by M. D. Grimm
The spiky-haired demon rushed to his side and helped him to his feet. He slung Roland’s arm across his shoulders, and Roland leaned on him, panting heavily. The others joined them in time to see Kurthog take to the sky, shooting up like a comet, and then he gracefully turned and headed straight back down. Straight down to collide with Asagoroth’s still form.
He means to smash him.
“Get up!” Roland screamed with all the strength he had. “Asagoroth, get up!”
He didn’t move. Kurthog was gaining speed, coming closer. Seconds. It would take only seconds.
“Asa! No!”
At the last possible moment, Asagoroth tucked his wings close and rolled out of the way. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Kurthog couldn’t change his course and slammed himself, using all his weight and gathered speed, into the ground, thereby crushing his skull and breaking his own neck. The sounds were hideous. The rest of Kurthog’s mighty body toppled over into the crater created by the impact. The earth shook and groaned, then lay still.
For a moment the only sound was the thudding of his heart in his ears and his ragged breath.
Asagoroth rolled to his feet and gingerly stood. With limping strides, he returned to his opponent’s body and set one foot on the prone form. He stretched out his neck and lifted his head. He released a bellow that was ten times louder than the roars during the battle.
Roland winced and covered his ears, pressing his face into the demon’s chest. The demon tucked his head against Roland’s, also affected by the sound. The air and earth trembled at the victory cry, the triumph of Asagoroth clear to anyone in the three realms. The Light Bringer probably heard the damn beast.
He held that single note for a long, excruciating moment. Then silence. Roland sucked in a breath and lifted his head. The demon blinked several times, clearly dazed. Even as Roland felt giddy that Asagoroth was alive, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something dart toward them. He swung his head around and didn’t have time to think. He shoved the demon to the side, falling with him, but knew it was too late. The giant boulder that had been dislodged by either Kurthog’s impact or Asagoroth’s bellow sailed toward them with unstoppable force.
The demon managed to clear it, but Roland wasn’t so lucky. Instead of the entire boulder crushing him, it nicked his shoulder and scraped his ribs. He heard a pop, and fire flared from his already injured shoulder. His ribs, not to be outdone, also seared with white-hot flame.
He crashed to the rubble-strewn shelf with a cry of pure misery.
“Roland!” Anpiel screamed.
His vision darkened, the pain overwhelming him. The last thing he felt was hot breath against his body and a gentle purr vibrating against his ears.
Chapter Five
ROLAND STIRRED, achy and sore. The pain never escalated beyond mere discomfort, and that didn’t seem right. He remembered his inability to fly and the boulder hitting him. He winced and touched his ribs, puzzled to only feel puckered skin. Then his tired mind clicked onto the fact that he felt skin, not his robe. And why was he on something soft and warm, not stony and cold?
In fact, what he lay on felt familiar. Was he—?
Popping open his eyes, Roland stopped breathing. He lay on his back with his head turned to the side, and he stared right at Asagoroth’s face. The long, thin slice from Kurthog’s tail across his snout drew Roland’s attention for a moment. The dragon’s closed eyes and steady breathing indicated he was asleep, but it was certainly unnerving to be pressed against the side of his face, so close to an enormous eye. And lying on his palm, no less. When pressure and dizziness overwhelmed him, he sucked in a breath and gripped his chest, mind whirling. Fabric lay within his clutched hand and he looked down. He still wore his robe—what was left of it, anyway. It was barely more than tatters, and the entire portion along his scarred ribs had been torn away. He was nearly flashing a nipple.
Face heating, he sat up, careful about how he moved. The fiery pain still didn’t show itself, and he frowned, confused. He should be nothing but bruises. He turned his head and twisted around, trying to see his shoulder and back. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was less swelling, and the bruises didn’t look so colorful. He fingered his ribs again. He remembered the popping sound and the white-hot pain of his arm coming out of its socket. He carefully rotated it and found it tender but in place.
