The Demon King

by Heather Killough-Walden

  The ground beneath his feet shifted slightly, like sand moving on a beach. He turned his head a little and looked down, his grip ever tight on the woman sleeping in his arms. The gray cut stone shimmered as a wave of sparkling magic swept over it. In its wake, the stone had been turned to gold.

  Gold. “Is that gold?” he muttered softly, utterly bewildered.

  “It is, sir. I thought it to be the only material fitting.”

  Laz looked up at Bael, who splayed his hands in obvious hope Laz would agree with the choice. Laz was still too shocked to say anything, however. He looked away, watching the magic wave make its transformative way through the once dingy oubliette. Little by little, each brick, every millimeter of mortar, and every scorch mark, every dingy shadow, every last vestige of somber existence was altered inside and out.

  When it was finished, Lazarus stood in the center of a palatial, sparkling sanctuary replete with canopied king sized bed against one wall, satin sheets, and velvet and leather furniture splayed throughout. The walls were gold. The floor was gold. The ceiling….

  Laz looked up, and his jaw felt loose. “Skylights?” he asked numbly.

  “Yes my lord, but needn’t you worry. Those skylights reveal the night over Dorian 13, a thus far undiscovered planet in the Andromeda galaxy that never sees the sun of its solar system. Undiscovered by mortals, that is.”

  Up above, stars glimmered in constellations he’d never seen before, three moons hovered in the blanket of black at different sizes and colors, and a meteor shower was taking place; shooting stars cascaded across the sky at nearly regular intervals.

  Laz looked back down at the luxury around him. Even the dark, foreboding feeling that should exist in a dungeon was gone. It was a space fitting of a queen.

  So… was he a king fitting of one?

  Laz frowned. The thought had come unbidden, and it was also unwelcome. His jaw set and he focused. He was good at that. Without a word, he moved through the room to the bed, and gently laid Dahlia on top of it. Then he pulled the comforter from one side and folded it over her, tucking it in around her to make sure everything but her head was warm. Once he’d finished, he straightened and found himself staring down at her.

  In sleep, her fury was smoothed out into tranquility. Her beautiful green eyes were shut, and he missed them. But her plump lips hid her fangs, and her long, thick lashes brushed the tops of her cheeks.

  Those cheeks were rather pale.

  “This is Dahlia Kellen, the once traitor who sacrificed herself to help the Unseelie Realm?” asked Bael, who had come to stand beside Laz. Laz turned to regard him, and that’s when he noticed the dog at Bael’s side. The animal looked a little different than it had the last time he’d looked at it. It looked… cleaner.

  “Did you give the dog a bath?” Laz asked incredulously.

  “She needed one, my lord.”

  Laz suddenly found himself wanting to smile. But he also had the beginnings of a headache. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Bael, you gotta stop calling me ‘my lord.’ No more ‘sir’ either. Just Laz will do.”

  “Yes, my lo-,” He stopped mid-sentence and tried again. “Yes, sir –” He realized his mistake and looked flustered and a little desperate.

  “Never mind,” said Laz with a head shake. “Call me whatever makes you comfortable.”

  Bael sighed with relief. “Thank you, my lord.” He cleared his throat and went on, “As I was saying, if this is –”

  “It is,” Laz told him. “What of it?”

  “Well, sir, she’ll need to feed. Shall I have one of my men retrieve a vial or two of Lifeblood for the queen?”

  Laz blinked. He stared at Bael – who stared back, waiting patiently and expectantly. Laz blinked again. He knows everything. It was impossible to get help like that these days. Laz was beginning to realize just how powerful a position Demon King was.

  In answer to Bael’s question, he nodded.

  The dog left Bael’s side and made its way to the bed, where it agilely jumped up on to the foot of the mattress, turned three times in place, and then laid down. It was wearing a collar; Lazarus only now noticed it. Had the dog been wearing one before? He was almost positive it hadn’t.

  He gently lifted the tag dangling from the collar, which was woven out of soft suede. The nametag, a flattened circle of gold, was empty. “I think his name is Bowie.”

