Firefox: a Fox Demon's Claim

by Lizzie Lynn Lee

  “It sounds dreadful,” he declared, shooting Percival a look. The horses they rode progressed slowly, allowing them ample time to speak.

  “Well then, how about something a little more ambiguous. Perhaps King Edgar would settle for something like Heroes Day, or Victory Day. Or perhaps you could name the day in honor of your good friend and loyal companion, Percival Fairweather. I do say, there’s something tremendously appealing about the name Fairweather Day. It sounds lovely.”

  “There will be no holiday named in our honor,” Braxton retorted, snorting with laughter. “We were sent out to do our job, and we’ve done it. If holidays were named after so arbitrary a notion, we’d have no shortage of Blacksmith Days, or Housekeep Days.”

  “No housekeeping has ever taken four years to accomplish, or could have resulted in the loss of a mighty empire should the starching have gone wrong.”

  “The point of the matter is, I desire no other reward than bringing satisfaction to the king.” His gaze wandered across the cityscape of Londër as he spoke, absorbing her charms. Smoke curled lazily from chimney stacks, and the smell of spiced meat saturated the air. The closer they drew, the louder they heard the commotion. People talking, laughing, singing, screaming…

  The city he’d left behind was as vibrant as ever, and in his absence, she had grown larger still. There were new stone buildings he did not recognize, and roads that joined them. The streets were cleaner than he’d remembered, both of horse droppings and of hay. If there had been any sun, they would have sparkled.

  Not even on a day like this could nature be bothered to shine light down on the greatest empire in the world.

  “I’d forgotten what home feels like,” Percival observed.

  Their horses approached the checkpoint, and he was pleased to see that labor was being invested into building walls. The more secure their sovereign’s home, the better he would sleep at night while abroad. While he did not doubt the king’s resilience on the battlefield, should the city be sieged during his absence… he feared for the safety of the people.

  “I as well.” Braxton missed Londër more than he thought.

  Two guards, tall and slender, little more than untried youths, stood at the checkpoint as they approached. One of them, a lad in his early teens, eyed Braxton as they stated their names and business.

  “Braxton Grantham, Duke of Sherbone and celebrated general for Britannia,” said Braxton. The promise of a warm bed and a hot meal drew at his soul, and he detested the last mandatory pause before such things could be his. Once they arrived at the castle, he was sure King Edgar would welcome them in and have them fed as they recounted their tales of battle to him directly. Sitting by a fire on plush chaises, basking in its glow, as they dined on turkey legs and hearty root vegetables baked in spice sounded like a veritable paradise in light of the conditions they’d just left.

  My bones will thank me tonight, Braxton thought, when I turn in for the evening to a bed instead of the ground. There is no pleasure as exquisite as comfort after so long spent deprived of anything apart from the lust of the kill.

  “Braxton Grantham?” the lad gawked. “The Braxton Grantham?”

  “Unless another Duke of Sherbone has risen in my place during my absence, yes.” He lifted his chin and pushed his shoulders back. Few mistook his physique—broad and muscular, with a handsome cut to his jaw and a body hardened by battle, he was the most desirable man in the kingdom. Despite it, he remained unwed. His fealty was pledged to the kingdom and the king, and no woman could ever overthrow that bond.

  “And Percival Fairweather,” Percival commented, puffing himself out in much the same way. “Duke of none, but keeper of the great Braxton Grantham.”

  “Keeper?” Braxton asked in disbelief.

  “At one point, I kept custody of your gloves while you spearheaded the charge into battle,” Percival said stiffly. “I consider that quite the keeper indeed.”

  He barked out a laugh, but the lads at the checkpoint didn’t see the humor. Awkwardly, they exchanged a glance. Then, the second one spoke.

  “King Edgar wishes to see Y-Your Grace at the palace post haste,” he said. “I must demand that Your Grace report to the palace.”