He dragged a hand through his hair before his focus turned to where they were. Another cave. It wasn’t the same one. It was bigger, even compared to the dragon sleeping in it. He couldn’t see the ceiling; it was too tall. It worried him to see no one else, no demons or angels. Where were they?
He turned his head again and grimaced at the massive sharp claws rising up around him, like a cage of dangerous onyx. He’d never felt so small, so tiny and insignificant. Those claws had sliced into another dragon. And yet now they held his body comfortably. Almost… protectively.
Nonsense.
Roland shook his head, scowling at his ridiculous fantasies. He kept his attention on Asagoroth’s eye as he warily shifted over to the side of the palm, intent on sliding off. Before he got more than few inches, that eye popped open, and the slit pupil dilated and focused on him. He froze, unsure what would happen now.
A smile curved Asagoroth’s mouth, and Roland let out a relieved breath, managing to match it.
“It is good to see you awake,” Asagoroth said gently and lifted his head so he could speak easier. “How do you feel?”
“Better than I thought I would,” Roland said. “I don’t know why. How did my wounds heal so quickly?”
There was a significant pause before Asagoroth said, “Dragon’s fire often destroys, but it can also cleanse and heal. I healed you.”
Roland gaped. Well, none of the angel scholars knew about that little tidbit. That was for damn sure.
“I—thank you. So much. But why?”
He laid his head on his other arm and watched Roland, not answering.
“Asagoroth, why did you heal me?”
Still no answer.
Something shifted out of the corner of his eye, and Roland turned to see Asagoroth’s tail move over the stone floor. Small chunks of scales were missing, indicating obvious teeth marks. His leg was similarly wounded.
He winced. “Oh Light. Ouch.”
A small rumble came from Asagoroth like a weary chuckle. “Yes. He was a fine opponent and injured me well.”
Roland snapped his attention back to his face. “How badly are you hurt? Are you in pain? Can’t your fire heal you too?”
Asagoroth blinked slowly. “Injuries caused by other dragons are not so easily healed. Time will heal them.”
“I’m sorry.” Roland laid his hand on Asagoroth’s palm, feeling smooth scales, slightly ridged at the edges.
“Why do you apologize?”
Memories of what he’d witnessed burst into his head, vivid and terrifying. He could have watched Asagoroth die. Been killed. This dragon he was starting to care about, to even like. In one vicious moment, all that amazing, wonderful strength and power could have been gone before he could truly consider what Asagoroth meant to him. What he could mean to him.
To his horror, his vision blurred, and his eyes burned with tears. He spun away, presenting his back to Asagoroth’s penetrating gaze, and determinedly slid off his palm. He was still weak and fell to his knees, slapping his hands against the rough stone.
“What is wrong?” Asagoroth asked, voice becoming louder.
Roland choked back a sob, trying to rein in his emotions that threatened to spiral out of control. He covered his mouth and shook his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to steady his breathing.
Asagoroth’s heat pressed against his back, and he curled tighter into himself. Then Asagoroth barked several commands, and out of an entryway Roland hadn’t noticed before on the other side of the cave strode the spiky-haired demon and Roland’s sister.
Anpiel saw him, and her eyes widened before she rip
ped away from the demon and ran toward him. Asagoroth’s heat diminished, and his thudding footsteps faded away.
“Take care of him,” he said. Roland vaguely realized his gait was unsteady, reminding him Asagoroth had a limp. Then he was gone.
Anpiel dropped to her knees and gathered him into her arms, rocking them both.
“Oh, Ro. Oh, by the Light Bringer! I thought you were dead! I thought I lost you.” She cried, and that made him cry harder. They cried together as the single demon looked on. Through his tears he saw the demon was clearly uncomfortable. But when he noticed Roland looking at him, he straightened and bowed his head in respect.
Then he mouthed the words “Thank you” in Middle Dimoori.
Roland nodded back and held his sister tightly, wondering what was happening to him as he saved the lives of demons and lusted after dragons.
