couldn’t distinguish any of their features beyond the various masks they wore.

  Couples moved about the ballroom floor in blurs of fancy lace, silk, and shadows of swirling colors. They danced expertly, moving to the rhythm of the dark orchestra.

  Demons had masquerade balls? How twisted was this?

  More disturbing was that none of the dancing demons payed any attention to me, too enthralled in the music and the dancing, as though they were in some kind of trance.

  I didn’t care how pretty and lavish it all was, in a disturbing way. I just wanted to go home and breathe clean air. I wanted to get back to my life, to my world.

  I looked up at Andromalius, and the minotaur demon was still, looking like a statue carved out from Greek mythology.

  “If I had known this was a soirée,” I managed to get out. “I would have worn my dancing shoes.”

  And then the music stopped. So did the dancing.

  Shit.

  My heart did its own beating of music as the ballroom floor dancers parted in unison like a great curtain.

  In the middle of the ballroom floor stood a single female demon.

  She was dressed in a light blue formal ball gown with a wide, floor-skimming skirt that could have fit five demons under it, a robe à la française. It was open at the front and ended in a flowing train. A long neckline and a generous amount of breast spilled from the top of the fitted and jewel-adorned bodice. Her white-colored wig was styled in a pouf, piled a foot over her head in neat tresses and decorated with bows and sparkling jewelry.

  Her skin was paper-white and flawless, as though she’d never seen the sun in a thousand years—very vampiric. Unlike the other dancers, she wasn’t wearing a mask, revealing a thin face with hard edges. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but she wasn’t ugly either.

  If I were to guess, I’d say she was going for a Marie-Antoinette look. Though I doubted the late French Queen would have sported red eyes with that outfit.

  Her blood-red eyes narrowed, and her expression was filled with a stern, almost regal confidence. An amused smile curled her perfect red lips.

  My pulse throbbed. The only thing I knew or could be sure of in this godforsaken place at this very moment was that I was staring at Vorkol, the late Greater demon Vargal’s wife.

  16

  “Move!” With a powerful thrust, Andromalius rammed me in the back, and I pitched forward. Unable to stop my fall, I slammed into the cold hard floor in a jumble of limbs. My chin smacked the cold stone and I tasted blood in my mouth, my bones groaning and barking in pain. Fire blazed across my face and in my limbs. I hurt everywhere.

  Harsh, guttural laughter rose all around me, the sound bouncing off the walls and echoing in my ears, nightmarish and endless. Bastards. Pure hatred filled me, and for a moment it consumed my pain. If only I could use my magic, I’d burn them all.

  “Get up,” growled Andromalius, and a thick hand grabbed me by the arm and hauled me to my feet, sparks dancing in my eyes as I steadied myself.

  “Move,” he said again and pushed me forward. It was a miracle I stayed upright.

  Wincing, I willed my legs forward, moving as fast as I could without breaking into tears. God, it hurt. I didn’t want to add to the already self-satisfied smile on Vorkol’s face. She was enjoying my pain a little too much—and rightly so. I had killed her husband. But, like I said, he’d started it.

  Andromalius’s heavy pace and breathing sounded right behind me. He stood ready to slice my head off at the first sign of trouble, no doubt.

  A smart and sane witch would have been scared shitless. But I was neither. I wasn’t scared. I was angry. Furious. She’d taken me away from my loved ones, my family, my friends, and stuck me in a cage like an animal.

  Gritting my teeth, I raised my chin and stared Vorkol in the eye as I walked towards her. The slight narrowing of her eyes at my defiance almost made me smile. Like hell I’d show her fear. Yes, she might kill me right here in her glorious ballroom, but I wouldn’t die a frightened little witch. I’d die fighting like a dark witch, with everything I had in me. I had more balls than most male dark witches. Bring it on, demon bitch.

  The assembled demons flanked me on either side, still like soldiers from hell. The demons were a silent group, straight in attention of their mistress. That kind of control and power was terrifying, and I was a little envious of her.

  Vorkol was not the Queen of France, but it was obvious she thought she was the queen of something. Great. I’d pissed off some version of the queen of the Netherworld, or something close to it.

  She never moved, except for the small, horrible smile she gave me. She stood and waited as I trudged forward, her demonic magic sizzling in the foul air between us. She had a lot of it. I was envious about that too.

  Finally, I made it to her without falling on my face again. Yay for me. Now that we were a mere six feet apart, she was even skinnier and fouler up close. Her white skin, offset by her ruby eyes and lips, made her even more terrifying. She was scary, but I’d never show it. She wasn’t devastatingly beautiful as some of the vamp females I’d seen in my world, but her eyes held the power of some demoness of darkness and malevolence. I could tell no one screwed with her.