  “We had planned to do as much,” he replied. “I am eager to see him. In our absence, it looks as though much has changed. While we share stories of our victories and the harrowing circumstances that brought them, he shall surely share with us the rich news of our beloved Londër.”

  “Y-Your Grace is to report to King Edgar at once,” said the lark again.

  “And so it shall be done.” Percival leaned forward at the hip to bow, his horse’s neck interfering with the gesture. “Fantastic work, gentlemen. I eagerly await the day I may call you gate masters. When will the wall be completed?”

  “I’m not privy to information as such, sire.”

  “Nor I,” said the second. “But in the next eventually, of that you can be certain.”

  “To the next eventually, then.”

  Percival removed his hat and held it up, and while Braxton laughed, the lads did not share their humor. Braxton wondered what the disconnect was about, but couldn’t put his finger on it. In the end, the temperament of two young men did not change anything in his life. So long as they were unopposed and allowed to enter Londër’s streets, he cared little about them.

  What remained of the army had returned home before them. The diplomatic happenings of war were of little concern to them, and once the skirmishes were over, his men were of little use. He could see the effects of their arrival now. Women, cheeks rosy and eyes bright. Children, laughing and running and batting at each other with sticks they imagined were swords. Sometimes, he’d catch the eye of one of the men who served him on the field, and they’d bow their heads and pass like ships in the night.

  Londër was alive again now that her men were back, and Braxton was the heart of that revival. There was no better feeling in the world than that.

  Their horses plodded through the streets at a leisurely pace, cutting through the crowds and winding toward the castle. As they went, Percival chatted about anything that came to mind. They’d traveled together for a week to return home, but it was only now that he chose to let his tongue loose. It was another sign they were home—no longer was he on alert. Life would be fine and easy, at least for the next while.

  The city was not yet walled in, but the palace was. They checked in at the gates, and the guard standing duty studied them with a hard look before he nodded them in.

  “The king is awaiting for your arrival,” he said. “Stable your horses and report to him immediately.”

  “We had no plans to do otherwise,” Percival said, ruffled to a degree by the treatment. After his talk of holidays, it was clear he expected a warmer welcome.

  Braxton did not let the icy reception get to him. He understood that they were tradesmen who’d accomplished their task—no matter how difficult that task was.

  They left their horses with the stable boy and entered the palace on foot. The ornate halls spoke of wealth and power, and the warmth within its walls was a marvel after so long spent exposed to the elements. Braxton and Percival both approached the throne room, and after a brief moment, they were granted entrance.

  King Edgar sat upon the throne at the far end of the room, and the moment after they entered, Braxton and Percival both removed their hats and bowed low to him. Before they could rise and continue their approach, strong hands gripped both of Grantham’s wrists, and someone drove their elbow down into the back of his head. He fell to his knees. Beside him, Percival gasped and did the same as he was battered in tandem.

  “For treason against the Crown,” King Edgar’s voice rose powerfully in the large room. “I hereby sentence Braxton Grantham to death.”

  “Treason?” Grantham lifted his chin to see a figure emerge from behind the throne. Bishop Hemming, dressed in rich furs and bright colors, simpered at him. He had always opposed him and whispered that
Grantham’s reputation was too powerful and a threat to the crown, but he had never been in favor with the king.

  It seemed that the city was not the only thing changed in the last four years.

  Before Grantham could argue, cold steel bit into the back of his neck and knocked against his spine. His eyes widened, pain squeezing his throat closed so he couldn’t even scream. Blood streamed down his neck and shoulders, quickly beginning to pool on the stone beneath his knees.

  “Let it be known that conspiring with Dane nobility will result in immediate and painful death,” said King Edgar. “Or any enemy, for that matter.”

  Conspiring with Dane nobility? He’d done no such thing. Bishop Hemming had obviously fabricated a story and fed it to the king, and now…

  The accusation jarred him to the bones.

