Demon's Cradle (Devany Miller Book 3)

by Ponce, Jen

  “Hello?”

  Zech. Even better. “I need to know how to break someone out of a Skriven-proof cell,” I said without preamble.

  His silence didn’t please me.

  “Zech? The Witch Council has my father. They might kill him. I’m not going to let him die. Now, I figure you probably know something about the Council’s workings. And I’m pretty sure you’d rather help out my dad instead of seeing a bunch of your former comrades slaughtered by yours truly. So lay it on the line for me. What do I have to do to get him out?”

  To my surprise, he answered readily. “Get thrown in with him. The cells are weaker on the inside because they have magic dampers. They won’t affect you with your ... affliction.”

  “Affliction?” My heart was beating too hard in my chest. “Okay. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I almost hung up, but I had to know. “Why help me?”

  His pause had me checking my phone to make sure we still had a connection. He finally spoke. “I thank you for my life. And I think that you aren’t the abomination I once thought you to be.” Another pause. “What you did for Danni made her a new woman.”

  “I didn’t do anything, just supported her.” God. What if her phone line was bugged? What if mine was? I pulled my phone away from my head in horror, as if I could see the tiny listening device hidden inside it.

  “It was on TV. Them finding his body. I saw the magical sig. Your sig. So, thank you,” he repeated and hung up.

  Into the phone, I said, “I have no clue what he was talking about, Detective Warwick.” I locked the screen, slipped it into my pocket, and cracked my knuckles. Time to get thrown in jail.

  But first. Feed the cat. Talk to Travis. Make sure the kids were taken care of and knew what I was going to do so that they wouldn’t freak out.

  Then get thrown in jail. Right. Priorities. Sometimes they sucked.

  ***

  I had this great vision of me standing in the town square with a billowing black cape of fear slung over my shoulders, lightning flashing, black clouds darkening the sky. If I came in hot enough, I thought, I could scare them so damn bad they would give me my dad to keep me from flattening them. Problem was, I wasn’t sure where the Witch Council met. Sighing, I hooked to Marantha’s house. If they were watching her, then they’d find me. And maybe I could get some answers not colored by Arsinua’s bias.

  My knock this time yielded Marantha and she didn’t slam the door in my face when she saw it was me. Instead she swung the door open farther to show me the woman sitting on her couch. The Anforsa.

  “You okay?” I whispered, as if the dark smudges under her eyes weren’t enough to tell me what was what.

  “Do come in, Devany Miller. I believe we have a lot to talk about.”

  I made a face, considered snatching her up and taking her to the Slip, and then told myself this was my plan. My clever plan to get thrown in jail and break Dad out from the inside.

  Right. What the hell was I thinking?

  I walked in and sat on the chair opposite Kenda. A smirky smile played on her lips and though it irked me, I reminded myself that if she was thinking she’d won, then she would let down her guard.

  “I feel like I’m in the presence of a celebrity.”

  I made a face. “Let my father go.”

  She laughed. “Blunt, aren’t you? Not so cocky, either, now that I have your father. Though, that’s curious, isn’t it? How could he be your father when he committed his crimes centuries ago?”

  I shrugged. “The world works in mysterious ways.”

  She grimaced. “However it happened, it still stands that he is accused of crimes against the Council and he must stand trial to answer for his deeds.”

  “Like you said, centuries. Why not let him go?”

  Sighing, she stretched her arms along the back of the couch, claiming the space the way an alpha male in one of those paranormal romances would. “I’m afraid public opinion rules and the people want answers. And they want someone to punish.”

  “You mean the border raids?”

  She tipped her head. “That, yes. And the threat of Riders. And the unusual activity in the Anwar.”

  “The Wilds,” I corrected. “The Wydlings aren’t raiding the borders. It’s the Theleoni.”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “No, that’s smart. They want power. You guys won’t let them have it so they have to steal it. Stealing is hard. So what do they try next? Getting you bigoted assholes to legalize human harvesting. How do they do that?”

  She waved away my argument. “The Theleoni aren’t organized enough to do anything of the sort.”

