City of Thorns (The Demon Queen Trials Book 1)

by C. N. Crawford

  Except, apparently, a very key feature right now: a way in.

  I tried to turn the doorknob again, and a tendril of dread curled through me. Locked.

  My heart thudded against my ribs. Why was the door locked? Was someone having a laugh?

  No, everyone loved me in Bibliotek. Finn or one of the other doormen must’ve closed it down to take a piss, which was distinctly bad timing as far I was concerned.

  I banged on the door. “Hello? Finn? Anyone?”

  When they didn’t answer, I shoved my hand into my pocket for my lock picks. But before I could get started, my stomach lurched. Boots thumped on cobbles.

  The Rough Boys were running down the narrow pathway, gunning for me. A whole pack of them now; they’d brought reinforcements.

  My gaze flicked to the torches that hung from the reddish stone, and I grabbed one of them.

  As I held it out at them, its warmth beamed over my face. “Step back!” I shouted.

  Smoke billowed before my face.

  The turpentine they reeked of—from their ship—was in fact very flammable. The whale oil, too.

  A pair of cutthroats stepped from the pack. The one on the right was a good foot taller than the other, but both were pure muscle, both had shaggy blond curls. They might even be brothers.

  I whirled. As they tried to surround me, I used the flaming torch to try to keep them at bay.

  The tall one raised his hands, though he didn’t actually look one bit afraid of the fire. “Easy there, darling. All we need is two thousand crowns.”

  “Oh that’s all, is it? That’s about a year’s rent!”

  One of the men behind him said, “Your mum borrowed it from Diamond Danny, and he charges interest. And time’s up now, isn’t it?”

  Another of Mum’s terrible decisions coming home to roost.

  The smoke curled around my eyes, making it hard to see.

  Shorty pulled out a curved dagger and twirled it against his fingertips. “Since you can’t pay up, we will need to send your mum a message so she understands the severe-ious-ness of the situation, as it were.”

  I swung the torch before them, trying to ward them off. Plumes of smoke filled the air.

  “Don’t worry doll,” one of them said. “We’ll just be taking a few bits of you with us. Flesh tokens. Nose and a few other bits.”

  Where the hell was Finn? If I lost my nose because he was having a crack at one of the barmaids, I’d haunt his sleep every night till he died.

  “I’ll get you the money,” I stalled. “I promise. I just don’t have it right now.”

  The tall one grinned, giving me an unfortunate view of his rotten teeth. “Courtesan, are ya? Too pretty to be one of them street bunters. Won’t get much work without a nose though, will ya? Bit of a pickle.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Has it ever occurred to you that this city needs a new banking system with more reasonable penalties?”

  Shorty nodded at me. “Nah, she’s not a courtesan. Lila’s a dock thief isn’t she? Steals from the ships. Little magpie. Works for Ernald.”

  I didn’t want to drag my boss into this. “Don’t worry about Ernald. I’ll get you your money in no time.”

  I had no idea how. I just needed time to think of something.

  The tall one shook his head and pulled out another, longer knife. “Sure, but we’ll need a few bits of your face to get the message across to everyone. Your mum. Ernald. Otherwise, every beggar in Dovren will mess Diamond Danny around, won’t they? Think they can borrow money without paying it back. He don’t like people making him into a mug. So we’ve gotta send a message, take a few pieces of you with us. A few flesh tokens.”

  Now, all my muscles had gone totally rigid, and fear twisted my stomach. “Please stop saying ‘flesh tokens.’ It is a deeply unpleasant phrase.” I swung the torch in an arc. They leaned back a little. “Deeply unpleasant.”

  “Easy there, little doll,” the tall one said in a soothing tone. His knife flashed in the torchlight.

  “Finn?” I shouted again, panic ringing in my voice. “Anyone?”

  The music from inside was drowning me out.

  The tall Rough Boy started moving away from the other, and my blood roared in my ears. I couldn’t keep them both at bay with the torch forever. It would only take one of them to grab me from behind.

