The Demon King

by Heather Killough-Walden

  Or to those were used by them – as he was now.

  He was fortunate that demons could not lose their souls, or he suspected he’d have released his just then. A demon’s soul was inexorably tied to their body, forever locked within it. The mind could never die… because the demon would never die. No matter what it endured, it would live on. That was another part of the Curse.

  A boon, however, a precious twinkling diamond in the dust that was a demon’s existence, was that if it mated with a mortal, its child would receive a piece of its mother’s soul.

  No other race could claim this. For them, each infant was a product of its environment, its DNA, and its circumstances. But a demon’s child was born with the wisdom, intelligence, empathy – or apathy – of generations before it. These traits were passed down to demon children as surely as green eyes or red hair.

  It was Lenore who had the soul for his child – the beautiful, irreplaceable soul. With each life experience, with each growing, learning thought, she fed that soul, fed that mind. “I think, therefore I am.” It was a mortal saying. Had the mortal who’d coined it realized that the soul was in the mind?

  He wondered about this as leather laced with the shards of various metals laid waste to his back. He wondered a lot of things, scatteringly, chaotically. He was losing his grip on reality and on his ability to think through it.

  It has to hurt to work.

  That was why so few demon children were born any longer. The men who could withstand the ceremony were sparse and far between. But surely there was no demon who had ever suffered as he did now? He smiled and laughed, flashing fangs in the fire-lit darkness of his self-made torture chamber. His laughter was deep and harsh in the room’s respectful silence. The swishing of the whip stopped, its wielder at once uncertain.

  It was the first sound the king had made in hours. Not a single whimper not one tiny cry had escaped his throat in all of that terrible time. And now he laughed.

  They were right to worry.

  But Lord Astaroth, King of the Demon Realm, slowly bowed his head, resigned. He felt his wet black hair against his forehead as he laid it against the chains surrounding his left wrist. He closed his eyes and imagined the woman he loved and the child they would be able to have together… if he only kept going. If he didn’t give up.

  He knew he had only come half way. There was still so far to go.

  “Continue,” he commanded softly, his voice nonetheless loud and clear in the stone chamber.

  There was one more moment, one precious space of seconds, in which his servant hesitated. And then the air was once more filled with the sound of a weapon slicing through the air, and flesh being torn asunder beneath it.

  *****

  Boston, Current Day

  “They’ll never heal.” Lenore shook her head, placing her hand to her forehead. “The marks his torture left on his back… they aren’t just scars. They never fully mended.” She thought of what Astaroth had done to himself, and looked down at her perfect, unmarred skin. She gritted her teeth. “Sometimes they even bleed,” she continued. “And his blood runs. Blood that burns his skin as it escapes. A demon’s blood is like liquid fire.” It was never meant to be spilled. A demon was meant to live forever, and that blood was a living testament to the inhumanity of that covenant. It was like magma and acid.

  That was already bad enough. But Astaroth had used up so much of his magic to make this safe haven for her, he was weak and in pain. It was why he was hiding. He’d never been more vulnerable than he was now.

  She was thinking about this, and about pain in general and how and why life demanded so damned much of it, when Laz suddenly asked, “Why Rosa?”

  Lenore looked up, surprised by the change of subject. Her son’s eyes shone like London blue topaz, brilliant and keen. Why Rosa? She’d already told him that… but as she gazed into his eyes, she realized that wasn’t what he meant. Strong set jaw, hard look. He was so like his father.

  And that was what she’d been afraid of.

  “After your father and I had to go through what we did to bring you into this world… I started thinking. I knew you would be like him. He said you would have my soul but,” she shook her head. “Your blood would be like his.”

  “My blood doesn’t burn,” he said. His voice was as hard as his eyes. “I’ve spilled it enough times to know.”

  She swallowed hard. “Not yet, Laz. But soon it might. You’re changing. Don’t you see that?”

  Lazarus swallowed hard too; she could see his throat work as he looked away. Every vein in his arms was showing where he had them crossed over his strong chest. He was becoming his father’s equal, his twin almost, in every way but one. His eyes would always be hers.

  “I began to fear for your future. I thought about you and anyone you might one day love, and I realized that if you wanted to have children, you would be put through the same hell. I couldn’t bear it. I started to hate everything about it, everything your father stood for.” She shook her head fiercely. “I know now that it isn’t his fault. It’s the Demon’s Curse. But you’ll suffer it the same. Just as every generation suffers the repercussions of the sins of generations past. I wanted to delay that as long as possible. Inevitably, if that was an option.”

  “So you gave me to Rosa and hoped she would purify me?”

  Lenore blinked. “I thought if I exposed you enough to humanity, if I kept you from Aster and his people–”

  “That the truth would go away.”

  She froze. He was staring her down now, and the intensity of that gaze was so strong that she could barely stand to look at him. Slowly, and with a sinking feeling, she admitted, “Yes. More or less.”

  Laz pushed himself off the counter and approached her slowly. “And how did that work out for you… mom?”