  “They almost got legislation passed though, didn’t they? If it hadn’t been for my help, and the Coven of the Lotus’ working, harvesting humans might now be an activity sanctioned by the Council.”

  “You know a lot about our world. Let me ask you, are you ready to come in and register?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I have it on good authority that you would lock me up and throw away the key if I did that.”

  She shrugged. “When you break laws you must answer for your crimes.”

  “I wasn’t breaking laws. Just popping in and out. Besides. I’m half witch. Don’t I get a free pass?”

  Her eyes went glassy for a moment then focused on me again. “According to your magical signature, you are one hundred percent Skriven.”

  I snorted. “I’m a little bit of everything, lady. Witch. Wydling. Fleshcrawler.” I dissolved the magic hiding my gills and tipped my head to one side to give her a good look.

  Chythraul.

  “That too,” I agreed, then raised my eyebrows when Kenda looked confused. Nunya business, bitch.

  “It doesn’t help your cause that you’re associated with the wild magic. We quarantine people who’ve been exposed out on the Anwar for good reason.”

  “Oh yeah? What good reason is that?”

  She gave me a, ‘Duh,’ special that could have been shot straight from Liam or Bethy’s face. Except she was an asshole and not cute at all. “The wild magic changes people. Corrupts them. You’ve heard, I suppose, of the half-person, half-beast monsters?”

  “I’m dating one. And my mom was a Wydling. So be careful what you say.” Or I’ll eat your heart.

  Devany.

  ‘Sorry Jasper. I got carried away.’

  Maybe.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “You’re very quick, Kenda. Yes. It was a threat.”

  We stared at each other, or maybe glared daggers was a better way of describing it. Anyway, we were sending each other hate-waves when Marantha appeared with a silver tea tray, three mugs, and some assorted finger sandwiches.

  It kind of destroyed my desire to lick the Anforsa’s blood from my fingers after chowing down on her still beating blood-pumper. Feeling less blood-thirsty and more civilized with a tea cup in my hand, I settled back in the chair and made small talk with Marantha while studiously ignoring the Anforsa. Perhaps I could have been nicer, considering she held my father’s life in her hands, but her face annoyed me. Marantha gamely chatted about niceties until Kenda set her cup down with a thump.

  “I’m done with this. I will ask you again. Are you going to come in and register?”

  I didn’t answer her right away. I drank the rest of my tea. Ate the last sandwich and as I wiped my fingers, said, “Marantha. You should be a chef, seriously.” It wasn’t until the Anforsa made an impatient noise that I said, “Okay sure. Why not?”

  “Devany,” Marantha said, then stopped when Kenda shot her a glare.

  “Stay out of it.”

  Marantha’s lips thinned. She was putting on her pissy face and I was delighted to see it. “I will not. This woman is my friend. If you take her in to be registered and she disappears into the bowels of the Witch Council, I’ll make sure everyone knows of it.”

  Kenda’s turn to look annoyed. “She must register.”

  “
I know your kind. We all do, but none of us has enough power to challenge you. None of us alone.”

  Those words hung between them like the promise they were. Kenda’s face paled, but it didn’t stop her from gesturing me to the door. “Come, Devany Miller, and we will get this little misunderstanding sorted out.”

  “Don’t drink anything they give you without requesting a taster. It’s the law. They cannot drug you without your permission,” Marantha said. The Anforsa shot her a glare, which Marantha returned in spades.

  So Arsinua had willingly let them drug her when she’d turned herself in, huh? I’d have to give her a hard time about it if I ever saw the light of day.

  “Add me to your visitor’s list, Devany.”

  “I’m not arresting her, Marantha,” Kenda said, snapping out the words as if she wished she could hit her.

  Marantha plugged on. “I’ll gather everyone and bring them to your trial.”

  “No arrest! No trial.” Kenda tried to drag me through the door but I shook her off.

  “Don’t touch. Just because you’re getting called out on your bullshit doesn’t mean you can manhandle me. Step off or I’ll toss you into the Swamp and let you meet the new queen of the fleshcrawlers.” I held up my hand and crossed my fingers. “We’re like this.”

