by Sally Slater
He could still hear them in the dark. The screams had faded away till just one remained, and eventually it, too, stopped. The stomp and shuffle of heavy, clawed feet sent vibrations through the walls and floors. Something shattered—glass, by the tinkling sound of it.
“Tristan!” A voice pulled him from far away. “Tristan!”
He took in his surroundings, noting the broken furniture in the front hall and the long dead flowers still in their vase. He made a rueful face. “At least I managed to stay upright this time.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Sam said, his expression pinched with worry.
“Perhaps I have.” He steeled his nerves. “I’ll show you to your bedrooms.”
He led them to the second floor and opened the door to the first bedroom. Sam threw himself backward onto the four-poster bed—Danny’s bed, and for one month, Maira’s, too.
“Amazing,” Sam sighed. “I haven’t slept in a real bed in forever.”
Tristan’s brother had died in that bed, and his blood still stained the mahogany panels. The sheets had been replaced with fresh ones, though, Tristan had seen to that. He had cleaned everything before he left, scrubbed the floors and walls till his hands blistered and bled.
“Your childhood home is really nice, Tristan,” Sam said. “And here I thought you’d grown up a farmer, like Sander.”
Life would have been a lot less complicated if he’d been a farmer’s son. “My father was Lord of the Manor.”
Sam located a pillow and fluffed it behind him, sending a layer of dust into the air. “So we should be calling you Lord Lyons.”
Tristan shook his head. “My brother would have taken over Father’s title, had he lived. And there’s nothing here left to lord over.”
Sam’s face fell. “I didn’t know your brother died. I’m sorry.”
Not just his brother; his brother’s wife and his parents too. All of Finchold had perished in a single night. Except him. “It was a long time ago.” It felt like yesterday.
Tristan tossed the boy a sword. “Sleep with this tonight, and be on guard. Braeden will be in the bedroom beside you and I’ll be right down the hall.”
“I’ll be fine,” Sam said, balancing the sword on the bed table beside him. “Goodnight.”
Tristan showed Braeden to his room, what had been Tristan’s old bedroom, and took the master bedroom for himself and Sander. “You can have the bed,” he told the Uriel. He wasn’t being kind; he just couldn’t sleep in that bed. He wouldn’t sleep anywhere underneath this roof. If demons attacked again, this time he’d be ready for them.
“I don’t suppose you’d untie my wrists, too?” Sander asked.
“Not a chance.”
Sander sat down on the edge of the bed. “It was worth a shot.” After a pause, he asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“About what?”
“Whatever it is that happened in this house. I know the look of a haunted man.”
Tristan leaned against the doorframe. “I’ll pass.”
“The telling of it releases the toxin, you know. I won’t think you weaker for it,” Sander said.
Tristan’s temper rose. Who was this man to lend his ear without his asking? Perhaps Sander had never been a prisoner before, and Tristan had certainly never before taken one, but he was damned well sure this charade of compassion was not the norm. “Why should I want to talk to you about it?”
“I think I’m more likely than most to understand,” Sander said. “I left the home my wife and I shared because I couldn’t bear to be in it without her. My daughter visits sometimes, to pay her respects, but I haven’t gone back since she died.”
Tristan sank onto the carpeted floor, his legs suddenly tired. “Look, I know your wife meant a lot to you—”
Sander’s eyes grew fierce. “She was my world, Tristan. And when she died, I stopped living. If it weren’t for Addie, I’d have given up right then and there.”
A heavy weight settled in his gut as old memories resurfaced. “I didn’t witness a death or two, Sander. I witnessed a massacre. I don’t see why you need me to retell it. The world knows what happened to Finchold.”
“Aye, we all heard about Finchold, and Linmoor and Valfort too,” Sander said. “But the retelling is for your benefit.”
Tristan swallowed. “There’s not much to tell.” He hesitated, and then the words spilled from his mouth. “It was the dead of night when the demons came. I wasn’t asleep because I was fifteen and stupid, and I had it in my head that I was going to sneak out to meet friends.” Tristan licked his lips, and continued in strained tones. “Maira—that was my brother’s wife—caught me and she brought me downstairs to the dining room so she could give me a proper set down without waking the whole house.