  Think fast.

  I pulled the cheap whiskey from my pocket, took a searing sip, then blew on the torch. With the alcohol on my breath, a burst of flame exploded in their direction.

  I didn’t stick around to watch him go up in flames, but I did hear his screams. I pivoted, then kicked the door as hard as I could. I’d hoped to break it open, but instead my foot went through the old wood. Splinters rained around it, but it remained shut. Locked.

  The smaller Rough Boy slung his arm around my throat from behind, squeezing. I dropped the torch on the pavement. I elbowed him twice in the ribs, as hard as I could. When he released his grip, I brought my elbow up hard into his jaw. Then I shoved my hand through the broken door, unlatching the dead bolt from inside.

  I bolted up the stairs and into a music hall crowded with dancers, and the raucous sound of horns and a bass drum. No one had even noticed the scene outside. I elbowed and shoved my way through the crowd as hard as I could.

  In here, the ceiling towered high above us. The lurid colors once painted on the inside of the place had faded, sedate now. Velvet curtains draped from a towering stage. High above me, candles hung in chandeliers. Two stories of balconies swept around overhead, private rooms where only East Dovren’s fanciest denizens were allowed entry.

  And all around me, people danced in their best clothes, faces beaming with happiness. The Bibliotek band was playing on the stage, a trumpeter blaring a solo.

  I turned back to the entry, hoping that they’d given up.

  But, no. My stomach sank. Three of them had barged in, eyes trained on me.

  I needed to find my friend Zahra—fast.

  Count Saklas

  I turned the corner onto a dark, crowded lane where music and shouts rose from the pubs. My sword—Asmodai—hung at my waist. Forged from stars, it was one of the few things that brought me pleasure.

  For a moment, I peered in the window of a pub called the Green Garland. Men and women crowded around tables, drinking, singing. Steam clouded the window.

  After a thousand years on earth, I’d still never learned to enjoy the things mankind did.

  Compared to an angel’s senses, mortals’ were dull. They perceived only a fraction of the light, heard only the loudest of noises. Their lives were so short, a few beats of a moth’s wings. And for some reason, they liked to spend their short time dulling their unremarkable senses even further. It seemed they reveled in madness, in stupidity.

  I thought the knowledge angels had bestowed upon them was wasted.

  Though they were drunk, my presence seemed to unnerve them anyway. They shifted away from the windows, and they drank even deeper from their pints. Maybe it made sense. Maybe that was how they coped with mortality—trying to forget it existed.

  With me nearby, they drank more. Even if they didn’t know who I was, they felt the Venom of God in their presence.

  I turned away from the window. Emptiness hollowed out my chest. It had been a long time since I’d felt a real thrill. Even war no longer delighted me. In the last battle, the mortals had used poisons and great arcs of fire to murder each other in droves. Injured soldiers had crawled through mud and bone and blood. That was what mortals had done with the secrets the angels taught them.

  The horror of it all had broken the soldiers’ minds. Not a fun madness like they got from drinking in pubs. No, it was a sort of madness that made them scream in the night, made their hands shake and cheeks pale.

  I turned the corner onto Parchment Row, where yellow lights illuminated window panes in black buildings.

  A young woman lingered in the mouth of an alleyway, and she watched me carefully as I ap
proached. She wore a dingy black dress, and blond hair framed her heart-shaped face.

  “Half a crown,” she said, hopefully. “Make your dreams come true.”

  Now there was an interesting idea, because I certainly intended to make my dreams come true. But if she had any idea what really played out in my dreams, I had a feeling her mind would break, too.

  I ignored her, walking past.

  But her hand jutted out, and she grabbed my arm. Slowly, I turned to look at her, leveling the full force of my divine gaze on her. Her smile faded, and she started to tremble.

  A moment of dread before her fear faded, then her features started to soften, pupils dilating. Her heart raced faster, cheeks growing pink.

  Among mortals, I was known as both a destroyer and a seducer.