  Lenore felt strange. Before her very eyes, her son was changing. It was in the sound of his voice, the way he held himself, tall and dangerous. “It didn’t. The king in you is coming out. Your time to take your father’s throne draws near. That’s become painfully clear.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Who isn’t here?” asked someone at the Table. It wasn’t their usual table. It was an impromptu gathering spot, chosen on the fly, and at this point, Roman was thinking that may be safer than anything else – acting without planning. If the good guys didn’t have information, then the traitor couldn’t have it either.

  “The Time King is missing,” offered Evie. Roman looked down at his wife, his mate, his queen, and his life. She’d nearly been taken from him today. But she sat beside him at the round table in the empty office looking as stunning as usual, and as composed as a queen. Roman forced his fist to relax where it had curled tight and looked at the station where William normally sat. It was empty.

  “But so is the Dragon King,” said Chloe Septeran, the Warlock Queen. He looked up at her, and she nodded at Arach’s seat. It too was empty.

  “And Steven Lazarus is missing,” added her husband, Jason Alberich. Of course the Warlock King would notice if an Akyri was missing.

  “I know where Lazarus is,” said Roman. At least there is that, he thought. At least they could cross the Akyri King off the list of suspects in line for traitor. The man had found his queen. The fact that it was Dahlia Kellen would have made Roman laugh under different, better circumstances. She was somewhat of a legend.

  But these were not happy times.

  Roman turned to one of his servants, who was waiting at the door for any last orders. “See if you can track down Arach and William,” he whispered. “Ask Pi for assistance. He moves quickly.” Pi was a fire elemental, and he could appear and disappear in hearths across all of the realms, and he could do it in the blink of an eye. It would seem fire was such a pure element, it knew no boundaries.

  The servant nodded a nod that was almost a bow and quietly left, shutting the door behind him. The room Roman had chosen for this impromptu meeting was in a law office in a three-story building in Pi
ttsburgh, Pennsylvania. He’d chosen it at random, but the Table he’d fashioned using magic, as tables big enough to seat all of the kings and queens were normally not created.

  Roman turned back to his companions. The lot of them sat quietly, watching him with knowing gazes. Two of the four who could have been the traitor were at the Table, and they looked uncomfortable. No doubt it had crossed their minds that things had hit a head and they could be entering a trap. They were either very brave, or they knew deep down that being one of the Thirteen meant that the others were there to help you, not harm you. Or maybe it was both.

  No one had mentioned that Lalura’s chair was empty. They all knew it was pointless. They all know what happened.

  “I’m sure you’re all by now aware of the situation,” he said, voicing his thoughts. What he didn’t voice was the fact that two of the men who were missing were men who hadn’t yet found their queens, and were therefore suspects. Chantelle had been killed by the traitor. None of the women involved in the incident had been able to see who he was; he’d been invisible and inaudible to them in the tumult. All three women claimed Lalura had been speaking with him, and had referred to him as the traitor, but that it had been as though she were speaking with a ghost.

  He’d clearly taken precautions, protecting himself from their detection. But he hadn’t bothered with Lalura, since he’d been there to kill him. Or maybe he’d tried, and had failed. His final failure against the witch. His next attempt at anything against her would succeed, and now the world was one witch short.

  “It was the traitor, wasn’t it?” someone asked. Roman realized he’d been staring off into space, his gaze stuck to the empty seat across the Table from him. Why had he even put the chair there if he’d known it wouldn’t be filled? What had he been thinking?

  “You’re just used to seeing her there,” came a soft voice from beside him. He felt her hand on his elbow, and from that point of contact, a cool, calm salve moved through his body and into his soul. He looked down at his beautiful bride, a silent thank you passing between them.

  “Of course it was the traitor,” came a man’s calm but seethingly powerful voice. This time Roman recognized it as belonging to Caliban, the Unseelie King.

  “She died protecting the people we love,” said Roman. He looked at Violet Kellen, the Shadow Queen. She hadn’t moved where she sat beside her husband. Her gaze was locked on the tabletop, but he knew she wasn’t really seeing it. She was elsewhere, locked in grief and loss. She and her sister Dahlia had been the closest to Lalura of the kings and queens. Only The Healer, Dannai Caige, had been closer to Lalura.

  “This will kill Dahlia,” Violet whispered suddenly.

  Roman swallowed hard.

  “When Vader defeated Obi-wan, he just made him stronger with the Force,” came a softer, dreamier voice. It belonged to Minerva, the Unseelie Queen. Her ash-blonde hair, enormous eyes, and fair skin made her look like a porcelain doll where she sat at the Table, her hands folded in her lap. Roman had perhaps never witnessed a more deceiving appearance on a person. The woman was a Wisher, a ticking time bomb with enough nuclear power to destroy worlds.

  “Exactly,” agreed Damon Chroi, the Goblin King. The man smiled, leaning forward on the Table. “He’s made a tactical error. The old witch will probably just haunt the crap out of him now.”

  A few people at the Table laughed. It was one of those badly needed laughs, one that barely managed to disguise the pain underneath it. Lalura Chantelle had been friend to many, including most of the kings and queens at that table.

