Maybe my mind is already starting to unravel from being possessed, but I follow her.
She leads me through the corridors, the gray stone of the outer buildings shifting into a darker, glittering kind of rock as we get deeper into the castle. It’s quiet, almost serene, and once again I wonder where everyone else is. We did away with kings in Strata a long time ago, but I learned enough history to know that rulers typically have some kind of court.
And why am I wishing there weremoredemons around, exactly?
It’s the hunger. It’s definitely pushing me over the edge into some kind of delirium. So when Triya stops outside what is obviously a dining room, doors pushed open to show a table laden with food, I’m surprisingly grateful.
“Thanks,” I say, wondering which of the three heads I should address. I play it safe and nod at all of them. She blinks slowly at me and then lopes away down the corridor, presumably to go play with someone’s entrails like they’re a ball of yarn.
The dining room is brighter than the corridors, lit by a set of tall lancet windows at one end through which that purple light pours. It illuminates various wall hangings, the largest of which stretches along the wall opposite the door. There are two figures depicted on it, both reaching for each other from banks of black and white clouds. I barely glance at it—the food is calling to me much louder than any tapestry could.
“Oh good. When you weren’t in your room I thought you’d done another runner.”
Vizmodeus drops the stack of books he’s carrying onto the dining table, sending several loose sheets of paper flying. He deftly snatches them out of the air, sitting down and stuffing them between book covers before reaching for a plate of toast.
“Good…morning?” I say, taking an educated guess from the type of food on the table. Working against my theory is the fact that the skull-faced demon looks like anythingbutsomeone who’s just got dressed for the day, with wild hair and crumpled clothes scattered with ink blots.
He throws me a calculated look. “Good morning to you too,” he says, before pulling a pencil from behind his ear and starting to note something down, still buttering toast with the other hand.
I reach for the nearest dish, which has slices of bacon on it.
“Stop.” Vizmodeus sighs, standing up and rounding the table to take the dish from me.
“What, I’m not good enough to eat your food?” I ask, my hunger making me testy.
“Not demon enough—so, yes, not good enough,” he says, setting down the plate. “That’s not from one of your mire pigs, you know.”
He lifts an already filled silver goblet on the table to his nose, sniffs it, then nods as he puts it down in front of me.
“What’s that?” I ask warily.
“That most dangerous of substances, fruit juice,” he says, not bothering to hide his exasperation.
“And?” I ask, waiting for an explanation.
“Your body isn’t used to food from this world. You’ll have to ease yourself into it. Avoid the heavy stuff—meat and dairy—for the first few days. Stick to bread and fruit and vegetables.” He puts his bony hands on his hips. “Or don’t. Gorge yourself on that duskboar bacon if you prefer, but don’t come crying to me when you can’t get off your chamber pot for a week.”
I eye him as he returns to his seat, but then carefully lift the goblet.
“Well, since you paint so vivid a picture…” I sniff the liquid as he did, making him roll his eyes, but he looks pleased when I decide it smells fine and proceed to drink it.
It’s delicious actually, fresh and citrusy, but not like anything I’ve had before.
In fact, none of the fruit on the table looks familiar. Of course, it’s still a surprise to me that Infernum has plants at all. Now I think about it, I findmyself a little excited by the possibilities. If I’m going to get slowly leeched of my vitality while possessed by a demon, I might as well learn a few new plant names first.
“So what’s that called?” I ask, pointing to slices of seeded fruit with a purple peel neatly lined up on a dish.
“Pontivel,” the silver-haired demon says, glancing up from his parchment.
“And this?” I pick up a bright orange fruit shaped like a teardrop.
He huffs, giving me ado you mind?sort of look.
“It’s called dar’qaier,”the voice slides softly into my mind as Syrus enters the room.“It’s Cyrax for ‘fire on the branch.’”
I immediately go tenseunder the sudden onslaught of his presence, both in my mind and in the room itself. He sweeps toward the head of the table without looking at me—though I’m watchinghim, startled by how casual the Lord of Malice looks, as if he’s just risen from bed. He’s barefoot, wearing a pair of dark cotton pants and a nightrobe tied loosely at the waist. When he sits, the front gapes to reveal an expanse of tanned chest. I glance away, back to Vizmodeus, who is studying Syrus with a raised eyebrow.
“You look…neat,” the pale demon says to his lord. I can’t say it’s the word that came tomymind, and surely everyone looks neat next to Vizmodeus, but Syrus just glances briefly at me before reaching for a plate.
