It took me a second to recognize him. He’s a far cry from the fashionable, healthy young man I met in my father’s parlor. His clothes are filthy, stained with dirt, bodily waste, and what looks like old blood, while his blond hair hangs limply around his gaunt face. There are some fruit rinds on the floor, and he’s surrounded by the crumpled paper wrappings that bread comes in from the bakery, so he’s clearly been fed at some point, but still he’s very thin. Above the hollowed cheeks, his right eye looks almost sealed shut, a deep purple lump forming over it, and his bottom lip is swollen.
“Looks like he’s taken a beating,”I say, nudging him with my boot.
He startles awake at the prod, staring around wildly. When he focuses on my face, it takes him a moment to recognize me, and when he does, he loses even more color from his already gray complexion.
“N-no,” he stutters, eyes wide with fear. “Not you. It wasn’t my idea, I swear. I’m a friend of demons—I’d never kill them!”
“What are you talking about?” I demand. I thought he was rambling about the ritual, but his last line makes no sense.
He drops his voice to a whisper. “Is…is it still in you? The demon?”
“Let me handle this,”Syrus says.
I feel him move closer behind my eyes, and when Hathwell looks suitably terrified, I assume Syrus must’ve shown him a flash of red in my irises.
“What doyouthink?” Syrus speaks through me, my voice coming out in a low growl.
Hathwell yelps and tugs pointlessly against his chains. “St-stay away from me! I told you, I didn’t lay a hand on those demons. It wasn’t me.”
“Wait,” I say, Syrus retreating so I can use my own voice again. “Demons, plural? Does that mean you know who’s been smiting them and opening the rifts into Infernum?”
He clutches his own throat, as if trying to hold back any words that might betray him, shaking his head desperately. “No. I can’t say anything. They’ll kill me,” he moans.
“Who? The ephilium?” I press. “Are your friends—those sorcerers—working with them?”
“I can’t,” he repeats. “They’ll destroy me.”
“It might be time to get a little more persuasive,”Syrus notes, his voice gentle but firm. He doesn’t want to push me into anything, but he’s letting me know what has to be done.
I draw the new knife Syrus gave me to replace the one the ephilium took, crouching down to make sure Hathwell can see it clearly.
“So you and your little black magic friends were opening the rifts. And then what? Binding demons to fool Infernum’s wards into letting them pass? That’s a strange little hobby you have there,” I say, toying with the blade to show off the long, sharp edge. “Why were you going to Infernum? Why summon such a powerful demon for the ritual with me?”
“I…” He swallows, tears starting to shine in his panicked eyes. “You have to understand, my life won’t be worth living if they find out I betrayed them.”
I sigh. “Why did you take water from the Morphos?” I try instead.
He opens his mouth, ready to refuse me again, then closes it. He looks confused.
“What did you say?” he asks warily, as if this might be some trick.
“The Morphos. The lake in Malice. Why was water stolen from it?”
“I…I don’t know,” he says. And then, relieved he can give me some kind of answers at last, he straightens up. “Truly, I have no idea. I’ve never even heard of that lake.”
I sit back on my heels, bewildered.“So the sorcererswerethe ones smiting demons and sneaking into Infernum, but they didn’t touch the lake?”
“He could be lying,”Syrus says.“It might be worth trying to torture the truth out of him. Lives depend on it.”
I glance doubtfully at Hathwell. He’s such a mess, I’m not sure we can push him much further.
“He’s already been tortured,”I point out.“And he’s afraid of me—well, of you—but it’s obvious he’s equally scared of them. Maybe even more so. Otherwise, he would’ve folded right away.”
No point in torture then, thankfully. But that doesn’t mean I can’t at least scare him a little. This man tried to murder me, after all, so I reach out and press the knife against his neck just for good measure.
“You better not be lying, Hathwell Reed,” I say.
“Get off me!” he yelps, trying fruitlessly to pull his neck back out of reach. “I swear I’m not! But please, they’ll go after my family…”