His fingernails bit into his palms. “I heard Danny cry out first.” He looked up at Sander. “My brother.” He smiled weakly. “Complete shite at fighting. He was always rescuing me from whatever scrape I got myself into and bandaging up my knees and elbows, but he was utter rubbish with a sword. He had no chance, even if he’d kept a knife at his bedside.
“Maira and I rushed upstairs, or tried to. The entire hall was swarming with demons, twenty of them or more. I’d never even seen one before, but Maira had. She asked me if I had a knife, and I produced the one I’d tucked into my trousers. ‘They won’t die till you cut off their heads,’ she told me. ‘Remember that.’ I told Maira there were too many of them, that there was no way we could win. We needed to leave the house or they would kill us both. She refused. ‘I’m going to get Danny,’ she said.
“I confess I was a coward. I turned around to go back down the stairs with every intention of leaving. Maira could be a fool if she wanted to; I wanted to survive. But it was too late; the demons were on the first floor of the house, too, and were crawling up the stairs.
“Somehow, Maira and I managed to make it to Danny’s bedroom unscathed. We didn’t stop to fight; we pushed our way straight through. It didn’t matter. Danny was already dead. His corpse lay in the bed he shared with Maira. A hellhound knelt by Danny’s side, gnawing at his belly and intestines, grunting and snuffling like a pig.
“Maira grabbed the knife from my hands and ran at the demon. I don’t think she’d ever held a knife before except perhaps to clean it, but fear and anger made her strong. She put the weight of her body into the thrust of her knife and drove it straight through the demon’s neck.
“That wasn’t the end of it though, not by half. Demons poured into the bedroom, attracted by the smell of blood and death. Before I could react, Maira shoved me into a dark closet and closed the door.
“The door had a small keyhole, and I put my eye right up to it. They got Maira, too, eventually, and she died slumped against my closet door. I couldn’t see anymore, but I could still hear the demons rip into her.
“I don’t know how long I stayed in that closet. I fell asleep at some point, after the screaming had stopped. Daylight filtered through the crack where the closet door met the wall. With some effort, I managed to push the door open and nearly swooned at the sight of Maira’s half-eaten carcass.
“The demons were all gone when I emerged from the closet. We had a large household, and none of my family or any of the servants had been spared. The dead were strewn about the house—a few demons, but mostly humans—and their faces and bodies were so mauled that I couldn’t identify them.
“I was in shock, I think, but I had the sense to leave my house and go for help. But all of Finchold was much the same. Every home looked like mine, and dead bodies littered the street. The vultures had already come calling, gorging themselves with the demons’ leftovers.
“I stayed in my house another week before hunger forced me to leave. There was no food here, and the waterway was tainted with blood and excrement. So I packed up a few spare changes of clothes and my father’s sword and what little money I could scrounge up, and I left. This is the first time I’ve been back.”
His story finished, Tristan looked over at Sander to gauge his reaction. The Uriel was silent, pity absent from his gaze. If he had to judge Sander’s expression, he’d characterize it as angry. “Say something,” Tristan said.
“How did you end up joining the Paladins, after that?” Sander asked.
“The High Commander found me hiding in an alcove just east of Luca. He fed me and brought me back with him to Heartwine. He took me under his wing and saw that I received proper training. He has a knack for guessing at gifts, and he saw that I had talent for the sword.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Sander said. His voice shook with fury. “Where were the Paladins on the night Finchold was attacked? Where were they when Linmoor and Valfort were decimated?”
“I don’t know,” Tristan said. “Other cities were attacked that night.”
“So it was decided that Finchold, Linmoor, and Valfort weren’t worth the effort? Why?”
“I don’t know,” Tristan repeated, gritting his teeth. “I was a boy when it happened, and the Paladins afforded me the opportunity to avenge my family. It was enough.”
“You’re a man now,” Sander said coldly. “It’s time to open your eyes and grow up.”
