I recognize two of the people—Syrus and Quill, the bald guard demon who met us in the courtyard when I first arrived. The other demons with him are also dressed as guards, with molded leather breastplates and weapons on their hips or strapped to their backs.
The only one not armed, in fact, is the demon on his knees in the center of the circle. His hands are shackled together, and he’s folded over, exposing the gray skin of his bare back to Syrus, who is standing over him with a whip in his hand. A group of whips, actually, because the handle branches out into four separate lashes like a cat-o’-nine-tails.
“Five,” Quill intones in the common tongue, his deep voice filling the room as Syrus lifts his arm, swinging the whip down onto the demon’s back. He howls as the lash connects, though now I see in the flickering light that it’s not made of leather or rope, but shadow. The black tentacles bite at his flesh, leaving dark welts.
“Six,” Quill says, and Syrus strikes again.
On the seventh lash, the demon’s skin splits, green blood beading at the torn edges. By the ninth time Syrus wraps the shadows across his back, the blood is trickling freely down his sides.
My stomach turns at the sight, the demon’s sobs of pain jolting through me. Unable to watch any longer, I rip my eyes away from his twisted expression, scrutinizing the torturer’s face instead.
Even in the flickering light, it’s easy to read the taut control in his expression. There’s no anger or passion there. Though I can see the muscles bunching and uncurling in his shoulders as he lifts the whip, I sense the full power of them is restrained.
He must sense my staring, because he glances up, his eyes landing on the exact spot where I crouch behind the railings. He glances away, and I’dthink maybe he didn’t actually see me, if it wasn’t for the fact his arm pauses mid-swing.
There’s a rush of sensation—fingertips on my spine, the ghost of a caress on my neck. By now it’s familiar, but in this moment no less terrifying. He fills my mind, and with him comes the sharp, hot tang of his anger, running along my nerves and heating my skin. It crystallizes and constricts, his presence settling behind my eyes as he looks out of them onto the room.
For a moment, he just lurks there in furious silence, watching himself lower his arm. I don’t say anything, afraid of provoking him further, but I hope he can feel the disgust running through my mind as he stares down at himself through me. I hope he sees himself as I do—a cruel and ruthless tyrant.
Then invisible hands tug at my muscles, forcing me to my feet and twisting me so my back is to the room below. My heart skips in panic. Is he going to make me do something awful like jump from this gallery? But when the pressure of his magic starts driving my legs forward, it sends me toward the door I came through. The touch isn’t gentle, but considering the violence unfolding below me, I can’t help but think it could be much worse.
The whip cracks, the demon roars in pain, and as I reach the door, I realize Syrus is gone from me. The pressure on my limbs vanishes as he slips from my body, leaving me oddly cold after the heat of his rage.
I suppress a shiver as I turn the door handle. I don’t need telling twice. I don’t look back at the room—at Syrus or the man he’s tearing open. I exit the way I came, with the cracking whip and the demon’s screams echoing behind me.
Chapter 13
Leah
The wind whips my hair around my face as we soar over Infernum’s mountains. Syrus is holding me again. His body warmth surrounds me, his scent is in my lungs, and it shits all over my careful efforts to avoid him for the last two days.
Avoiding him was the smart thing after what I saw in that parlor. I’ve been rising early to grab food before the others, then heading straight back to my room, loaded up with supplies that allow me to hole myself up there, sleeping and meditating in the hopes of strengthening my mind against Syrus. I’m not sure I’ve been this well rested in six years, despite waking up several times thanks to bad dreams about the demon getting whipped—and thenmegetting whipped in his place—replacing my usual nightmares.
But I think it’s good Ididsee it. It drove home that the Lord of Malice could easily turn that lash on me if I resist him too openly. So far, he hasn’t needed to. He can control my every movement, as he so regularly reminds me. But if I managed to give him the slip?
I glance up at his face while he’s focused on the city spread out below us. This close, I can see the dusting of dark stubble on his jaw and the thick cord of muscle that runs down the side of his neck. It’s strange, trying to reconcile this intense, physical form—hard and cold and unyielding—with the soft, sly presence that often touches my mind like a caress. They seem like two separate entities sometimes.
Still, I’m being careful, making sure that when I’m around him, I guard any thoughts about running away in Strata. I only plan on trying that after I’ve found a way to block him. If I fail, or he finds me afterward before I’ve fully broken our connection, he might think I need a more memorable demonstration of the fact that he’s in charge.
I drink in details of the city as we start to descend. To be honest, it doesn’t look totally different from Pax, although the buildings generally look older, with some built from the same glittering stone I saw at the castle. They’re bigger too, unlike Pax, which tends to cram cottages in together until the street is groaning. I suppose that’s what comes of having space to expand, rather than having to stay within the safety of preexisting walls.
As we touch down on an outer street, I notice it’scleantoo. The air is fresher, lighter. It makes me feel a little like my lungs have been wrapped in a tight grip these last twenty-four years and are finally being released.
We’re not near the heart of the city, so only a few demons pass us. At first, it seems like no one recognizes the Lord of Malice. Which is strange, but then maybe he really never comes into the city like Asterim implied. Soon enough though, a demon we pass ducks his head in quick deference, and those who see it seem to catch on, bowing as they pass and muttering “my lord.”
They barely look my way, which is fine by me. Syrus has made me wear a hooded cloak like the one I arrived here in. I doubt it’s for my safety. More likely, he doesn’t want to deal with the attention I’d draw, being the only human in Malice—in all of Infernum, probably.
The clatter of hooves and a piercing whinny rings out on the street behind us. I turn in time to see Vizmodeus sweep in on one of the steeds I’ve seen flying over the plains so many times—sleek and black and even more bat-like up close, with leathery wings and a snub-nosed, fanged head.
He dismounts in one smooth motion—pretty graceful for a guy who looks like a walking hurricane—and hitches the animal’s reins to a post.
I step over and lean into him, grumbling under my breath. “How come you got to ride a horse, and I had to be lugged here like a sack of potatoes?”
“A sack of potatoes would’ve been better. At least they don’t complain,”Syrus’svoice murmurs into my mind. I do the safe thing and choose not to respond, keeping my gaze on Vizmodeus.
“It’s not a horse, it’s a kelaryn,” the chamberlain sniffs. “You’d think a mire rat would know a bit more about the creatures she picks clean for a living.”
“Funnily enough, no one on the battlefield ever seemed interested in giving me a taxonomy lesson.”