  It was clear she wasn’t the queen of her legion on account of her looks. No,
this female got her power by taking it.

  Vorkol opened her mouth and said, “What’s this? The little bird is out of her cage?” She spoke with a faint accent that was impossible to pinpoint. From her neck hung a long, thin chain—and from it dangled a single, black jewel the size of a golf ball. Like my rings, I could sense the magic pulsing from it. It was a magical artifact, a tool that helped her channel her magic.

  I was glad she was using English and not the old demon languages. My Enochian was rusty. But why even bother? Why hadn’t she killed me already?

  The demoness’ face twisted into an ugly snarl. “How is it that a small, worthless mortal witch, such as yourself, killed Vargal? A Greater demon, the highest commander of the Damnation Army?”

  Shit. Right to the point. When trying to avoid a question, ask another question. “How is it possible that I’m here at all,” I said between coughs, “standing before you, in this place? Andromalius isn’t much of a talker. Something tells me... you are.”

  Her eyes widened, and a sneer marked her features, making her appear false and cold. I braced myself.

  I’m dead.

  “I made sure my higher demons cut you,” said Vorkol, surprising me and enjoying the shock she saw on my face. “The death blade’s poison is enough to get you through the gateway to our realm.” She shrugged. “Eventually you’ll die, but not today. I wanted to see with my own eyes this great witch with immeasurable power.” She cocked a brow. “All I see is a little birdy out of her cage. Small. Insignificant. Mortal.”

  Again her entourage of demons threw back their heads and laughed. It was getting old.

  Subconsciously, I reached behind my back and felt where I’d been stabbed. “So, you wanted me here?” I questioned, my voice bitter. It was getting harder to speak because of the burn in my throat, which was closing up. She either wanted to kill me herself or enjoy seeing me die. It was obvious now.

  Vorkol took a step closer to me, and the scent of rotten onions filled my nose, making my eyes water. “I won’t ask you again,” she ordered, angling her head as though her wig was too heavy for her thin neck. “How did you do it? How did you kill Vargal?”

  Well, I was in a conundrum. If I told her how I did it, she would either kill me or worse, drain me of my power for herself. I couldn’t let that happen. My power would enable her to borrow magic from other demons and gods, bending it to her will and making her into one of the most powerful creatures in the Netherworld.

  The realization dawned on me. That’s why I was here. It’s why she’d had her higher demons drag me here. She wanted to know how I’d done it. How a little ol’ witch like me had killed her precious Vargal.

  No way would I tell her, but if I didn’t say anything, she was going to kill me.

  So, I decided to do what only I could. I was going to fight. I wasn’t a fool. I knew I couldn’t win this fight, not against hundreds of demons. But if I was going down, I would go down fighting.

  Still breathing this acid-like air, I pulled on the power of my rings. A faint tug answered. There was power there, but barely. Hope filled me. I could do this. I would burn the wig off her ugly head, if nothing else.

  Vorkol’s lips parted and her gaze moved to my hands.

  I called to the power of my rings, feeling their warmth and the light tug on my soul as I reached out to them. Raising my hands, I shouted, “Fulgur—”

  Tendrils of darkness slammed into me. The last thing I saw was Vorkol flicking her wrist before my breath whooshed out and I hit the floor. White-hot pain exploded into me as the heat of the demon’s magic burned through me. I screamed and felt as though my soul was trying to burn out from my pores. It was as though Vorkol was pulling it out.

  “Is this it? Is this the extent of your power?” laughed Vorkol. I took a deep breath and regretted it immediately as the acid air scorched my lungs.

  Vorkol let out a short, rough chuckle. “You think you can kill me? You think you can best me with your witch magic? Go on then, little bird. Give it your best shot.”

  The sound of laugher boomed around me, echoing in my ears like the beating of dark drums. Anger swept through me like a fever. I hated demons. Really hated them.

  I lifted my head and stared at her through my eyelashes. “Maybe not. But it was worth a try just to see that look on your face that just maybe... I can kill you.” Yeah. Nice going, Sam.

  Silk and lace rustled as Vorkol leaped towards me, her skirts shifting as they brushed the polished black floors. She bared her teeth, inches from me. Her breath came in a snarl, her red gaze crazed and fevered with savage intent.

  Did she think she could she scare me in that dress? She didn’t.

  Adrenaline shot through me as I pulled on my magic again, knowing what was coming. But I didn’t care. Energy hummed through me as I willed it to come. I was going to let her have it.