  Edgar whom he fought for with his heart and soul condemned him without giving him a chance to defend himself. Edgar whose friendship he treasured the most. Edgar who he had been willing to give up his life to defend his honor.

  This allegation… This betrayal.

  Betrayal…

  Hatred for that vile man and his weak-minded king twisted in Grantham’s stomach. His vision blurred and grew dark, but through it all, he clung to his anger and kept it alive. There was no force more powerful, or more hateful.

  Fury.

  Hatred.

  King Edgar should have known better, no matter how young and naïve he was. Grantham was disappointed that he’d let an evil man like Bishop Hemming influence his mind in such an underhanded way. If he believed baseless allegations, he was not a fit ruler. Hemming—he did not deserve the title of Bishop for his deeds—was a man made ugly by envy. A conniving, wretched waste of flesh that did not deserve the amenities of a barn, let alone the luxuries of a palace.

  As he tumbled down to the ground, he screamed a silent plea to whoever might hear him. Be it god, demon or something else. He wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  Let this hatred, this injustice be avenged.

  Fire crackled within him. The flames licked up and engulfed his soul, and the pain of encroaching death from his injury was matched by an agonizing tear inside of him—as though someone had pulled his arm off with their bare hands.

  Whoever is there, let me have my revenge…

  Let me, let me…

  LET ME!

  Extract revenge, a dark voice whispered in his mind. His vision cleared and sharpened, and the man who’d just held him by the wrists shouted in fearful surprise and released him. Renewed strength coursed through him. He stood, stronger than ever, as the darkness once behind his eyes, leeched from his skin and spilled upon the castle floors. It scurried outward like cockroaches, and when the darkness made contact with Percival, he shrieked and writhed. The guards holding him were sucked into the shadows. He never saw them again.

  “Braxton!” King Edgar shouted, rising from his throne and drawing his sword.

  Grantham noticed that the king’s hand trembled.

  The pain in his neck, from where it had been sliced open, was gone. The pain in his soul was constant, but it was tolerable. When he took his first step forward, he barely felt it.

  Instead, Grantham felt the power coursing through his body. Raw, unleashed, and inconceivably strong.

  You shall have your vengeance, the voice whispered.

  Kill them. Destroy them for what they’ve done to you.

  He obliged.

  It took him mere seconds to cross the room and grab King Edgar by the throat. The bright blues of his eyes went from terrified to listless with a simple squeeze of his hand. When he cast him back into the chair, he did not rise.

  Hemming was different. His hatred for the Bishop mounted inside of him and fueled the flames, and he enjoyed taking his time ripping him limb from limb as he screamed for help.

  When the job was done, he turned back to look at his friend, Percival. He was alive, but he lay on the floor, his knife in his hand. Blood rushed down his face from where his eyes had been—he’d gouged his own eyes out.

  “Percival,” he uttered. Instantly, he was surprised by the deep, rumbling timbre of his own voice. It was changed. “We need to leave.”

  As he approached the doors to the throne room, he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the mirrors that hung upon the wall. He was no longer the handsome warrior he’d once been.

  He was a beast. Dark, patchwork hair covered his towering body from head to toe. His jaw had elongated, and protruding teeth curled over his front lips, razor sharp and dangerous. His hands and feet were different now, and although he still had some semblance of fingers, each was marked by a wicked claw.

  His eyes, dead and yellow and dangerous, stared back at him.

  “What have I become?” he asked the cosmos, and the voice in his head replied in sly, amused tones.

  A product of hatred, reversible only by basking in its opposite force—love.

  Grantham could not stand to look at his grotesque form any longer. Torn by the betrayal of the crown and what he had become, he ran back and grabbed Percival before heading out the way they came.

  It was no wonder his keeper blinded himself—Grantham was too hideous to behold.

  And forever hideous he would stay, should the voice inside of him be correct. No woman could ever love him looking the way he did.

  For the rest of his days, he would live in solitude, a treacherous beast. The handsome hero that lurked in his soul was dead.