FORTY-SIX

Dangerous Harvest

Deming Chen kicked off her jeweled heels.

She’d run so far she had no idea she was still wearing them until she stumbled on a stone in the indoor courtyard.

During her week at the castle, she had learned several things.

most important, that it was better to be quiet. She had fought, shown her claws and her strength too early, and so she had been chosen for this punishment. She’d heard that Dehua and Schuyler had been able to get away from their ladies-in-waiting, who had been blamed for the loss, and she was annoyed with herself for having made things harder on herself by attacking too soon. She should have waited until she was alone with only the Red Bloods instead of trying to skewer that ugly toad of a demon who’d picked her for his bride.

She’d weathered an entire week in the company of those simpering ladies, who hated her already because her friends had escaped and gotten them into trouble. The women pulled her hair when they combed it, and laughed at her inability to walk in the high-heeled slippers. Her groom, the demon Baal, had visited her once she had been transformed into a proper little whore: her hair a glossy black, lips a pouty scarlet, breasts rouged and powdered, lifted and presented in the skin-tight halter.

Baal was large and terrifying, with two great horns on his wide forehead, and a long black beard. He towered over her, but Deming was not afraid. When he inspected her form and cupped her breasts, she spit in his face. But he had only chuckled.

“I will enjoy this,” he’d said. “Once you are mine, you will learn to love me, my sweet fallen angel.”

Deming bided her time and waited for the right moment.

She let the ladies-in-waiting grudgingly feed her plums and peaches; let them curl and set her hair. She’d weathered the beauty treatments and the simmering resentment.

Her bonding gown was white, the color of death, the symbol not lost upon the Blue Bloods, who traditionally only wore white at funerals. This was no wedding dress; it was funeral attire. The demon did not care that she wasn’t human and would not be able to bear him any Nephilim. She had been sold to him as a novelty—the chance to bond with one of the Fallen.

The Virgin Eve, the traditional night before the bonding, was her chance, she knew. The ladies talked of nothing else but the feast that awaited the Silver Bloods and demons in Tartarus. On the Virgin Eve the ladies would return to the brothel for a celebration of their own, their work done for the week.

Deming saw the opportunity once she was alone, but a troll had been sent to guard her. She’d made quick work of the monster, using its own collar to choke it to death. She hid his body in one of the rooms leading up to the tower—the ones with the dead bodies of Baal’s former brides.

She started running and did not stop. But the dress was hard to run in, so Deming tore off the hem at the thigh and kicked off her heels. She was barefoot, but now all she had to do was find the path back to the gate and she would be free.

She was almost at the entrance of the drawbridge when she heard the sound of screaming coming from inside the castle. Her rescuers. Damn it. Didn’t they know she could take care of herself ? This was only going to complicate things. She made her way back to the great hall and practically bumped into Sam.

“Deming!”

“Sam!”

The Venator cracked one of his rare smiles. “You’re…”

“I’m good,” she assured. “Aside from some unwanted groping, I’m okay. You think I’d let a demon touch me and live?”

He hugged her tightly. “I know. I wasn’t worried….”

“Let’s get everyone and get out of here. I just found out something—one of the trolls told me I wasn’t meant for Baal after all. He was just checking me out for someone higher up who wanted me for himself,” she said urgently. The troll who’d come to fetch her had spilled the beans with a smug smile, which had made its death even more satisfying.

But before Deming could say anything more, there was a silver flash and a loud boom from the great hall, which shook the castle to its core.

Deming and Sam turned around.

Jack had been mistaken. It was not a Hellhound that had risen from the deep.

They saw a great horned beast, larger than any demon, looming over the melee. “That’s not a demon,” said Sam.

“That’s a Croatan.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Deming said. This was malakai, the Steward. On earth he had been known as Forsyth Llewellyn, Lucifer’s strongest ally, and his appearance in the underworld meant that he was even stronger now, as it proved that he was able to breach the wall between the worlds freely and that no gate could hold him. After taking Deming he would take her blood spirit as well, and planned to con-sume her strength into his.

The Silver Blood reeked of death. His foul stench filled the air. He had a bull’s head, and when he laughed, his yellow teeth glistened with saliva. His forked tongue was pierced with a dark bronze ring. His face was covered with dark fur and clotted with blood. When he screamed he breathed the Black Fire.

Sam and Deming ran toward the battle to help their friends, their swords drawn, but it was too late. The beast’s spiked tail was already buried in Mahrus’s chest.

The Venator fell to his death.