ROLAND WAS surprised, pleased, and a bit emotional again when he realized someone, somehow, saved his blue bag with his supplies and demon sketches. He clutched it to his chest as he joined the other angels. Zarall beamed and hugged his arm, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. He patted her head and noticed Sabrael and Bethor giving him the beady eye. He righteously ignored them and, instead, looked at Anpiel.
“What happened after I passed out?”
“The demons surrounded us, and we flew to this place.” She curled her mouth in disgust. “Two demons had to carry Bethor because of his charred feathers.”
“We should have tried to escape,” Sabrael said as if revisiting an old argument.
“Yes, you should have,” Bethor said, voice deep and commanding. His eyes glinted with fury at Anpiel. “I am dead weight. Roland is dead weight. You should have broken free and hid, then continued to the Upper Realm.”
“I will not leave anyone behind,” Anpiel said, meeting fury with fury. “We stand together. I will not leave my brother or you to the vengeance these demons will visit upon you, should we escape.”
“Seems to me Roland’s more in danger of becoming a dragon’s pet,” Sabrael said, sneering. “You fancy being a toy to the beast, Ro?”
Roland glared and imagined swinging his heavy bag in Sabrael’s face and breaking his nose.
“Watch yourself,” Anpiel said, flexing her fingers as if barely restraining herself from grabbing hold and punching him repeatedly in the face.
Roland turned to Zarall, who was clearly upset, watching them bicker.
“Zarall?” he whispered.
She looked up.
“Who carried me?”
She gulped before whispering back, “The dragon. In his claws. He was so gentle. I didn’t know dragons could be gentle. Did you?”
Roland looked away and closed his eyes.
Why, Asagoroth? Why won’t you just answer me why?
“Hey, angel,” a gruff, accented voice said. It spoke in Low Enochian.
Roland opened his eyes and looked up. A tall, muscled demon towered over them, dark eyes intent, but there wasn’t hostility in his gaze. He seemed oddly nervous.
The other angels became mute and deaf.
“Yes?”
The demon twisted his hands together, pausing for a moment. “The sketches. In the bag. They are yours?”
Roland resolutely kept his eyes fixed on the demon as he felt all the angels stare at him. Anpiel would think him a traitor. But what could he say? The demon had obviously seen them, so lying would be foolhardy and potentially deadly if the demon got insulted.
He sighed. No choice would be a good one.
“Yes, I drew them.”
The demon’s eyes brightened, and he grinned, showing white, even teeth and delicately pointed canines. He turned slightly and said something guttural, in a jovial tone, to the other demons. Soon they all ringed around him, excitedly jabbering at each other.
Confused, Roland looked from one face to another and noticed Spike among the crowd, smiling as well.
“You draw good,” the first demon said, again using stilted angelic words.
“Thank you.”
“I like picture of me.”
Roland found himself smiling. “I’m glad. Did… did you want it?”
The demon’s eyes bulged before he laughed and clapped his hands like a kid receiving a new toy. “Yes! I like it. Yes. Thanks to you. Thanks.”
Roland carefully stood and tried not to feel hurt when Anpiel scooted away and the rest of the angels put distance between him and the demons. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, opened his bag, and took out the sketches. He unrolled them, much to the excitement of his audience, and found the demon’s portrait.
“What is your name?”
The demon focused on the parchment, eyes wide with glee. “I am Agares.”
Roland quickly signed the portrait, adding Agares’s name at the top with swirly, artistic lettering in Low Enochian since he didn’t know how to spell Dimoori. Then he handed it over, and Agares took it with reverence. Other demons bent over and around him to see.
“You have one of me?” a female demon asked.
“Yes.” Roland found it. “What is your name?”
She smiled. “Marax. Can you sign to my wife?”
Roland blinked. Smiled. “What is her name?”
Another female stepped up to Marax and grabbed her hand, linking fingers. They were both strong and lithe with skin as dark as night, surprisingly delicate features, and shiny eyes of blue and green. They were a good match.
“Ronove,” she said in deep, raspy voice.
