The Necromancer's Betrayal

by Mimi Sebastian

  “Maybe I can levitate us up the path,” Kara said in between huffs.

  “No.” Gus’s voice rang harsh against the rocks. “Do not work your magic while we approach or travel through the portal.”

  He surprised us with the clarity and strength of his normally soft, shaky voice. Kara lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, and we marched on. Human things didn’t work the same here, although I still had no clue where “here” was.

  We veered onto a path that split from the ledge and deposited us in a small clearing rimmed by black monolithic pillars, sparkling as if the demons had sliced up sections of the night sky and dropped them in front of us. Kara and I stared, transfixed by the towering slabs.

  The portal gleamed on the tallest pillar, a mosaic that formed a picture of San Francisco. When Ewan had touched it, the tiles had shifted and realigned to display our destination, New York. When Gus touched the tiles now, they melted into the black rock. He rubbed his hand over the smooth surface, mumbling in the demon tongue until the spot shimmered and morphed into a black hole.

  “I liked the pretty tiles better,” Kara said.

  “Me too. This is different.” Maybe because we were going to the demon realm instead of just passing through? The blackness pulsed ominously, but I refrained from voicing my doubts, wanting to project confidence at the same time that my heart was beating frantically.

  Gus stuck his hand into the portal until only the stump of his arm remained visible, as if the blackness had severed his hand at the wrist. He pulled back, and I was relieved to see the hand still attached. He waved us over.

  Kara hesitated.

  “You don’t have to come,” I said, giving her a last chance to back out, knowing full well she wouldn’t. The portal might have given her pause, but she didn’t fear the supernatural. It was hard, cold reality and the mundane world that drove her nuts.

  I clasped her hand, and we approached Gus. He reached for my free hand, and I expected to feel squishy, doughy skin but was surprised by his firm grip. I squeezed Kara’s hand. “Stay with me. Don’t let go.”

  “Yes ma’am,” she said, mocking my command.

  “Hey, I’m a badass demon now. Follow my lead.”

  She snorted.

  “I have minions.”

  She laughed, and I joined in, both of us using the mirth to ease our nervousness. I gave Kara’s hand another squeeze, and she reciprocated.

  I nodded at Gus, and, with a sharp tug, he pulled us into the void.

  Chapter Two

  NOTHING.

  No sound, no sights, no smell.

  The total darkness snaked its way into my nose, eyes, and mouth, shutting out all sensory detail. It weaved through my brain cortices, blacking out thought and reason. The only thing that kept me from regressing into a blabbering, primordial puddle was the tight squeeze of Kara and Gus’s hands. I was about to lose it when a green light flashed in my vision. A whine, as if someone crying, pulsed in my ear before the fermented scent of an ancient place, one far from any human reality, pinched my nose. The demon realm.

  I found myself on my hands and knees on top of what felt like soft, humid soil and leaves. I blinked a few times to clear the lingering blackness from my sight. Ewan had explained a demon could get lost in the veil connecting realities and planes of existence while passing through the portal. I shuddered at the thought of drifting in the gloom forever, those inky tentacles slithering in and out of my senses and memories, blacking everything out, leaving nothing. And what had made that weird, horrible, humanlike whine?

  I finally lifted my dizzy head and saw Kara sagging against a tree, her hands wrapped around her knees. She met my gaze, and I held back a gasp at the tiny black pearls dripping down her corneas like drops of water dribbling off a rounded glass. When the drops cleared, the white of her eyes blazed at me. “Will it be like that on the way back?” she asked, her voice shaky.

  “I hope not.”

  “I don’t like black places. Especially when they creep inside you.” She shook her shoulders and tucked her head between her thighs. “I couldn’t feel anything, no cold, hot, nothing.”

  The sound of thrumming air drew my gaze upwards. My mouth fell open at the outstretched black feathers flapping, holding aloft a burly anti-cherub, its skin a gray ash color. The demon’s eyes sparkled and bulged at us.

  “What is it?” Kara asked, wonder and fear churning on her face.

  “It’s Gus,” I answered in disbelief.

  “No way.”