  Her thin nostrils flared. She dropped her hand though.

  “Do what you have to do, Marantha,” I said gaily as I followed the Anforsa’s rigid back to the waiting vehicle. It hadn’t been there when I got to Marantha’s house. When had the Anforsa summoned it, or had it arrived because of a prearrangement? Who knew? Who cared. “Coming to get you, Dad,” I whispered as I slipped into the vehicle beside the angry Anforsa and let her whisk me away to my doom.

  EIGHTEEN

  The Witch’s Council was an imposing building that reminded me of the Emerald City in Wizard of Oz ... minus all the green. There weren’t any horses of different colors, either, and I didn’t think there’d be a cowardly but avuncular Emperor to carry me back to Kansas in his hot air balloon.

  Damn.

  The floating car—a gettyup, according to the Anforsa, who looked even more sour when I snorted with laughter—let us off at the base of a semi-circular bank of stairs. There were five tiers with a generous platform between each. There were people everywhere here, wearing a crazy variety of clothes, from Earth styles, to Harry Potter robes, to things that defied description. There was a man with vines growing out of his skin. A woman completely naked but for fuzzy pink fluff decorating her ankles.

  The Anforsa caught me staring and shook her head. “A new fad. It only appears he’s naked. Peek around the magic. If you’re able,” she said, a sneer in her voice.

  I ignored the slight but did sneak a look with my Magic Eye. Wasn’t a lady at all. And that dude needed to shave his back. “What’s the point if everyone can see through the disguise anyway?”

  She spread her hands. “People living near the Omphalos have more power to burn. It makes them silly at times.”

  I stopped. A guy with blue fur all over his body almost bumped into me. I checked him through my Magic Eye too, and he was human-looking enough under the glamour. “So you’re telling me there’s extra magic here and you guys can’t share it?”

  “With who? The Theleoni? They are a pack of criminals and criminals aren’t allowed access to magic. Period.”

  “But that’s why they are stealing humans. Because you took their magic away.”

  She stopped too, her shoulders slumping for a moment as if my words were making her tired. Good. Maybe I’d make her so tired she’d fall down in a coma. “They took their own magic away when they committed their crimes. We do not reward illegal behavior with access to the Omphalos.” And then she was walking. Fast.

  I’d be damned if I jogged to keep up with her. So I meandered until she figured out I wasn’t right behind her like an obedient delinquent and she stopped again. When I finally caught up with her, I asked, “How do you keep them from accessing it?”

  “A tattoo. It blocks them from reaching the Omphalos. They all have the mark on their chests once they are condemned by trial.”

  “Do you plan to do that to my dad?”

  Her jaw muscle jumped. “If he’s condemned, he will be put to death.”

  I wanted to kick her. Only Jasper’s whispered coaxing kept me from lashing out at her. “For what?”

  “For trying to destroy the Omphalos.” She laughed when she saw my face. “What? Did you honestly think we’d put him to death for marrying a Wydling? Even his attempts at fomenting rebellion on the borders wasn’t enough to garner him a death sentence. Banish him, yes. But death? Don’t be ridiculous. He committed treason, Ms. Miller.”

  Holy Hell, Dad. Way to leave that out of your book. He hadn’t just wanted the Omphalos destroyed: he’d tried to do it himself.

  The entrance to the Council hall didn’t have doors in any sense of the word on Earth. There were several arches with golden columns situated at even intervals across the front of the hall. When we walked between a set of columns, a cold, impersonal wash of magic slithered through me, making me shiver in horror. “What was that?”

  “Protection. It marks your magical signature and dampens visitors’ power.” She eyed me. “Sort of.” Her eyes narrowed. Checking me out with her own version of the Magic Eye, I supposed.

  I smiled with as many teeth as I could muster and hoped it raised the hairs on the back of her neck. I also hoped it didn’t spur her to have me taken down by a magical goon squad. I touched my magic, relieved to feel the beat of its power in my head.

