No Demons But Us

by A. S. Etaski

  For the first time since I woke alone beside that pool, I could at last “hear” the deep pulses of my City, the call of home that only Davrin could sense. For the first time, I knew which was the right direction.

  I took a swig of the ale water to numb some of the soreness and left the semen on my thighs until I could find another water source. I wouldn’t spend too much time searching for that, though, because I wanted to make as much progress toward home as I could before I found out whether this mental clarity was a temporary reprieve or not. Both mind and body felt too numb to know for sure.

  I ran without another sound from the site of my first kill.

  CHAPTER 6

  I took my first opportunity to wash. By then, my feet ached from sprinting along the naked stone. Rock worn smooth in many places helped me avoid unnecessary cuts and scrapes, but the fact was I had not trained my feet to be this tough. An oversight I’d have to correct if I survived.

  The small canal I found next was enticing; it smelled cooling, appeared cleansing. I wanted little else at the moment than to jump in. My skin had an unpleasant smell; my sweat and blood mixed with Kain’s aging essence on my legs and in my crevices. This free-flowing river, however, still took an observation to make sure washing was safe. Only a fool recklessly leaped into a moving body of water in the Deepearth without sensing its depths first.

  Be quick.

  I believed I had found a reasonably safe place but my long dagger within reach. If any tentacle tried to loop my ankle as I stood submerged up to my thighs, it would be instantly severed. I began to wash both my body and the Dwarf-scented cloak, and I had the chance to check my injuries more closely.

  A few muscles had been pulled or strained, and I’d jammed one finger on my off-hand. A variety of bruises, scrapes, and cuts proved that I’d been in a close-contact fight, but the bite on my shoulder was the deepest mark. For that, I was both fortunate, and unfortunate.

  No single injury I’d sustained crippled or posed a serious threat, but the bite mark was identifiable as a sentient with flat teeth. There weren’t too many of those type down here. I’d done what I could to cover up the scene I’d left behind, or at least disrupt its reconstruction. My own body, on the other hand, would be a perfect map, whether or not I washed away the evidence between my legs. My kind watched for these injuries; we speculated and gossiped and probed. We couldn’t help it. If I made it back, the Red Sisters would know.

  I could handle being watched rutting with a Sathoet; I could engage other Davrin, male or female. I had proven it and came out stronger for it, I thought, but I would be fighting an uphill battle if others knew about the Tragar. I hated that this necessitated another secret of my own, but what could I do? I could imagine so many derisive thoughts of my own, meeting another Davrin who was known to have been forcefully fucked, multiple times, by a Dwarf.

  It occurred to me for the first time to wonder how I might fare on my own if I chose not to return home. No one said I had to go back. For all they might know, I was killed by something, my remains lost or eaten, a lesser Daughter to be struck off the list of potential troublemakers or usurpers.

  I climbed, clean as I could be, out of the water and set upon a rise to watch the movement of the water. I wrapped Kain’s wrung-out cloak around me, clutched my naked blade in my hand. The river glittered subtly with iridescent life, flickered from the shadows passing over its sources. I sat for a long time, feeling my sore muscles stiffening up but slipping into light Reverie. I needed the rest anyway.

  It wasn’t in my nature to hide shamed forever, I didn’t think. Whether it was my cowardice or my methods for gaining a goal, sometimes I couldn’t distinguish them at the time some harm happened. I had always chosen to live and run away, to resist or fight another cycle. I’d learned that at my House, with my sisters. If I ran away now, not to fight at all, how did that suit me?

  It doesn’t. Should a chance encounter with a poaching Dwarf dictate whether I become a Red Sister? Whether or not I even live with my head up?

  It was clear such a thing right now would be cowardice. Not only this but the more I thought about it, the more I realized I had learned.

  How many Davrin know firsthand that a Tragar connects mind-to-mind, and can be affected so strongly by our divine magic?