Tristan sat upright against the wall of his father’s bedroom, his head bobbing up and down as he fought to stay awake. He would not surrender to sleep in this house, no matter how hard it pulled at him.
Despite his best efforts, his eyelids dragged shut. His mind drifted, lulled by the sound of Sander’s soft snores, and gradually shapes formed in the space behind his eyes. Nightmares from his past: a glistening black snout with serrated teeth, a body with its skin peeled back like an orange, a glowing keyhole that flared to red and then black.
The banging at the door jarred him out of his semi-slumber. One of his trainees? No, the banging was too hard and constant, not at all like a knock. Tristan scrambled to his feet and drew his sword. A fissure ran down the center of the wood panel and then the door splintered apart.
Scraps of wood dangled from three sharp-pointed horns protruding from a bony frill that fanned out at the back of a long, narrow skull. A fourth, shorter horn jutted from the top of a predator’s beak. The colossal head was attached to a stout, silver-brown body, creased with thick folds of skin.
The demon shook off remnants of door from its horns and raised its head, staring at Tristan with yellow, reptilian eyes. It pawed the floor with a stumpy, three-toed foot and charged, bowling Tristan over. His sword found its soft underbelly and he dragged the blade through to its neck. Blood and viscera spilled from the gaping split, drenching him with putrid fluid. Even without its innards, the demon must have weighed half a ton, and he had to wriggle out from underneath it.
“Untie me,” Sander said. “Untie me now!”
More demons had poured into the bedroom, but not so many that Tristan couldn’t handle it alone. “Not likely,” he said to Sander, and carved through the nearest beast.
The calm of battle fell over Tristan and he danced with his sword to music only he could hear. A fine red mist followed his movements, saturating the air with the smell of death, none of it human. He slashed and sliced with brutal efficiency. He would see them all dead.
His blade was as much a part of him as an arm or a leg. He had long been beyond sword forms or practiced techniques; his weapon and body moved in complete concert. He killed with a single driving thought: They won’t die till you cut off their heads. He slit through throats with the precision of a surgeon. Heads rolled at his feet.
Tristan ran his sword through the last of them and bent over to clean his blade. “Tristan!” Sander yelled. The Uriel was no longer on the bed but backed against it, his leg muscles tensed. “The door!”
Tristan raised his sword, turned towards the door—and froze.
The demon wore Maira’s face.
Looking into familiar, gold-flecked eyes, Tristan was transported to the past. In front of him, Maira smoothed a stray curl away from her pointed, elfin face—she’d tried a dozen different hair oils, but nothing could tame her unruly locks—and her stern frown turned to a reluctant smile. It was always that way with Maira; she would scold him for his latest misdeed, and he would ply her with ridiculous flattery or a clever joke, and she couldn’t stay mad at him. She mothered him because his real mother wasn’t much of one and Danny was too busy learning to be Lord of the Manor to pay him much mind. Tristan loved her; some days he thought he loved her more than did Danny.
Maira’s smile turned playful and she beckoned with her hand, like she did every Midsummer’s festival. He would put his hand in hers and they would dance, just once, twirling and leaping and laughing hysterically. She beckoned again and Tristan reached towards her, eager to claim his song.
He noticed, belatedly, that his outstretched hand held a sword. What was he doing with a sword? He dropped it at once. Maira gave him enough grief about sleeping in bed with the thing; he wasn’t about to dance with it.
Fleetingly, an image of an eyeless face soaked in blood flitted across his vision. No! A steel wall in his mind slammed shut, and it was just his Maira again, brimming with a bright energy that couldn’t be bottled.
Danny called his name. Not now, Danny, I’m dancing with your wife. Danny’s voice grew more urgent. Stop shouting, Danny . . . no, not Danny . . . another man’s voice . . . Sander.
The heel of a sideways-turned foot clipped Maira’s chin and her head swung backwards. Her fingers slipped free from his grip. Not fingers—hooked talons as long as his forearm.