  Gus swooped down, grazing our heads with wings that must have spanned a good ten feet in each direction. His movements were swift and steady, unlike his shambling walk in the human realm, explaining everything. He must have hated using his feet to walk when he had such amazing wings to glide and swoop.

  “We must hurry,” he said, flying off, skimming over the rounded green leaves of the tall, thin trees held at attention by white trunks. Kara and I lifted our shaky frames and followed Gus’s plunging figure down a path lined with fat bushes. Their leaves reached out to poke us as we rushed passed. The wind swooshed around us in soft whispers.

  The trail wound down to a small brook that burbled a welcome, splashing our feet as we crossed. The water skipped and fell over rocks, hastening to an unknown destination. A layer of moist leaves covered the ground and provided a soft cushion for our feet. As we trudged deeper, the forest grew denser. Rocks covered in iridescent splashes of velvety, luminescent fungus pocked the terrain, providing a psychedelic décor.

  “I half expect fairies to swarm around us, glowing and giggling,” Kara said.

  “Right before they eat your eyes out,” I said. I bore no illusions about the demon realm. Once, like Kara, I’d imagined it as a fairytale land, but now I knew it was a dangerous place full of screeching beasts, shifty demons, and murky ponds harboring lethal weeds. On cue, something started to shine in the fern-like bushes. I stopped and raised my arm to halt Kara. Gus hovered above us.

  “Let’s go,” Kara said, tugging at my shirt.

  A soft hiss wafted from the shaking bushes, announcing the emergence of a cross between a snake and lizard. Out poked a flat cobra head, covered in tough scales that gleamed in blues and greens. I lowered my hand and smiled. The creature, or Myyr, had attacked Ewan and me on one of our trips through the portal. Ewan had killed him and tossed him in the infamous murky pond where the weeds had attempted to drown me. In a bizarre twist, I’d transformed the creature into a zombie when he floated past and commanded him to tow me out of the water.

  Kara laid a hand on my shoulder and peeked at him from behind me. “What is that?”

  “I told you I have minions.”

  This time she didn’t respond with a snort or sarcasm.

  “Why is that creature here?” Gus asked with disdain. “He should be guarding the portal.”

  Myyr stretched to his full nine feet and bared his fangs at Gus who only scowled and beat a small gust at it with his wings.

  “He’s my zombie and compelled to protect me,” I said.

  “Zombie?” Kara asked, her tone incredulous.

  “I’ll explain another time. We have to go,” I said impatiently.

  I waved Myyr on, but instead of heading down the trail, he flattened his salamander legs against his body and slithered in front of me. He bent his head toward my chest. I didn’t know how to handle this thing. Ewan had said his type were nasty mercenaries. But it sure didn’t look that way. He swayed before me like a puppy wanting his head scratched. I reached my hand out carefully and rubbed the slick scales. He let out a contented hiss.

  Kara shifted out from behind me and approached Myyr. He lifted his head and flicked his tongue at her, but didn’t hiss or threaten. Myyr was the only zombie-demon-animal in existence—at least, I thought he was an animal. I hadn’t educated myself in d
emon cryptozoology. Each time I encountered him, I expected to notice some decay, but he appeared intact, and I figured it was because he was demon.

  He dipped, extended his legs, and, scoping out the trail, moved over the ground, alternately pumping his little legs and slithering up and over rocks and in and out of holes. He appeared to enjoy his chosen obstacle course, and Kara and I relaxed our guard, knowing Myyr would alert us to any hidden dangers.

  The trees thinned out and ended at the apex of a hill where Myyr reached up for another head scratch before retreating back into the forest. The sight spread out before us had both Kara and I gazing in wonder, first at the landscape, then at each other, as if to reassure ourselves that this was real—we were real. A metropolis of white squares, spires, and domes sprawled in multiple levels of a dense urban landscape, layer upon layer with the final tier stretching out to join an expanse of green-blue sea, all framed by a sky as expansive and endless as the stone structures rising beneath it.

  “Holy fantasy realms,” Kara said.