  It couldn’t be many, and most of them would high status: The Sisters or the Priestesses, certainly the Valsharess. I was one of a few who may have witnessed both kinds of psionic strikes, that of flying stone and stabbing ether. I was afraid to remember too much now, but also felt I’d known briefly, intimately, so much about him, about those he’d known, and I’d still been the one to live at the end of it.

  I learned far less about my invisible wizard in that time.

  I had benefited, I decided. The craving was under control for the moment, and the Tragar couldn’t tell the tale. The additional knowledge I’d gained had value, regardless of how I got it. I had thoughts how to use it a shield, a deflector, should it become a concern in the future.

  Wouldn’t that be something a Red Sister would do?

  Different methods for gaining information, learning weaknesses, exploiting them, or setting a trap. Wouldn’t a Red Sister go farther than any Davrin at Court to get it? It hadn’t been intentional on my part, but opportunism was often the jewel and cream in our society.

  It happened, so make the most of it.

  I smiled in the dark without showing teeth. Carving out a solitary life in the Deepearth wilderness and trying to defend it by myself wasn’t for me. I could handle my fellow sisters, I already knew the basics. I’d been doing it for most of my life. I looked forward to my return now, I realized, as I partook of my stolen supplies, chewing slowly as I thought further.

  The outer farms. The Fringe. Those smaller dwellings might contain a way to heal my wounds.

  Who said the Red Sisters had to see the bitemark at all? I could hoard the knowledge and the secret, keep them both until the right time.

  Yes.

  My feet and limbs were not ready for use when I stood up, but some time spent stretching made it bearable. I took it slow and cautious, wanting most of all to avoid any more confrontations and to conserve my energy. The howling drive to run as far as possible from the dead Tragar had run its course some time ago.

  For most of the journey, I didn’t so much recognize landmarks or rock formations but could sense when the rhythm of the Deep Thrum seemed off. I changed paths and entered other tunnels several times, trying to keep on track with the magical pulse of my birthplace. I didn’t avoid all dead ends, unfortunately, but it was good practice in maintaining a reign on my impatience. Scowling at uncaring rock would hardly cause it to part for me.

  Act. Don’t react.

  In addition to the mysterious Elder D’Shea, my thoughts also wandered to the youngest Red Sister at my first two trials, Gaelan. She had touched all three of my used openings with her tongue and mouth, cleaning Davrin semen out of me before kissing me. She had not only been skilled but had seemed to genuinely enjoy it—unlike Qivni, who had reacted with such distaste when ordered to do the same.

  I wondered why Elder D’Shea had switched their places. I understood that it forced me to confess and to face my own “soft spot,” but that had been with the comparably meek and pliable Gaelan. Why start with Qivni, who openly resented the order? Had Elder D’Shea been punishing her for something, perhaps? Or intended to make it a lesson for Qivni before I drew her attention with my own flaw? That was what my gut said had been happening, but I would have to watch and learn to know for sure.

  To learn this, I must enter the Sisterhood.

  I could never run away from Sivaraus. How could I have considered it even for a moment because of a single Tragar? I belonged there, as sure as spiders belonged in their web. That was where we hunted for what we desired, and where we caught it.

  Not outside of it.

  My spirit lightened, and my memories of Gaelan bec
ame somewhat clearer. I felt a pleasant warming in my body and in my middle. It was surprising to become aroused at the memory of another female servicing me for once.

  That never happened before, but so be it.

  The arousal grew startlingly fast when my thoughts naturally drifted to the reason Gaelan had had something to clean in the first place: the leavings left in or on my body by the two male Davrin and the demonic offspring of a Priestess, and the tools by which they were born able to offer it. There was no changing that. I remained fully enamored of those fascinating members. The very reason for their existence was to please my hunger. My memories of my trials were already becoming fodder to relive in my mind as I remembered how they had pierced and stretched me, stroked me so hard, their need not so different from my own.