  “Feurantis!” I howled as twin balls of fire sprouted in my hands. I flicked them at her.

  Vorkol screamed as sheets of yellow and red flames rose from her dress and reached high above her wig. Her howl, guttural, not human, echoed against the walls and reverberated through me.

  The bitch was burning. Good. I could still fight my way out of this.

  The scent of burnt flesh filled the air around me. I braced myself for the following onslaught of demons, but when I threw my gaze around, they hadn’t even moved. Their eyes were on Vorkol. Even Andromalius was still, the red and orange flames of his mistress burning reflecting in his yellow eyes.

  My heart pounded. This was not good.

  Vorkol screamed one last time. Then through the flames, her eyes opened against the torment just as another sound came from her lips. Laughter.

  With a pop of displaced air, the flames that had been burning her a second ago vanished, revealing the perfectly tailored blue silk and lace dress. There wasn’t a scorch mark on it, or on her.

  Now I was is deep doo-doo.

  The ballroom exploded in loud applause and praises, and the demoness took a bow, as though she’d just finished her performance on stage.

  I clenched my jaw. She’d just played me.

  Vorkol fixed her gaze back on mine, seeing the anger simmering there, and her pale skin darkened.

  The smile she gave me was truly serpentine, and it terrified me.

  “My turn,” she said.

  Oh. Shit. Now I felt fear.

  I had a second of doubt. I could have tried to protect myself, but what was the point.

  She attacked.

  Tendrils of darkness shot from her outstretched hands and ripped into me. The world flipped over, and pain lit through me as the demon’s magic, raw and unfiltered, ripped through my body to my soul and began to consume it. It was hard to explain, but I knew that’s what she was doing. She was eating away at my soul.

  Panic surged and I jerked, instinct moving in as I tried to tap into my rings. The pain was too intense and I lost my focus. I fell to the floor as her demon magic flowed in me. The pain was so powerful, black spots marred my vision.

  I was dying. Or I was about to pass out.

  Laughter reached me and I looked up to find Vorkol standing over me, her eyes wide with excitement and hunger for my soul. I blinked through my tears and saw a thin white veil, like a mist pulling away from my body and into that black jewel around her neck. In my pain, I could see a part of my soul slipping into her, my strength going with it.

  Somehow I knew it wasn’t all of my soul, only part of it. But something was different. I felt weak and feverish like I had the flu. If she kept this up, I was a very dead witch.

  “Tell me how you killed Vargal,” came Vorkol’s voice, “and I’ll make the pain go away.”

  “Bite me, princess,” I wheezed. Yeah, not the smartest thing to say, but she had just stolen a part of my soul.

  The last thing I saw was Vorkol’s face twisting in a grimace before she hit me again with her darkness.

  I tried to move out of the way, but it was too late. The tendri
ls hit and lifted me off the ground, flinging me across the ballroom like a rag doll. I hit a pillar—or at least I think it was a pillar but it could have been a wall—and dropped to the floor. I couldn’t breathe. I slid to the floor in a crumpled pile of limbs, my cheek on the cold stone tile.

  This was not how I planned to spend my night.

  I rolled onto my stomach, clenching in pain. My sight went gray at the pain and I nearly passed out. My face rubbed onto the hard floor as I coughed the acid-like air every time I took a breath.

  Vorkol’s skirts swished as she walked towards me, a collection of rustling fabric whispers, carrying the scent of sulfur and rotten onions. “Tell me!” she howled. Her wig slipped over her brow and she pushed it back. Her red eyes darkened, and my fear slid deeper and twisted in my gut. “Tell me, or I will tear you apart. You can spend eternity down here in your cage, with no arms, no legs, and no soul,” she cried, full of an unsatisfied hunger. Vorkol was a predator. She killed to take what she wanted, but she wouldn’t take me.

  I knew Vorkol would play with me until she ripped me apart and took all of my soul.

  But a faint whisper of self-preservation forced me to turn my head and face her, or maybe I was just crazy and stupid. Perhaps a little bit of both.

  My lips parted, but nothing was coming out. My body shook with pain. My head lolled to the side because I didn’t have the strength to keep it straight. Straining, I tried to spindle the magic from my rings, but I was only an empty shell. The magic I’d felt before was gone, and I didn’t have the energy to will it back.

  Before I knew what was happing, I heard the sharp sound of flesh smacking flesh. When the pain hit, I realized it had been my flesh. My face.

  The world lurched, and I hit the cold polished floors again. A pained sob escaped me as I lay on the floor in a crumpled heap, my breath a whisper and my lungs burning with every intake of air.