  “Hurry, hurry,” Gus said, shooing us down the grassy hill with a swoosh of his wings toward a stone path leading into the city. When we reached the first row of densely-packed brick dwellings, demons passed us, blandly human-looking at first glance. Closer inspection revealed oddities—a misplaced arm or leg, blue skin, a smile filled with rows of pointed teeth, or spikes poking through a tunic or robes flowing in colorful patterns. I picked at my T-shirt, wishing I’d donned something more exciting than the monochrome monotony of the blue cotton. We turned down a narrow street that opened to a plaza, reminding me of old European cities—with sidewalk cafes, tiled roofs, colored windows painted in deep shades of reds and purples—but bigger, grander, and constructed with intricate lines and geometric shapes that would most likely confound human architects.

  We crossed the plaza, then walked down another narrow street to another plaza where water lapped against cement docks jutting against the buildings. Vendors flanked the docks on boats, selling unfamiliar food, shimmering gossamer cloth and glittering silver objects.

  “Is this real?” Kara asked at my side.

  I saw the tall spires, smelled the musky water, heard the vendors barter with exaggerated outrage, but my mind stuttered to process it all. All I could do was shake my head in wonder.

  Gus directed us across a swath of grass toward a path that ended in front of a hexagon-shaped building jammed between four towers that surpassed the immensity of human-built skyscrapers.

  “This is the archive. Ruby, only you can proceed,” Gus said, pointing at an arched walkway that cut into the hexagon structure. “I’ll take Kara, and we’ll wait in the market plaza, the one with water.” Skimming low to the ground, he ushered Kara back toward the plaza. She gave me a departing backward glance and mouthed ‘be careful’ before disappearing around the corner.

  I hesitated before proceeding down the walkway, which struck me as funny that only now, after traversing the portal and trekking through the woods, apprehension would strike. When I’d explained to Gus that I wanted to learn more about demon history, he suggested the archive, the demon version of a hall of records.

  The building was imposing and ancient, but I’d come this far and wasn’t about to turn back. I followed the walkway, eventually winding up in front of two wood-framed doors that easily reached twenty feet in height. I wasn’t sure how to announce myself and was saved the dilemma when the doors opened of their own accord. I stepped inside, and a tall lissome demon with a forest green robe draped over his hairless body materialized beside me, making me jump in surprise. He was delicate-thin with tapered fingers and eyes resembling large opals. I reached out for a handshake and he stared at my hand as if I held someone’s bleeding heart in my palm.

  I dropped my hand. “Hi, I’m . . .”

  “I know who you are. Why are you here?” He looked down his hawkish nose at me, speaking in a reedy voice, his face a mix of contempt and curiosity.

  “I wish to view the historical records on the necromancer genocide.”

  “Those records are not available for viewing today.” He puffed out his robe and brushed past me, heading for a mezzanine that opened to an outside courtyard. Gus had explained that the demons who oversaw the historical records were known as Chroniclers. Stingy, prickly demons, he’d called them. They hovered over the demon records like the most parsimonious accountants guarding financial ledgers.

  I hurried after him. I hadn’t survived the black hole portal to have this over-achieving demon librarian cut me down. “Excuse me, what is your name?”

  He stopped short, sending his robes fluttering around his legs, and raised an annoyed eyebrow. “Tivor.”

  “Tivor, please. I must see that record.”

  I heard a slight intake of breath, saw his shoulders sag slightly. “I was instructed not to allow you access to those records.”

  My mouth dropped open and it took me a few moments to work the shock out of my jaw and form words. “Someone instructed you? Who?”

  He stared at me impassively. Right. Not telling. Now what? I’d made it this far. I wasn’t going to leave without taking advantage of this opportunity to view demon historical records. So I went with plan B and took Ewan off the back burner.

  “I want to see the record of Marchios’s crime,” I said.

  Tivor’s robes rustled, and he said with a bored tone, “It’s forbidden to show that event until Marchios has served out his debt pact.”

  I groaned inwardly. “No one can view the history?”

  “No one but us.”

  Shit. What now?