  I had to stop. Trembling, I set my hand against the rock to steady myself as the wave built without my desire for it. My dismay showed on my face even in solitude.

  Oh, no, not again.

  The magic was still there; it wasn’t quenched. It seemed I should bring myself to climax then without fighting it, conveniently forgetting that this had not worked where I first awoke back in the remote cave. It was even less effective here, as I was no longer alone.

  Someone is coming.

  I removed my sodden hand from its task and slipped down into a cracked gutter of stone which ran parallel to my current path, a tiny creek running at the very bottom of it, littered with the refuse of the traveling path. I crouched small and still beneath an overhang but above the trash and water, my blade drawn. I was biting my lip, fiercely denying the temptation to look and see whether any in the passing convoy were Davrin I might be able to fuck. It would be too reckless, I’d been lucky to survive the last time.

  The squeak and clank of rolling, metal wheels stabbed at my sensitive ears; I even felt the vibrations. One lumbering cart, the padding of many feet, likely lizard mounts. I imagined the Deepearth Pyte were responsible for the construction, even if none were present. I was almost sure that trading on the outskirts of Sivaraus was their purpose for treading this path, and I had no intention of obstructing them. It was a necessary function within the city; it was not in my plans to disrupt that.

  Just pass. Leave. Let me be.

  Despite my tremors and increasingly lurid thoughts, I remained as I was, and none of those above me got the sudden inclination to investigate the gutter. The sound vanished far ahead of me, and I bit back a whine of need. I climbed back out onto the path, jumpy lest I either catch up to the group ahead or another should come behind me. I had to get off this path!

  Farther ahead, I recognized the thrum calling me and knew I would see one of the official gates into the deep, vast cavern which contained my home. It would gradually widen until the ceiling disappeared and broader areas of underground farming would reveal themselves long before the lights of the city did. Sentries were set at that post, waiting, guarding a metal, and magically imbued, blockage. I would not get past them unquestioned as I was. It would be a bad idea to risk it; I couldn’t trust my own actions or words around other Davrin; I certainly couldn’t explain where I had come from or why I was naked wearing a Dwarf cloak and satchel. Soon, there would be a patrol to keep the approach clear.

  I looked for side tunnels or crawl spaces. I found a few; two were dens I wouldn’t enter, another only led to a pit and a dead end, and a fourth turned into a crevasse far too tight to continue. I began to think there was no way into the Great Cavern except through the sentries and our own gate. Then, as the lust receded for the moment and I stared at the pool I’d found in a fifth passageway, I startled a small, white amphibian, which jumped into it and swam down to the bottom.

  Not very deep. I could still see its blurry outline.

  There was current as well; it seemed to beckon me. The frog’s shadow disappeared underneath the rock, and my sensitive eyes could detect movement caused not only by the animal’s exit but its entrance into a more extensive body of water.

  Or am I hallucinating from want? Just swim through? Follow the frog?

  Was it big enough for a Davrin and short enough not to run out of air? Was it small enough to keep larger predators from making their den there, yet wouldn’t grow so little it would trap me? Was it already blocked intentionally by our patrol having found it ages ago?

  Hard to tell based on one little creature.

  It was simply a risk I had to try. I removed the cloak which would only snag and weigh me down underwater. The remaining Tragar food probably wouldn’t survive either, but it tasted like offal mixed with grease and ash anyway. The naked blade would come with me. And the waterskin and belt? I wanted something to refill, and I also wanted something to keep my hands free. But now I was entering the territory of Davrin. Did I really want any Tragar possession on me? It would lead to questions and suspicion.

  The cloak, belt, skin pouch, and food were smashed into as tiny of a crack as I could force them, using a stone to mash and wedge them in; removing them—if they were ever found by something walking on two legs—would be a chore.

