by Colt, K. J.
“Please return my glasses,” Jagur demanded, his hands now stiff at his sides. In the pale blue light, his reddened face looked purple.
“A moment,” Eraekryst promised with a slight smile. He turned his attention to the shrub behind which the Demon hid. “For what sign do you wait, Durmorth? I grow tired of these walls.”
Sieqa! The Demon immediately faded to Shadow, hoping he had not been spotted by the wizards. Though Jagur and Arden had both turned in his direction, their gaze was unfocused.
“What are you looking at?” Arden barked.
Eraekryst handed Jagur his glasses. “Why not look for yourself?” He moved to Arden’s chair and addressed him. “You, however, are better with your eyes shut.” He placed a hand atop the tall wizard’s head, and the man slumped back in the chair, seemingly asleep.
Jagur spun. “What have you—”
“Look, wizard,” Eraekryst repeated, an edge to his voice.
Jagur shakily pushed the glasses to his eyes. He squinted at the shrub, then noticed movement. Something behind the branches—darker than the shadows. Something—
The shape leapt up and charged him. Jagur let out a cry and stumbled backwards. His glasses fell to the ground as he found himself backed against the ink-adorned wall.
“Ah, that may stain,” Eraekryst murmured. “’Twas not yet dry.”
The Demon, exposed and in his true form, used his momentum to shove Jagur a second time, the wizard’s head thudding hard against the wall. “Y’re going to let us out,” he said with a malicious, sharp-toothed grin.
“How d-did you get in—?” Jagur gasped.
“Y’ ‘ired me. Y’ should know.” Violet eyeshine glinted in the Demon’s shadowed visage.
“H-Hawkshadow?”
“’Ello, Lelan.”
“Y-you—you’re not Hu-Hum—”
“Shh!” The Demon thunked Jagur against the wall again and pressed the dull edge of Jaice’s obsidian knife to the wizard’s throat. “Don’t talk, or I’ll rip out y’r throat with m’ teeth.”
Jagur turned white, and a pungent scent rose to meet the Demon’s nose. He just pissed himself, he thought, disgusted. Jagur’s odor and the Ilangien’s presence threatened to double him over. He took a deep breath and swallowed whatever was rising in his throat. “Y’re going to ‘elp us escape.”
“No!” Jagur squeaked. “He’s too valuable! He—”
The Demon leaned in and opened his mouth as though he would sink his teeth into the soft flesh of Jagur’s throat. The wizard began to whimper.
“I am simultaneously appalled and enthralled,” Eraekryst said from behind them.
The Demon’s temper snapped, and he shoved Jagur to the ground. He spun on the Ilangien. “Nigqor-slet, y’ bloody pointy-eared bastard!” The fire in the hearth turned violet and scathed the ceiling, leaving a black residue behind. “Give me a reason to ‘elp y’.”
“Is that not why you came?” Eraekryst asked, perplexed but undaunted by his display of anger.
“I came for revenge,” the Demon said, his voice cold. “The only reason I considered freeing y’ is because I like ‘im less than I like y’.” He nodded toward Jagur.
“Have I truly offended you so greatly?”
The Demon glared at him, and the flames rose again with renewed intensity.
“For my part, I have contributed to our escape,” Eraekryst said, gesturing to Arden almost as proudly as he had his artwork on the wall.
“Y’ ruined m’ plan to get out quick an’ quiet.”
“Quietly, perhaps, quickly, no.”
“Nigqora-slet,” the Demon repeated. “Free y’self then.” He began to walk toward the wall.
“I cannot,” Eraekryst said, taking a step after him. “I need your help…” He hesitated. “And you need the help of the wizard.”
The Demon began to pace the wall to where he had last seen the door. “I don’t need ‘im.”
“’Tis a different spell,” Eraekryst insisted. “The door will appear in a random location once the proper words are uttered.” He turned to Jagur, and the wizard gave a slight nod, though his eyes were upon the ceiling. “You risk walking into something solid,” the Ilangien finished.
“Worth the risk,” the Demon muttered. A different scent caught his nose. He turned to see a thickening layer of smoke consume the ceiling, coupled with the crackle of flames. Sieqa.