  The inside of the main room was grandiose. Everything was gold and bronze and cream. A giant seal gleamed on the waxed floor, with words around the edge that said, “Order From Chaos.” The people here were more conventional looking. Suits, for the most part. Further in, across the seal, we passed under a large balcony that plunged us into shadows. We were descending, though there weren’t any visual clues for this; it was just a feeling I had, of going down and down, into the pit of Hell, maybe. We walked a long time, witch balls lighting up in tiny alcoves as we neared them, and winking out after we passed. ‘Dungeon!’ my mind shrieked. Or dragon’s lair. I kind of hoped for the latter. If I was going to die an ignominious death, I’d rather die by dragon than bigoted, supercilious assholes like the Anforsa.

  The tunnel dumped us into a circular room. Red on the bottom, black on the top. The red looked like felt and the black was a glossy wood. The round chamber was bifurcated with pulsing red pathways, giving the room the vague look of a giant peace sign, which was probably an irony that would be lost on me until later. “Kind of pretentious, isn’t it?”

  “If you will.” She waved her hand to the chair that sat on a raised dais to my right.

  “No thanks. I’ll stand.”

  She rolled her eyes, which made me grin. The uptight Anforsa, rolling her eyes. Sweet. Maybe it meant I was getting to her. She’d crack, I’d get her to hand over my dad and ... She paced over to the podium at the head of the room, and the room began to fill with people. They were all wearing robes of red and black and when they sat, the robes blended in with the seats, giving the eerie impression that there were a bunch of floating heads in the audience.

  It was too quiet and I wasn’t going to let them intimidate me. So I began whistling, “All About That Bass,” and after a few bars, started doing a little dancing too. Anforsa Kenda glared at me and I finger-wiggled at her. Bethy and I loved the song and had been working on a routine for it, her ambitions high: “We can post it on YouTube and get a million likes, Mom!”

  “What manner of meeting is this, Anforsa Kenda?” This from a sour-faced man in the front row. Or maybe I should say sour-faced floating head.

  “This is the unregistered Skriven I told you about. She is also the daughter of Bran the Forsworn.”

  “Really? That’s what you call him?.” They all looked at me. I waved. “Kick ass daughter of Bran the Forsworn, a.k.a. Morgan F
letcher and Sabine Fletcher, my mom, the Wydling.”

  A lady who looked familiar said, “You’re proud of that?”

  “Yes.” Short answer. Long answer. “Take a long walk off a short pier, asshole.”

  Her lips pulled down and I added a “No” vote from her. As in, “No, we aren’t letting her out of here alive.”

  “Why isn’t she seated?” asked a third person.

  I didn’t even bother trying to pick him out of the crowd, and instead answered loudly, “Because she doesn’t want to sit. Because she doesn’t recognize your ridiculous Council. Because she’s pissed off you’re holding her father.” I arched a brow. “Shall I go on?”

  “Please no,” muttered the familiar chick in front and I laughed. Then I placed her. She was one of the witches who had accosted me outside of Marantha’s last time. Zansha or something.

  “We are here to register or deny registration to Devany Miller, Daughter of Bran the Forsworn.”

  “And Sabine Fletcher,” I said, stubbornly.

  She didn’t respond. “This woman has a Skriven signature but she says she is not Skriven. It cannot be denied that she’s sold her soul to one, or she wouldn’t be so deeply covered in the demon aura.”

  I shook my head, tsking.

  Kenda snapped, “What?”

  “I didn’t sell my soul. I’m not a Skriven, either. You’re wrong, both counts. Nice try though.”

  “You are—”

  “I’m an Originator.”

  The collective gasp was truly, deeply satisfying. Zansha stumbled out of her seat and backed down the glowing aisle as if I had plans to set her hair on fire. I pursed my lips. Huh. Not a bad idea.

  “You cannot be an Originator. Not and be the daughter of a witch.” Kenda dismissed me and turned back to the disturbed group. “Sit down, Zansha.”

  I wondered what would convince them, and then decided I didn’t give a damn what they did or didn’t believe about me.