  I settled down into the pool, tepid water creeping up to my middle. Dipping under the surface of the water, the hand not holding my blade found the rock opening I sought. I felt around. I would fit, but it would be close. Backing out if the way closed to tight for me to get through would be the only option. I thought this was one of the phobias I knew about in another female at Court: to get stuck in a water-filled underground tunnel and drown there, one’s lifeless body floating, swelling with water, and rotting. A real possibility here, but not a phobia of mine.

  Not yet, anyway.

  I waited for a while, became too aroused, and began stroking myself underwater to climax once more. As I delayed, I wondered if the frog had to breathe. Did it have to come up for air? Would I see it come back out if that was the case? Which was it? I didn’t know. There was no certainty for me that I could pass through regardless if the white frog returned.

  I clenched my teeth, kept quiet as the water swirled around my frantic fingers, as I felt release sweep through me. It did not help any more than I’d expected, but it felt good, and the frog had not reappeared by the time I caught my breath. I drew ever deeper breaths, filling my blood and my lungs with air before submerging.

  Dark Sight underwater does not work quite as well; depth perception was the first thing torn asunder by the ever-shifting liquid which also disrupted the energy of the rock shaping and containing it. There were no real shapes to see unless it was big, solid, and close. I kept my eyes open for the instance of that sudden, detectable movement but used my hands to feel and pull my way through the tunnel. Kicking my feet helped a little but not as much when my heel would knock against the wall or my knee would get scraped.

  I thought that had been the most annoying part about it until I had to squeeze through a section so reduced that it scraped my nipples and the point of my House dagger was caught between rocks. For a paralyzing moment, I thought I would have to choose between leaving it here or drowning as I tried to get it loose. Fortunately, it came loose a moment after my panicked thought. The rush of blood through me livened the caress of the chilly water on my netherlips, and I became distracted.

  So much fun.

  I squeezed through that choke point, and my lungs were burning by now, but I kept my focus forward, starting to pump my legs despite the tight quarters. It was too late to back up, and my sensitive eyes detected light and energy ahead. I could see it even as my vision darkened from lack of air.

  Faster. Faster!

  I was blind as my head broke the water at last, and I sucked in the most painful breath I could remember. I made it! Immediately I looked around me. I had not been subtle to come out from beneath the pool like that, and I should expect something or someone to investigate soon. Around me, I saw deliberate construction forming the boundaries for this pool. It was a reservoir, a smaller version of the type I’d seen in the agriculture districts.


  No one stood on its banks.

  I was here; I was inside the Great Cavern and on the far outskirts of the city, not yet seen by sentries or anyone else—except for the white frog, which sat like a skipping stone on the bank and again leaped into the water when I spied it. I smiled, watching it swim clear of me before I crawled on my belly up the bank to see what was over it.

  As I expected, it was a relatively flat parcel of space, cultivating various mushrooms, softly glowing lichens, and the agriculture that supported Davrin, our animals, and slaves. My eyes skimmed over the few bodies who worked the field. They were not Davrin Elves but the diminutive and ugly Pyte as well as the Ketro, a weaker, greyer version of the Tragar. Then my heart seized when I saw one of my own.

  I felt no fear of discovery now. The shock to my system was like a throaty, primal demand; a call for indulgence, not avoidance.

  He’s so beautiful.

  Oh, Braqth, I wanted him so badly. He wasn’t a soldier or warrior, and I didn’t care to whom he belonged. My cunt began to ache right then and there as I lay on the muddy bank of the pool, demanding his seed. Far better than the Tragar, far more clean and natural, this was what my body needed. This was what would break the spell on me!

  The lone Davrin was dressed in simple, rough silk made of two pieces, one which covered his torso, cinched with a belt, and the other a wrap tied at his hips which fell to his knees. His calves were lovely, and his feet were elegantly wrapped in light-colored leather. He wore a few choice pieces of jewelry, nothing much, but I could see metal at one ear and a circlet around his throat, a band around one bare arm—even at this distance I could see them shine. As I traced my eyes back up, I noted beautiful hands and smooth, lean arms, long, white hair drawn back and plaited, and an attractive, refined face.