  The moment he made the statement, a scrolling script began to appear on the tag. B..o..w..i..e.

  “Of course, my lord. But I do believe the dog is female.”

  Laz dropped the tag and stepped back, looking. Bael was right. “Some detective,” he mocked himself softly. Then he ran a hand through his hair and faced his assistant. Or whatever Bael was supposed to be. “I have to run a few errands,” he said. He wasn’t sure how to tell Bael that he wanted protection for Dahlia. It wasn’t like he wanted someone to come and look in on her every once in a while. It was more like he wanted an army stationed inside her room. And another just outside the door. And another outside the castle – just to be on the safe side.

  “She will be well protected, my lord.” Bael moved forward and placed his hand to his chest, and something in his eyes shifted, taking on a solemn cast. “I assure you.”

  Steven Lazarus had always lived by his instinct. His gut knew, even when his head and heart didn’t. And right now, his gut was telling him that for the time being, Dahlia was safe. “Okay,” he said simply.

  He glanced once more over his shoulder at Dahlia’s resting form. Sleeping made her look harmless, innocent even. Peaceful. But he knew better. There was little peace in the heart of that woman. She was all fire – purple fire. Wild fire. Even at that very moment, her unseen power wrapped around her as surely as did the comforter. It rested, ready and pulsing, a cocoon of protection.

  He smiled. “Tell me about this enemy of my father’s,” he said, and when he turned back to fix Bael with a hard look, his smile slipped away.

  Bael’s chin lifted. “I know little. His name is Apollyon. He is the son of your father’s brother. He is powerful. He wants your father’s crown. Lord Astaroth has been in hiding to protect you and your mother. But he’s somehow learned of you anyway. That is all I know. His father was banished to a distant land before I came into Lord Astaroth’s service. However, the address I gave you….”

  “It belongs to my birth mother.”

  Bael nodded. “Yes. She can tell you more. She knows.”

  “If I can visit her, it doesn’t seem to me she’s very well protected.”

  Bael smiled then, though, and his smile was huge. “My lord, you are the only one who can visit her. Lord Astaroth made certain of that long, long ago.”

  Laz frowned. “How long ago?”

  “Decades.”

  “You mean to tell me that my mother hasn’t had any visitors in decades?”

  “No, that isn’t –” Bael cut himself off and straightened into a better posture, adjusting his tone. “I promise my prince, it is best if she explains it.”

  Laz took a deep breath and sighed. “Would be great if I could transport the way you do,” he muttered, preparing to pull up a transport.

  But just like that, the world blinked away around him, only to reappear an instant later, solid and real and different, leaving him standing stunned and alone in front of that two-story brick house in Boston for the second time.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Some people were hard to kill. He’d heard of ninety-seven year old men who’d existed on bacon and cigarettes pretty much every day of their lives but didn’t die of anything except good old fashioned old age, in their sleep, peacefully as a goddamn rock. But he was willing to bet that even those men would go down if you put a bullet in their brain.

  The same wasn’t so for Lalura Chantelle. The bitch Would. Not. Die.

  And now Steven Lazarus was becoming a pain in his backside too. A portal trap isn’t easy to design, much less cast. It had cost hi
m a pretty penny and a lot of sleepless effort. Only to have the man and his queen fucking vanish from the portal as if they’d slipped sideways into the Twilight Zone.

  He was ready to throw in the towel. When had it come to this? When had he gone from being one of the most powerful kings at the Table to being the errand boy for some sinister force?

  He guessed it was that day the Entity had made his offer. He’d come to him and told him he could see into his future and he would never have his queen, and that there was something better to be had. The traitor hadn’t believed him the first time. Queens seemed to be popping up everywhere like dandelions. But four queens later, he realized the Entity was probably right. For whatever reason, fate had decided to screw him over.

  No matter. What did a queen mean anyway? An end to one-night stands. That’s what they meant. Who the hell cared if he never got a queen? And the offer the Entity had made was too good to pass up.

