Page 12 of To Sway a Demon Heart

“All those who wish to compete must give their blood freely,” Tyr added, holding out the knife and bowl. “A weakening of your lives as you prepare them for service to the gods. A minute’s worth will do.”

“Our good king allowed this use of blood magic?” Shyama asked, her silken voice unreadable as she studied the bowl.

“He did,” Tyr said with a nod. “Your blood must be freely given. None will be forced.”

Draven was the first to give his blood, pushing Shyama gently out of his way as he strode forward to take the knife from Tyr. He sliced his palm in a swift, deep cut and let the ruby drops fall as he kept his eyes on me. They hit the bottom of the bowl noiselessly, forming a tiny pool of blood. After a minute, he clenched his hand, slowing the blood and bowing to Tyr and me as he turned back to the other competitors.

Shyama was next, and then every other demon who had come to battle for the title. Tyr watched them give their blood without emotion until the bowl was almost full with the blood of twenty competitors.

“You will not know when your thoughts and actions are your own at first,” Tyr reminded the competitors, lifting the bowl from the altar. “And beware. Leshy, wolves, and other foul creatures roam these woods. None of you will be rescued if you run afoul of them.”

Without another word, Tyr lifted the bowl to his lips and began to drink, his throat bobbing as he took in the lifeblood of the competitors and prepared to manipulate them. His eyes were closed in a grimace as he drank. When he opened them, they had turned wholly blood red.

The competitors charged, some heading directly for the woods and others clashing to eliminate the competition. Two died before even making it to the woods, the remaining eighteen swallowed by the darkness as Tyr looked on with dark, red eyes.

“Goddess above,” I whispered, looking on in horror as the crowd behind us cheered. “The gods cannot approve of this.”

“The gods aren’t always watching,” Tyr said darkly, his hands fisting as he leaned against the altar. “Sometimes even they cannot bear the darkness.”

“Are you alright?” I asked hesitantly, reaching out for his hand again.

He crushed it in his, our first mutually voluntary contact since Samhain, and the Pull in me looked up with eager interest at the touch. He nodded darkly, looking pained. “It burns when there are so many competing bloods,” he gritted out, eyes flashing a brighter red, then dimming. I recognized his strain as one of controlling blood magic, and I realized he had already begun to manipulate the contestants. “Just don’t let me kill anyone.”

“Is there a risk of that?” I asked in a panic. “How will I know if that’s about to happen?”

Tyr looked down at me, his face pale in the darkness. One long fang flashed white, and he grinned more wickedly than I had ever seen. “You’ll know.”

I should be terrified of this male, of the forbidden power he was wielding against—well, not innocent victims exactly. But still, the power I felt emanating from him was foreign, otherworldly. Terrifying, and somehow alluring. It was as if the sky and wind around us had hushed to let him work this magic, and the gnarled woods held their breath for the pain he would inflict.

The first scream shattered the still night, and the bloodthirsty crowd behind us cheered.

Chapter 8

Dravenwasthefirstto emerge victorious, followed closely by Shyama. The two seemed to have formed some sort of uneasy alliance, as they nodded to each other in understanding when they presented their flags.

Ten more emerged victorious, until Tyr, clutching the altar with a white-knuckled grasp, shook his head, his eyes turning from red back to their normal emerald green.

“They’re gone,” he panted, sweat beading his brow with the strain of manipulating so many. “I can’t feel them anymore, although their blood is still in me.”

“Only twelve remaining,” I breathed, horrified at the death the first night had seen. “That’s almost half.”

“They agreed to this, Brigid,” Tyr said darkly, releasing my hand which he had been holding the whole time. My fingers ached, but I didn’t mind. Tyr may have not believed he needed me in this trial, but he clearly had, and it made something in me preen victoriously. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” I said, shaking out my fingers, the rapid demon healing in my blood already working to soothe them. “You didn’t kill anyone?”

Tyr shook his head, frowning at the remaining contestants, who were being greeted and congratulated by the crowd that had surged toward them at the close of the trial. “I didn’t need to. They were brutal.”

“I don’t think I want to know,” I said, shuddering at the thought. Tyr must have felt each death, his control disappearing as he lost his connection to them one by one.

“You don’t,” Tyr agreed. It was subtle, the shift he made from Tyr to the uncaring and irreverent Lord of Shadow, in that moment as he announced the end of the trial. He grinned widely, his fangs glinting as his own court cheered.

“There will be a feast for the winners,” he announced, holding his arms up as if he enjoyed the admiration of his bloody court. “All are welcome to celebrate the end of the first trial.”

Another cheer answered this announcement, and Tyr held an arm out to me, clearly expecting me to take it. I donned my own mask, that of the softhearted Lady of Sun. It wasn’t much of a mask after what I had seen.

Most of those in attendance of the trial joined us for dinner in Tyr’s palace, several long tables having been set to accommodate all of the competitors and guests. There was cheering and laughter and general merriment, all tainted by the knowledge that the celebration was at the cost of eight lives. It felt wrong, and I could barely stand Tyr’s smiling, jovial facade as he put on a show for his nobles.

“You seem unhappy, Lady of Sun, to be witness to this tournament,” one of his nobles pointed out to me, leering at me from across the table.