“F-Fire!” Jagur cried, trying desperately to rise to his feet.
“Yeah, I see it,” the Demon grumbled. “Find the door, y’ nit.”
The Ilangien frowned and helped the wizard over to the wall. “Focus upon the spell,” he directed, though Jagur kept turning to stare at the smoke.
The Demon moved to stand near the hearth. He directed his energy toward the flames, guiding the smoke to smother them.
“The door, Medoriate,” Eraekryst said more firmly.
“D-d-damosis,” he stuttered. No door appeared.
“Is it five syllables or three?” Eraekryst demanded.
Jagur took a breath. “Damos—” He began to cough on the smoke.
The Demon could feel the flames shrink and die, but there were no windows to help dispel the smoke. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and his eyes fell upon Arden, still asleep in the chair.
“Damosis!”
The shape of an opened door appeared, and Jagur started to leave. The Ilangien grabbed his arm. “Would you abandon your friend so quickly?” he asked, turning to watch as the Demon struggled with Arden’s lanky body. “Assist him!” Eraekryst gave Jagur a push.
With the Demon at Arden’s shoulders, Jagur at his feet, they awkwardly managed to drag the incoherent wizard into the hall. The Demon dumped his end and started walking.
“Durmorth, to where do you wander?” the Ilangien called after him.
“I’m leaving. Good luck to y’,” the Demon said over his shoulder.
Eraekryst looked at Jagur. Jagur looked at Eraekryst. “N-no, don’t—” The Ilangien touched the wizard’s brow, adding to the count of unconscious mortals outside the door to his prison. He strode quickly after the Demon.
“Don’t follow me,” the Demon warned.
“I wish to head in the same direction.”
The Demon stopped and stared at him, his expression doing little to convey that beneath his white skin, his anger burned blue. Wherever he went, the Ilangien would follow. If he hid, the Ilangien would find him. It seemed, at present, the only option was to ignore him. The Demon knew it would take more than a little willpower to calm his rage, but he knew erupting now would not accomplish him anything. Without a word, without a sound, he turned and began retracing his steps to the atrium.
The entrance to the complex had not been locked, and so the Demon simply walked out. Eraekryst was also silent, and without turning to see him, the Demon knew he was there on account of his constant desire to vomit. The cool of the night air helped a little, though the rest of his half-hour trek promised to be one big annoyance.
Eventually they came upon a forested area that opened around a large, moonlit pond. Interspersed among the evergreens, circling the pond, were two-room cottages connected by a road. Some of the windows were lit by blue candle flames, but many of the dwellings were dark. The Demon approached one of the unlit cottages and slipped inside the unlocked door. Eraekryst, as he expected, followed him.
The interior was bereft of life, but fresh wood had been stacked by the hearth, and embers yet smoked below the andirons. There were two bundles on a table, and the pair of chairs that belonged there had been separated—one by the hearth, the other at a window. The rug by the fireplace was wrinkled and askew; the door to the adjoining bedroom had been shut.
The Demon tossed a couple logs in the hearth, and they immediately combusted into violet flames. Their hue faded to crimson as the fire began to feed merrily on its own. The Demon sat down on the rug and stretched his feet out to absorb the heat.
Eraekryst had already begun to poke aro
und, forgetting the nature of the silence between him and his rescuer. “This is your humble home,” he murmured, lifting the lid to the chest that contained dishes, utensils, and the like.
The Demon did not reply.
The Ilangien proceeded to the table, where he unfolded the garments piled there. He smiled as he lifted a lengthy pair of trousers and a long, red coat. “You obtained these for me?”
Again, there was no response.
Eraekryst looked at the Demon’s back and frowned. “Clearly you had a semblance of a plan to rescue me. Now I am here, your undertaking a success, and you refuse to speak. What, now, is the cause of your ire?”
“Y’re an arse’ole,” the Demon muttered. He did not wait for Eraekryst to question the term. “I want to feel sorry for y’, but y’ make me regret trying to ‘elp y’. Y’ don’t need me; I don’t want y’ around. Why don’t y’ just go y’r own way?”