  “Of course, you can view the histories of other demons.” His whispered words snuck out to me in the quiet of the courtyard. I gave him a side-glance. He stared straight ahead, and I was nonplussed that he’d just given me a loophole through demon rules. Did he know and sympathize with Ewan?

  Damn. Whose record would reveal the nature of Ewan’s transgression? Jax’s? I didn’t think the two had shared enough history. Who else? Another warrior? Then it came to me in a flash of hot dogs and ornery demon blobs. Damon. I’d met Damon—Ewan’s best warrior bud—on our trip to New York. He was an imposing demon whose muscles bulged with arrogance, but he trusted Ewan with a dedication bordering on reverence.

  “Draemavos,” I said, referring to his demon name.

  A small smile lifted the corners of Tivor’s thin lips. “Very well.”

  He led me past the courtyard, the hem of his robe dusting the concrete walkway with each swoosh of the fabric. He stopped in front of another archway and waved me forward. I gasped when I stepped into an enormous round chamber topped with a multicolored, translucent ceiling. Light streamed in, illuminating walls adorned with paintings as impressive as any Rembrandt or da Vinci. Nothing else cluttered the room. Another Chronicler, dressed in a green robe similar to Tivor’s, stood painting an empty patch of the wall.

  “Each painting represents a historical event,” Tivor said.

  I scoured the room again, looking up and around and behind. I could spend the rest of my life here viewing demon history, but I had an hour at best.

  He led me to a far wall dotted with stone steps streaming up at various angles. He pointed toward the ceiling. “The record you seek is at the top. You’ll have to climb.”

  I extended my neck as far back as my inflexible muscles allowed and squinted at the painting dominating the row just under the dome, a good forty foot climb up stone steps barely wide enough for my foot. As if goading me, Tivor effortlessly hopped up and breezed over to the painting.

  I placed my foot on the first step, anchoring myself with a hand on the wall, and climbed, step by careful step, refusing to look down. I had to occasionally stop and wipe my clammy hands on my jeans, eliciting a loud, impatient sigh from Tivor.

  Halfway up, another painting captured my attenti
on. It depicted a woman dressed in a black gown, swirling with golden embroidery, her face shrouded by a black veil. She stood in a temple of some sort, her hands stretched over an altar. The light poured in from a hole in the ceiling, giving her blond hair an otherworldly glow. “Who is the woman in this painting?” My soft voice echoed back to me.

  “The soul collector,” Tivor answered.

  My foot slipped, and I gripped the step above me to keep from plummeting to the ground. Stunned, I stared at the woman and at the glowing silver-onyx stone in the palm of her hand. “Soul collector? Why do you call her a soul collector?”

  He wrinkled his nose in irritation. “We are here to view Draemavos’s record. If you wish to view her record, you will have to make a separate request.”

  I cursed under my breath. Bureaucrat. An urgent need to know more about the woman in this picture tugged at me, but she’d have to wait. I arrived at Damon’s painting out of breath. Tivor seemed way too comfortable, stretched across several steps as if he were resting on a damn Barcalounger. I stared at the picture displaying Damon’s huge blond form astride a horse, although it wasn’t really a horse, not with the thick horns curling from its head. Next to him, Ewan rode a similar black beast, a black tunic covering him, his sword raised.

  Bloody hell. He was unbelievably gorgeous. Pictures of Greek gods paled in comparison to the image of his muscular angles highlighted by the deftly applied paint. These Chroniclers were master painters, somehow wielding the universe in each brush stroke, creating this perfect image of warriors in their full demon glory. The picture alone induced multiple contractions of desire and tears, and threatened to reduce me to a mass of wobbly flesh. Ewan looked fierce and younger, less burdened by the miseries currently weighing him down.

  I’d never asked Ewan his age. Time in the demon realm passed exponentially compared to time in the human realm. He was probably old as dirt, but none of it mattered when you had an intergalactic lifespan. Human years meant nothing to demons. They recalled events that happened hundreds of human years ago as if they’d occurred yesterday, and remembered the details to the minute, the clothes worn, the food eaten, the insults spoken, and, as I was learning, the trespasses and betrayals.