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Without the contract, he’ll no longer have a guaranteed supply of souls to feed on. Though it sickens him, he needs to eat. If he doesn’t he will go mad.
“You can’t,” he rasps. “The generals will end your sorry existence without me to protect you.”
The King moves so fast Nur can’t duck this time. His hand closes around Nur’s neck and he heaves Nur into the air. His grip burns like the heart of a flame, tearing into Nur’s skin. Nur shouts and scrabbles at the fingers as they squeeze his windpipe, heedless of how his hands blister.
“Your kind,” the King hisses. He shakes Nur like a ragdoll. “So arrogant, even after your perfect kingdom crumbled. But now look at you. A pale imitation of true life. Clinging to the form I gave you, barely more than a mindless beast. You’re pathetic, and I am a King. Which of us do you think will be wiped from the face of the realm first?”
Nur chokes, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He kicks frantically but his feet find nothing but thin air. The fiery pain at his neck sinks into his tissue, his muscle, all the way to the bone.
This must be the end. His time has run out.
He knew it was coming.
He knew since the day the demon captain Rone showed up at his door with his little angel mate in his arms. That day he understood the Hollow King’s Court was no longer a loveless place. So Nur, unloveable, would have to be extracted from its machinery.
His only comfort is that the King will experience the same fate.
Nur watchesthe angel sharpen his knife.
His mind is still in the aether, rendering everything blurry and dreamlike. This angel is broad and tall, nothing like thelittle angel Nur once called his only friend. His movements are sure and self-possessed, his strokes quick, the muscles of his forearm flexing. A shimmering curtain of near-white hair falls to his shoulders, half obscuring the look of concentration on his aquiline features. But clearest of all is the bright tracery of his veins: the light of his soul glowing under his skin. Nur can’tstopseeing it, even though the sight makes his own ichor burn and his chest ache.
It calls to him, a beacon he’s powerless to ignore.
Nur licks his teeth, searching for any trace of the angel’s blood remaining on his gums.
If he was worthy of living he’d break free of the weak ropes the angel has him wrapped in and he’d run from the craving that rips through him.
Instead he stays. The scent of the angel’s soul-rich blood is a delicious temptation, enough to overwhelm his pathetic dignity. If he was strong, he wouldn’t have killed the human. He wouldn’t have lured the angel into the mountains, wasting his strength, hoping against hope to overwhelm him and take just a single drop, a taste of his soul light.
The angel’s brilliant blue-green eyes flick to him. He thinks Nur is unconscious, but Nur is always awake, watching from the aether. It disappoints him when the angel’s gaze returns to his knife. He likes those eyes on him.
He should be afraid. Weak as he is, the angel could easily hurt him.
But what can he do to Nur that hasn’t already been done? He’s bent and broken. Tossed aside to rot. The collar of necrotic flesh around his neck throbs with otherworldly fever, and soon the wound will rend his corrupted soul in two.
Hunger yawns. Pain rips through his mind. The night turns to a black smear around him and his sanity stretches thin. He’s too weak to even cry out.
Death would be a mercy, probably.
Chapter 3
ARSENE
In the morningArsene finds a marmot in his trap, which he skins and guts. It’s a now-familiar task. Besides warding off bandits and stray mountain lions Arsene’s primary job in the caravan has been hunting. He resents being reduced to little more than the scourge of small animals—he’s a trained demon fighter. Then again, this mission has made a mockery of him from the start. At least now the knowledge of traps is coming in handy.
He butchers the animal and tosses it to the prisoner. It lands in the dust. Words might not get him the response he wants, but Arsene has other tricks up his sleeve.
As expected the creature stirs, roused by the smell of blood. His eyes open, but otherwise he doesn’t move. In the cool morning light, those flat, pale discs are almost mocking in their disinterest.
“It’s food!” Arsene growls.
Maybe the creature is thirsty. Even demons drink water. He cracks the lid of his flask and, with his knife in the other hand, inches toward the slumped figure. Those eyes remain fixed on him the whole time, blank and animalistic.
“I know you can hear me. Tell me what I want to know and I’ll let you drink.” He lets a dribble of water escape. It’s swiftly absorbed into the dusty ground, leaving a dark spot.
The creature turns away, eyes falling shut.
Arsene caps his water and shoves the knife back into his boot. He yanks at the ties of his leather breastplate.
