It’s well into the night before they’ve all been fed.
My remaining chores follow, and I work into the early morning hours to make up for lost time. Only after setting my life back to rights do I allow myself time to sit and consider what transpired to put me in such a state.
My curiosity pulls me back to the cellar and my experiments.
I sit down at the bench in my workshop and immediately start reevaluating my notes. The lantern light flickers over parchment and ink. The scent of old paper is prominent, but so are the remnants of the wine barrels that used to fill this space.
I analyze the data and religious text over and over again. I made an error somewhere—but where? And if the sigil I marked myself with didn’t work as intended, what exactly did it do? It’s not like the others that failed and lie dormant on my skin. Those had no ill effects, but this one upended my life for days.
And the most concerning question is…
Will it happen again?
The answer, when I find it, sends me reeling.
I drew the serif edge of the marking wrong. Not by mistake or because of poor execution—it matches the one in the extension of the Good Book perfectly. But the same symbol in the ancient Aramaic texts on one of the old scrolls relays a different intention.
They differ greatly.
The horror that fills me when I uncover its true meaning tells me that, yes—more than likely—I have cursed this immortal body with an affliction. Unless I can somehow reverse it or alter the mark, there is a strong chance I will experience another fever from hell in the future.
In the days that follow, my prayers grow more devout. More pleading. I offer submission and implore God for understanding and guidance. The request for forgiveness for my actions never leaves my lips, but it lives in my head and heart.
And though I do not speak it aloud, I am certain He knows.
Chapter Fifteen
Red Devil
Pollock
Kahill spent a great many days seeing to his soldiers, getting them settled in, and establishing his camp outside the city’s walls. We’d had time to go over the most important aspects of this transition, but Kahill had mentioned he wanted to discuss something important with me privately as soon as we could find the time.
We hadn’t found the time. I’d been so busy and bombarded with questions over the past few days that I could barely find a few minutes alone outside of my nightly four to five hours of rest. Not necessarily a need, but I’d gotten used to it and found I cope better with the stress of the day ahead after meditating or resting my eyes for a while.
My intent was to seek him out today and find out what was so damn important but couldn’t be discussed in a room full of my advisers. When I exit the shower, another small human custom I’ve indulged in, I find there’s no need to hunt Kahill down. He’s lounging on my bed, arms behind his head, his mud-caked boots kicked up and crossed at the ankles.
“I could seriously get used to this.”
I hiss and scold him in our language, which translates to, “Get your filth-ridden feet off my godforsaken bed.”
He complies, while snickering, and takes his time about it. Then exaggerates the removal of dirt from the top of my duvet.
“Better princess?”
“Much. Thank you.”
His height outreaches mine. His muscle mass as well. Being gifted with slices of his soul from Lucifer himself has granted him a wealth of power and influence. Maliciousness bleeds off him even now, and it’s something that stifles any room he resides in.
My muscles tense as I fight the urge to meet the threat he’s pouring out with one of my own. The wings buried under the flesh of my back ruffle with agitation. I maintain composure and don’t let them unfurl to make an appearance, though it’s been some time since I’ve stretched them, and the need to do so is riding me hard.
“Pull it back or get the fuck out.” I point toward the double doors on the far side of my suite. Then I move across the room in search of my clothing.
“Calm down. I’m just messing with you. It’s been far too long, and I believe all this power is getting to your head, or just plain getting to you. I can sense your anxiety. It’s pouring off you in waves. How do you expect to stabilize the disorder I’ve brought about in your great city if you yourself can’t maintain composure?”
Dropping my towel and dressing quickly, I don’t deign to greet that question with a response. I do, however, maintain eye contact with him as I dress. So when his gaze leaves mine and becomes a lecherous perusal of my form, I notice.
Dark blue eyes that tend to turn red with passion or anger stare back at me. But he does raise a hand and scratch at the short auburn beard covering his jaw. He also runs his teeth over his bottom lip, holding it hostage for a moment before letting it go.