“I have already told you—”
“Are y’ lonely? Scared? What is it?” The Demon continued to regard the fire, his head on his knees.
Eraekryst lifted his chin indignantly. “Such emotions are not befitting of me or my kind. You project onto me the feelings that you yourself harbor. You are both frightened and alone.”
The Demon clenched his fists and leapt to his feet, facing the immortal.
“Your response merely confirms my suspicions. Whatever the incident with your brother, his demise has left you vulnerable and thus defensive. I might even speculate that ’tis his fate you share—”
The Demon snapped and rushed at the unsuspecting Ilangien. His fist smashed across the pale, bewildered face. Golden blood trailed from the delicate and now broken nose, dripping upon the floor as the Ilangien staggered backward from the blow. Already the Demon had kicked open the door to the outside, the driving force of his unquenchable wrath enhancing his strength. He was hardly aware of the searing pain that spread from his hands to his arms as he gripped Eraekryst’s shirt and shoved him into the night.
Only after the Demon slammed the door behind him did he curl in agony from his blistered and reddened flesh. It was as though he had dipped his arms in boiling water. He sat heavily upon the floor and rocked back and forth, his teeth and fingers clenched. He did not bother the wipe the fluid from his watery eyes as he pressed them tightly shut. For a long while he remained where he was, half expecting to hear a knock upon the door. Come back, and I will kill you. I swear I’ll….
There was only silence.
He turned his eyes from the door back to the flames. They had died down, just as the Demon’s exhaustion began to weigh on him. At some point he lay down, only to have unearthed memories bleed into his dreams.
“Here it is, Collin. This is what I promised you.”
The Demon gazed at the cottage without expression. “’Oo lives ‘ere?”
“We do. At least while you are engaged in your studies here.”
The Demon turned to his brother. “Y’ serious?”
“Of course. I promised I would see to your future. Part of that includes a stable place to live.” He began to lead the way, and the Demon followed. “We are only renting it, but it should have everything we need.”
It was a house. A home. Small though it was, it was not a tent. Not a cave, not a prison. It was an actual structure with a roof, windows, doors, and a real bed. The Demon stepped inside, the sunlight illuminating chairs, a table, a hearth with a mantle. He looked at his brother, who seemed slightly uncomfortable in the small space, his head nearly touching the ceiling. When he caught the Demon’s eyes, he smiled. “What do you think?”
The Demon was speechless. He spied the door to the second room and went to peer inside. There was a grand chest at the foot of a broad, blanketed bed. Sunlight streamed through the window to illuminate the soft surface, complete with fluffy pillows. “I can’t sleep on that,” the Demon murmured. “Y’ sleep on it.”
“Nonsense. I’ll find a cot,” his brother said from behind him.
The Demon wandered to the bed and sat on it, sinking slightly into the down mattress. His eyes widened, and he lay back, his head falling upon the soft pillows. “’S amazing.” He closed his eyes.
The golden light that warmed his eyelids faded to black, and a chill wind came through the window. The Demon opened his eyes and sat up, finding himself upon the rug near the lifeless hearth. The cottage was dark.
“Em’ri?” His lonely voice was but a whisper. He was on his feet in an instant, searching the room with his eyes.
Then there was the door. The door to the bedroom was shut.
“Em’ri!” he called. The barrier loomed before him, denying him passage. He pulled at the handle, but it held fast. Somehow he knew his brother was inside.
He began to pound on the door, then ram it with his shoulder. It started to protest and splinter near the handle, and one good kick sent it skittering open. Suddenly he did not want to look inside. It was dark, and it was terrible. He did not want to see, and yet he could not stop himself from stepping forward.
The bed came into view, the blanket wrinkled and strewn aside. Something was on the sheets—something small, inhuman, and motionless. He moved toward it, his heart beating in slow motion like rain dripping off a window sill.
The white linen sheets were stained with something dark, and in the center of the stain was the body of an eagle, broken and twisted. A knife handle jutted from its back, the source of the dark and sticky fluid. Its golden eyes were dull—cloudy and bereft of life. Unseeing.