  It’s just that I never wanted to act on the seduction. Not only did I not possess the desire, but seducing a mortal woman would make me, for a time, mortal. The name Seducer, in my opinion, was completely misplaced.

  “Half a crown,” she said again, breathlessly. “Or less. You smell nice.”

  Then she dropped her grip on me, and stepped back into the alley, facing the wall.

  Slowly, she lifted her skirt, all the way to her waist, exposing her bare body beneath, the naked curves of her hips, her legs. Thrusting her bottom backward, she looked at me hopefully over her shoulder, her pale eyes wide.

  “Put that away.” I started walking again.

  My gaze set on my intended destination: Alfred’s Rare Books. I pushed through the door into a narrow, cluttered space.

  Stacks of books crowded every surface—tables, desks, bookshelves. All haphazardly arranged. Candlelight danced back and forth over the warped wood floors, the dusty shelves of books.

  At the back of the shop, a dark-haired man sat next to a guttering taper, a pen in his hand. He surveyed me through a thick set of spectacles.

  “Alfred?” I said.

  His hands shook. “Count Saklas. Welcome.”

  I pulled out a pouch of gold. “You have the Mysterium Liber for me?”

  His eyes shifted around the room, which set me on edge. My hand twitched at Asmodai’s hilt.

  I stared at Alfred. “The book. Where is it?”

  Gripping the pen, his hand was trembling so much he unconsciously scribbled jagged lines all over his ledger. It wasn’t unusual for people to react to me with terror. It was the natural way of things. The strange part was that his attention was not on me.

  Something was off.

  I was drawing my sword just as the first bullet hit. Another, and another slammed me from behind, knocking me forward into Alfred’s desk.

  But the bullets passed through me, and already my immortal body was healing. I whirled, sword drawn. The gunfire fell silent as they realized the mistake they’d made.

  Five men: all sleek hair and black shirts. They stood behind me, guns drawn.

  “For Albia!” one of them shouted, but I heard the terror in his voice.

  A dark smile curled my lips. Now these men, without question, deserved to die.

  The first arc of my sword went through two necks, and for just a moment, I felt a flicker of that pure, divine destruction that had once blazed from me. These mortals were enemies of the angels, and their deaths imbued me with strength.

  The bullets started flying again, gunshots ringing out. I felt the sting when they entered my skin, but they sailed through. I healed fast, and I pivoted.

  Asmodai sang as he cut through two more evildoers, and my body vibrated as I moved in a whirlwind of death. The final living man pulled the trigger. It clacked, empty. His hands were shaking so much, he dropped the gun.

  “We’re trying to protect our kingdom,” he stammered, his blond hair now out of place, “from tyrants like you.”

  With a smile, I took another step closer. When my sword cut through his throat, my blood started to sing. There was the thrill again.

  I turned back to my new friend, Alfred. I could smell the stench of his urine from here, and he gripped his pen like it was a lifeline.

  I pointed my sword at his neck. “Where is the Mysterium Liber?”

  He rasped, “We are the Free Men,” and finding some hidden well of strength, he threw his pen at me with a little yelp.

  I smirked. Unfortunately for him, the pen is not actually mightier than the sword.

  Asmodai cleaved his traitorous head in two, and the glory of the kill spilled up my arms, a warm light on my body.

  I sheathed my sword , my exhilaration replaced with disappointment.

  This had been nothing but an ambush, and I was no closer to finding the Mysterium Liber.

  I crossed outside into the rain, hoping it would wash some of the blood off me. When I showed up at the Bibliotek Music Hall, I didn’t want to arrive soaked in gore.

  My dreams had told me I’d be looking for a woman going by the name of Zahra.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my supportive family, and to Michael Omer for his critiques and emotional support. Thanks to Nick for his insight and help crafting the book.

  Jen and Jeannie are my fabulous editors for this book. Thanks to my advanced reader team for their help, and to C.N. Crawford’s Coven on Facebook!