He added the name of Marax and dedicated it to Ronove, then signed it. Marax took the parchment and handed it to Ronove, then kissed her cheek. Ronove pressed the portrait to her chest and gazed lovingly at Marax.
It was a look his parents had often exchanged when they thought they were alone.
Roland swallowed down that revelation. His legs trembled, so he leaned against the stone wall. Spike moved to his side, concern furrowing his brow, and held Roland under the arm, steadying him. His grip wasn’t as hard as before, during the dragons’ battle. There would be no bruising this time.
All eyes focused on him, and everyone fell silent.
He blinked at the naked concern in every set of eyes. His art had never touched anyone so deeply until this moment. He’d never had such passionate and joyous fans. He cleared his throat and forced his legs to hold his weight. He stood on his own and patted Spike’s arm to indicate he could let go. He did, yet he didn’t step back.
“What is your name?” Roland asked.
Spike’s thick brow rose. “Bune.”
Roland pulled out the sketch he’d done of Bune, signed and labeled it, then handed it over. Bune took it with wide eyes and smiled with gratitude.
Roland quickly fell into a rhythm, any sadness he had in handing over his art swallowed by the glee and gratitude on the demons’ faces and their words of appreciation. There were a few demons he hadn’t drawn yet, and before their faces could drop too far, he showed them his stack of blank parchment, slightly wrinkled but still good, and grabbed a piece of charcoal. Their smiles and laughter couldn’t be contained.
So intent was he that he wasn’t aware anything was wrong until a ferocious roar echoed down the chamber and pounded against their ears. Roland wasn’t the only one who covered his ears and hunched his shoulders. Over the cowering heads of demons, Roland saw Anpiel, Sabrael, and Zarall running back into the chamber. With a gasp, he swung around to see only Bethor sitting where the others had been, grimacing with fear and anger at their thwarted plan.
Apparently his companions thought it best to try to escape while he distracted the demons. Somehow Bethor had convinced Anpiel to leave without him… and without Roland. A knife punctured his heart, hilt deep.
The three angels reached the crowd of demons a second before Asagoroth burst inside, eyes hot with rage. The demons quaked under his fear, clearly recognizing their folly. They threw themselves upon the ground, faces down in complete submission. They said nothing, but a f
ew groaned and whimpered, clearly wanting mercy but not expecting it.
Asagoroth growled at them, showing teeth. The three angels crowded around Bethor, clutching each other, eyes wide with fear. Roland was simply frozen, hands still over his ears, not knowing what to expect. Then he was slammed with that ferocious glare and thought throwing himself on the ground wasn’t such a bad idea.
“You did this,” Asagoroth growled.
Roland instantly protested. “N-no, I—”
“Do not lie!”
Roland flinched and pressed against the wall, dearly wanting to close his eyes so he wouldn’t see what happened next.
“You distracted my demons so my hostages could make their escape.” He sounded infuriated, his words barely recognizable. His voice boomed and bounced all around them, sounding louder, angrier. Deadlier.
“I did not,” he said.
Asagoroth took a step closer, carefully avoiding the cowering demons. He towered over Roland and snorted, hot air washing over Roland and flames sparking over his head.
“What did you say?”
Roland looked up and didn’t like the tone of Asagoroth’s voice, as if he’d betrayed him somehow.
“I did not distract your demons. I was making them happy.”
“Happy.” Asagoroth said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.
Roland lowered his arms and stood straight, letting his own anger push back his fear. “I drew portraits of your demons. They liked them, so I was handing them out. And yes, making them happy. It isn’t a bad word, Asagoroth, even if you don’t know what it means.”
Asagoroth narrowed his eyes. “My hostages tried to escape—”
“Of course they did!” Roland abruptly shouted, flinging his arms out. “Why wouldn’t they try to escape at every possible opportunity? You kidnapped us! You’re holding us hostage! Is it so hard to believe they want to escape? Do you think we like being here in these caves, not knowing what you plan to do with us? You want to conquer our homes and force our leaders to trade their freedom for our lives. Why would we want to stay and help you accomplish that?”