“Don’t go,” the Demon whispered. “Please.” He lifted the bird’s limp head, finding it was yet warm. He pulled at the knife, but it would not give. “Don’t go…” The body began to dissolve in his hands, crumbling to ashes that caught a breeze and lifted through the window, into the darkness outside.
CHAPTER EIGHT
RUN
THE DEMON AWOKE TO something wet and sticky on his arms. The sore blisters along his arms and hands had burst, much like his temper the night before. The blotchy pink patches of burned skin were oozing—an ugly sight. Much like he had been the night before.
He figured out the truth, and I hit him. I hit him hard. The Demon sat up. His anger had not been roused by his inability to face the truth. His heart yet struggled to cope with his brother’s recent death, the injustice of it, his resulting loneliness. For some cocky stranger to judge him, to analyze him, to dismiss him—it was, well, like breaking blisters to expose the raw skin beneath. He deserved it, in a way, the Demon thought, but his stomach burned with the emptiness of guilt. If only he could trade the arrogant immortal for his brother….
He stopped on this thought. Today was a new day. With or without Eraekryst, he still had a mission. All he needed was a direction. His eyes moved to the table and the clothes atop it. Time to start again.
It was difficult to discard the cloak, shredded though it was. He could use strips of the material to bandage his arms and hands. His gaze then fell warily upon the deep blue shirt. It was a striking color, a noticeable color. And what if he was noticed? What would anyone say to him? He had accompanied his brother enough times that someone could have approached him about his identity, but no one did. At least, no one until the fated mission to Kirou-Mekus.
His mind set, he bundled his new clothes and headed to the pond for a bath. The sun had not yet risen, and all was peaceful and quiet. The birds were starting to stir as he dipped into the calm, cold water. His teeth chattered as he dipped his head beneath the water to wash his face and hair. His hair, he realized was getting a bit lengthy from neglect. It fell into his eyes as he spied movement upon the shore. He froze and tried to discern the shape behind the trees. Then he let out a sigh. Only a deer. Still, it was enough to hurry him through his chore and find his waiting clothes.
Though the shirt was a little large, he felt clean and presentable for the first time in a long time. He wrapped his afflicted arms and headed for the dining hall for breakfast. He had not known what his b
rother had paid to secure them at such a nice establishment, but he did know the rent was good for another month or two. He had always felt burdened by the fact that his failure at medori academics had caused him and his brother to leave Mystland and their new home prematurely.
The dining hall was large and spacious, but this morning, most of that space was occupied. Other tenants were enjoying a warm meal, sipping steamy drinks, and chatting with one another. The Demon continuously assured himself that he was not the topic of conversation, though he would swear there were quite a few eyes upon him. His empty stomach tightened from anxiety as he approached the counter to be served. Whatever spare coins he had lifted after his stop at the tailor were now slid across to the server. He was handed a trencher, cup, napkin, and utensils—not to mention a lingering gaze from behind the counter.
The Demon dipped his head and moved down the line, taking his portions of fried eggs, bacon, and bread from the communal platters. He ladled a cup of mulled cider and set his sight upon an empty table near a window. Once seated, he took a deep breath but found it did little to calm him. I won’t be here long anyway, he thought, ready to clean his heaping trencher.
He was so engrossed in his meal that he failed to acknowledge the voice of a woman hailing him. “Er—Mr. Blue Shirt! It’s me—from the tailor. Miria Woolens.” She left her chair and her company to approach him.
Finally, the Demon looked up. Upon seeing her face, he dropped his fork.
Miria smiled. “I see you remember me. Maybe you can join us. I think I have found a friend of yours. Rather, he found me.”
His eyes followed her pointing finger to a table with a lone occupant. His stomach twisted. Eraekryst sat with his hands folded beneath his chin, and the area around his sharp, pale eyes was darkened by a bruise. The Ilangien’s nose was also discolored, but the damage was far less than the Demon would have expected from such a blow. This fact did not alleviate his shame or his horror.
He turned back to Miria, trying to decide what to do.