  “That isn’t why we’re here though, is it?” another man coolly asked. This was the Nightmare King, Hesperos. These days, the man spent more time in the mortal world than he did his own, and in that world he went by Mr. Drake Hesperos, president and CEO of Dream Industries, a video game company that spat out games for new virtual reality devices as if they were created through magic. Which they were.

  The Shadow King, Keeran Pitch, was well versed in the art of the video game franchise, being somewhat of a celebrity with millions of followers and customers across the globe. Therefore, Hesperos and Pitch worked closely creating these new VR games, and they had been doing so for the last six months. At this point, both men were filthy, stinking rich.

  Roman met the Nightmare King’s gaze and held it. “Drake” was dressed in a tailored three-piece suit that favored his fit build. His tie matched the green of his eyes.

  Hesperos was another of the kings who had not yet met his “queen.” Frankly, the idea of Hesperos having a queen was fundamentally ridiculous to Roman. It was to everyone, because Hesperos was a Nightmare, otherwise known as an incubus. These men didn’t settle down. They basically made a living off of doing the opposite.

  Roman pulled his gaze from the Nightmare King and looked down at his hands where he had his fingertips splayed across the polished wood of the Table. He was having difficulties with the idea of his queen nearly being killed by the traitor. Hence, he was feeling a little emotionally unstable at that particular juncture in time. In this instability, his instincts were telling him that his initial desire to destroy the remaining five kings had been dead-on. They were telling him he still had time to do so. They were telling him that every wasted second he didn’t do so was another second the traitor went on breathing.

  Since these instincts weren’t exactly those of a psychologically sound leader, he shoved them into a dark corner of his mind and calmly said, “No, it is not.” He looked back up. “I’ve called you here to inform you that this will be the last time we meet at our table.” At least until this is all over.

  The people in the room fell starkly silent. And then a quiet murmur went up, and that quiet murmur rapidly rose into a dull roar of protest. He understood why they were up in arms about his announcement. Not a single one of them actually cared about having meetings. Neither did he, frankly. He’d always felt meetings were an unfortunate waste of everyone’s time and energy. However, amongst the Thirteen, meeting together in a single neutral location and sharing thoughts and ideas had become a symbol of all they’d worked so hard to form – a union of realms. A group of bright minds and strong wills, a companionship and brotherhood that meant when one of them was in trouble, help would come from the other twelve.

  It was important. It was stability. And now he was shaking up that stability, throwing it in a blender, and shredding it into oblivion.

  But he had no choice, and he knew they were aware of that too. In their hearts, they had to agree. Even the traitor had to know it would be better for the kings and queens if they no longer met and shared important information with one another while he sat amongst them. They’d already waited too long to make this decision. And now they’d paid a very dear price.

  “Please,” he said softly, and yet that soft voice was enough to cut through the disquiet. “Once we adjourn, refrain from communication with one another unless absolutely necessary.” He’d meant to continue to advise specifics, but someone interrupted him.

  “Roman,” came a woman’s voice. His gaze roamed until it fell upon Poppy Nix, the young human woman who had recently become the Winter Queen. He caught her gaze and held it, waiting for her to continue. “I know Lalura’s death is a blow.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “But… do we really want to allow it to divide us? Isn’t there a saying about dividing and conquering?” she asked.

  Roman felt the silence that engulfed the room then. He looked at Poppy, noticing things. Her eyes, normally beautiful, were red. There was a darkness under them. Her pallor was a touch too pale, and he knew it had more to do with grief than with the wintery kingdom in which she now lived. Roman understood this well. He and Lalura had gone way back.

  Banning communication had been his knee-jerk reaction to the witch’s death. He had lost someone dear to him, and he was terrified of losing another. Was it affecting his ability to make decisions for the Thirteen? Was he wrong? For the first time in centuries, Roman D’Angelo found hi
mself – uncertain.

  “No,” said Evelynne suddenly. Roman glanced down at his bride. She rose gracefully from her chair, hands splayed on the tabletop. Like the queen she is, thought Roman.

  In a calm, cool voice that addressed the others at the Table, she said, “Roman is right. This is simply a precaution, and frankly it didn’t come soon enough. The traitor somehow learned of Lalura’s location, and that should have been impossible. We’re being too free with our information, and it has cost us a life. It might have cost us four lives. As painful as it might be to admit it, we were fortunate this time. Who will be next?”

  She directed her gaze at Diana and Damon Chroi. In a manner that surely cut the couple to the bone, she said, “He’s using our loved ones against us. Lalura gave her life to protect people she cared about. Who will have to do that next?” She didn’t have to state that it could be Damon and Diana’s triplets or any of the animals they cared for. Everyone at the Table understood what she meant.

  “Then we need a way to communicate when it is necessary,” said Thanatos, the Phantom King. “Shit happens. We need to be able to warn one another. It’s the reason we started meeting in the first place.”

  “Why don’t we just agree to leave us bachelors out of it,” said the Shifter King, Darius. Everyone looked at him. He shrugged. “I haven’t got a problem with you just not including us. You obviously need to keep anyone who isn’t hooked-up out of the loop. Right?” He smiled a stunningly white smile and gave Hesperos a look that said they were in this together.