  But now… he was beginning to have his doubts. Not that he would make that fact known. He just felt it. He’d turned against the men who’d stood by him for hundreds of years. Well, most of them had. Steven Lazarus was brand new. So was the Nightmare King. Brand new to the Table, anyway. One of the kings he’d called a friend was dead. When he stopped to think about it, the Table had been seriously rearranged of late. And now there were women at it. That bothered him too. He didn’t care what any Birkenstock wearing feminist lesbians had to say about it, women didn’t belong at a king’s table. What were they going to do next? Declare a multi-dimensional spa day? Send all the kings out for manicures? Adopt a bunch of puppies and teach all the men how to do laundry?

  Fuck this, he thought as he stood from the leather armchair he’d been resting in and approached the window across the room. The window was stained glass with a circle of clear glass at its center, and it was the highest window in his land, affording him a view of the entire realm. None of the kings who sat at the Table of the Thirteen had ever been to this particular realm – none but him. His people were especially xenophobic, and with every right. His kind had been hunted nearly out of extinction at one point. They’d had to hide for more than a thousand years to get their numbers back up.

  Now they never even copulated outside their species, much less married outside of it. Not that they didn’t copulate. His people were known to keep their beds plenty warm. It was simply done amongst their own kind. Fortunately, their bloodlines were diverse enough that wasn’t a problem. Regardless, none were let in. None were let out. It protected them and kept the bloodlines and magic pure, which maintained their kind at their most potent.

  There were no doubt some humans who would call his realm a dictatorship. After all, there were even those within the realm who weren’t crazy about the way things were run. They felt it old-fashioned, behind the times, and increasingly sexist. Not that it mattered. As long as he was king, nothing would change. He would die before it did.

  And then it wouldn’t matter either. Because he’d be dead. He laughed now, his deep throated chuckle laced with the animalistic magic that declared to the world who and what he was. But as soon as he remembered why he was sitting in that room alone, contemplating things, his laughter slid away and his expression turned dour once more.

  The fucking witch. If he didn’t find a way to end her soon, the importance of his own life would no doubt come into question. That was the price you paid for doing business with the devil.

  He’d tried so hard. He’d even called in seers. They’d told him to track down a woman by the name of Evangeline. When he’d found her, he was greeted with a creature of such arresting, unbelievable beauty, he could scarcely believe her capable of killing someone, especially an old woman. But then he’d entered her circle of power, and he’d realized first impressions could be deceiving. Extremely so.

  He had no idea what Evangeline was. She didn’t even have a last name. She was a white haired beauty with lilac highlights, purple eyes – purple eyes – and a magic unlike any he’d ever before felt. Well, almost unlike any. The Entity felt similar, believe it or not.

  And that was curious.

  If he had more time, he would give it further thought. Getting to the bottom of the riddle that was Evangeline felt like a promising venture. But even Evangeline had failed to destroy Lalura Chantelle, leaving the traitor right back where he’d started, and a few names higher on the Entity’s shit list.

  In the end, he supposed if you wanted to do something right, you had to do it yourself. He was going to have to kill Chantelle. “Fine,” he said softly, to himself and to the silence around him. Then, again, because he needed to hear it one more time, “Fine.”

  *****

  “Vi, have you seen Dahlia?” Poppy asked as she entered the cottage she shared with the other two members of her little coven as well as with Lalura Chantelle, their instructor.

  But it was Evelynne D’Angelo who answered her. “I was just telling Lalura that I haven’t seen her since she left the cave after we had tea three nights ago.”

  Poppy stepped into the cozy, warm interior of the cottage and placed her handbag on the table before beginning to pull off her jacket. “Evie, it’s good to see you,” she greeted the Vampire Queen, who was sitting at the table with Violet. Lalura was close by in a rocking chair. The old witch slowly sipped from a steaming cup of what smelled like fresh hot tea, and Violet was just placing a cork into a vial of purple, glittering liquid.

  Lifeblood, thought Poppy. They were making it for Dahlia.