“Whoever you think she is, it’s not her,” Sander said. His breathing was uneven from the effort of his kick. “Pick up your sword.” He shook his head in disgust when Tristan did nothing. Tristan couldn’t; he was caught halfway between ten years ago and today.
Maira twisted her neck with an audible crunch, and her smiling face was upright once more. “Oh for the Gods’ sake,” Sander muttered. “Untie me! Untie me if you won’t kill it yourself.”
A jolt of pain laced through Tristan’s side, and he looked down in surprise. Bright red pooled through his tunic. He lifted up the fabric and his blood gushed forth from three deep punctures. She’d stabbed him.
Maira lunged for him, her talons extended. Tristan stood mutely still, watching her clawed hand fly toward him. Sander bumped him hard with his shoulder, and the talons narrowly missed their mark.
The Uriel jumped, and his leg sailed through the air like the blade of an axe. His aim was true and Maira fell to the floor with a screech. Sander stumbled to his knees, his balance thrown without the use of his hands. He stood up awkwardly and then rammed his foot into her windpipes, refusing to let up. “Look at it!” Sander demanded, his chest heaving. “It isn’t her.”
Reality began to penetrate the cobwebs in Tristan’s brain. The broken bird on the floor wasn’t Maira. Its face and hair were hers, but its breast and belly were feathered with purple plumage. Midnight black wings extended out from underneath its back, blanketing the carpet. Thin, scaly legs ended in webbed feet with a clawed hind toe.
Tristan retrieved his sword from the floor. Blood dripped onto the hilt from cuts at his wrists that he hadn’t noticed were there. He closed the distance to the demon and swung his sword.
Those gold-flecked eyes held him, and the edge of his sword stopped a hair’s breadth away from the demon’s neck. The hesitation was enough. The demon knocked the blade away with its wing and sent Tristan sprawling.
Sander kicked the hilt of the sword towards Tristan and crouched beside him. “Who is she?” he asked.
“Maira,” Tristan said. “I can’t do it.” He shook his head helplessly. “I know it’s not really her, but—”
“Let me,” Sander said. “Untie me and I’ll end it.”
“You know I can’t.”
Frustration colored Sander’s words. “You can tie me up again when it’s dead. I swear to it.”
Tristan looked at the man who had very likely saved his life, and ma
de his decision. “Don’t make me regret this,” he warned, and cut through Sander’s binds.
Sander flexed his wrists. “Weapon?” Tristan pulled out a long dagger from his belt and handed it to him.
“That’ll do,” the Uriel said. “That’ll do just fine.”
CHAPTER 35
Down the hallway, in the room that once belonged to Tristan’s brother, Sam had scarcely closed her eyes when she sensed a presence by her bed. “Go away. I’m sleeping.”
“I can promise you a nightmare,” Braeden said.
Her lids cracked open. He was a shadowy form in the dark of the room, half his face lit by a pale moonbeam. “What do you mean?”
He shivered visibly. “Can you not feel them?”
“Stop being cryptic. Do you mean demons?”
Braeden sat on the edge of the four-poster bed, the mattress squeaking under his weight. “Aye. They’re coming, and soon. They’ll want you.”
So it was to be a repeat of the battle in the Elurra Mountains; she would again have a target on her back. “How do you know?” she had to ask.
“I think,” Braeden said, barely above a hush, “it’s because my demon wants you, too.”
Only now did Sam notice the tightness of his jaw, the strain in his wild eyes. His fingers dug into his hands so hard that his nails drew blood. “Braeden!” she exclaimed, and took his hands in hers. Gently, she uncurled his fists and soothed the crescent nail marks.
He trembled under her fingers. “You shouldn’t touch me.”
She dropped his hands, hurt. “Sorry.”
“I meant not when I’m like—” he cut off, bristling. “They’re here.” He rose to his feet, drawing a sword from the scabbard on his back.
Sam pushed off her covers and lit the unused candle at her bedside, and almost wished she hadn’t. A demon loomed in the doorway, a monstrous blend of horse and man. Equine from its hooves to its withers, it had a human torso and head, with another head—a horse’s head—growing out of its back.