  “And you,” said Evie with a toothy smile. “I would ask how things are going in the eighth layer of hell, but I’m sure I already know the answer.”

  Poppy smiled back. The Vampire Queen was an author fond of reading mythos and philosophical texts, so she often made references to them. Poppy actually happened to understand this particular one. The eighth layer of hell was supposed to be a ring of ice, frozen and desolate.

  “Absolutely wonderful,” she replied easily, grinning broadly. “How’s things in the ninth?”

  “Ditto,” Evie replied. Then her smile slipped. “But I’m worried about Dahlia.”

  “That’s why you’re here?” Poppy asked, sliding onto a stool across from her.

  Lalura set her tea on the coffee stand beside her, and Poppy got a good look at her. She had never looked older than she did in that moment. There were shadows beneath her very blue eyes that weren’t there the last time she’d seen the old witch. She seemed almost to be hollowing out. As if she were aging on the inside now and not just the outside.

  “What… what do you think?” she asked her instructor respectfully.

  The old woman looked up, pinning her with those blue eyes.

  “She thinks we have bigger fish to fry,” supplied Evie, her tone a touch irritated. Lalura’s eyes shot to her, and though her expression didn’t change, Poppy could almost hear what she was thinking. Evie shrugged as if to say, “What?” and gave her a sheepish look.

  Lalura finally parted her ancient lips and sighed. The sound rattled a little. It had never done that before either. “Dahlia’s business is not ours at the moment. We must prepare.”

  “For what?” Poppy asked.

  “For the traitor,” said Lalura softly.

  “What, him? We can take him,” said Violet, as she poured a few ingredients into a bowl in front of her. “He’s already tried to kill you a gazillion times. He’s obviously not someone to worry about.”

  “Actually…” said Evie thoughtfully, “he himself hasn’t tried to kill her even once.”

  Lalura’s eyes skirted to her again, but this time, the old woman smiled subtly, as if she were proud. “No,” she said in her weathered words. “He hasn’t.”

  “So are you saying that’s what he’s going to do?” asked Poppy.

  “He will reveal himself soon,” said Lalura as she leaned over a little and peered into the bottom of her cup of tea.

  Poppy frowned. “Are you… reading tea leaves?” She’d been doing magi
c for years and she’d never come across any mage doing such a thing. She’d always thought it was an old wives’ tale sort of spiel that belonged more on the Hollywood screen than in real life.

  “No,” said Lalura. “I’m waiting for one of you girls to refill my cup.” She looked up reproachfully, and didn’t move a muscle.

  At once, all three of the others in the room jumped from their seats and scrambled for the teapot. But none of them reached it before the top of the cottage was literally ripped from its hinges and tossed far into the air. Like a black gas, darkness poured into the cottage. Poppy backpedalled, her heart racing, the sound of a tornado like a helicopter in her eardrums.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It looked like smoke, smelled like nothing, and Lalura knew it would sting like a thousand jellyfish tentacles once it touched the skin. It was a nasty spell, but nothing unheard-of. Most warlocks were taught the spell in their first month of training because it was non-lethal. Comparatively speaking, it was like pepper spray rather than a gun.

  What made the difference this time was the wind that was blowing around it. The smoke was untouched by the wind, which whipped through the cabin like an F-3 and was building into something bigger. There was a scent on that wind that hinted of very old magic and fairly new secrets. It was also unique. She recognized it, having scented it just once before.

  The smoke was meant as a disguise. He would use it to make his way into the cabin. The inhabitants would be too busy trying not to die in the sudden, localized tornado to worry about what was moving through the black cloud.

  Lalura heard their voices, Evelynne D’Angelo’s, Poppy’s, and Violet’s. Evie was calling out from further away and up above, no doubt floating or flying or having moved as mist to some safer place outside the cabin. The other two were against the walls of the cabin, and lower down. They were crouching, probably attempting to protect themselves from flying debris. She knew they were trying to find one another, trying to counteract the spell – and trying to find her.