Page 24 of Demon Touched

“Shouldn’t be difficult,” I throw back as I stare at the edge of its huge paws scrabbling at the ever-widening gap beneath the stone.

Syrus goes quiet and still in my mind. Moments later, I feel a flash of intense hunger mixed with rage, fear, and confusion. I know the feelings aren’t mine, nor Syrus’s. There’s a base, primal tang to them, like the scent of blood on wet earth.

The fear element grows louder, no doubt from Syrus feeding into it. The digging slows, then stops. A snort comes from between the cracks, followed by a growl. But the sound is getting fainter, and when I risk leaning a little closer to look through the gap in the rocks, I see the wolf backing away, ears twitching as if listening for danger. Then the flicking of its own tail seems to startle it, and it takes off running toward the other side of the arena.

“I convinced it that this arena was the main hunting ground of its only natural predator,” Syrus says, piping up in my mind again. “It should be too wary now to try hunting you.”

For the first time in several minutes, my pulse slows a few beats, but I don’t just sit there.

“Thank you,” I say, pushing through the gap in the rocks once I’ve checked the coast is clear. I don’t want to waste my chance to escape my self-imposed trap—even if I might’ve just trapped myself in other ways.

I don’t have time to think about what letting Syrus back in means, not with the trial still raging. As I straighten up beside the rocks, I’m suddenly conscious of being out in the open unarmed. A grim possibility occurs to me. I start to push it away, but…this could be the difference between death and survival. I don’t honor anyone by being squeamish. With that decided, I scramble over the stones toward Bianca’s corpse. I try not to look at her too closely as I bend down and reach for the sword lying beside her. I hope she’d approve of me taking it.

I can feel Syrus behind my eyes, lurking in my ears, taking it all in. Bianca’s dead body. The groans of the wounded fledglings. The burning scent of ephilium magic crackling in the air.

“What kind of cursed place is this?” he demands.

“It’s called the Eyrie,” I say, lifting the sword and slipping down the rocks again so my back is against them. The bird monster is lying motionless in the dirt now, all but ripped apart by the fledglings, while Keros and some of the others have taken advantage of the wolf’s jumpiness to crowd it up against the arena wall, taking turns attacking it. The dermison is now missing one of its huge ears, blood trickling down its wrinkled skin, and has wedged itself back against one of the tunnel entrances, taking swings at anyone coming close with its trunk. “This is the fledgling trials,” I say.

“And what exactly are the fle⁠—”

Syrus stops when a horn blows, the low note rolling through the arena. It’s the same one that blared this morning for the start of the trial. Which means this must be the end. I nearly fall to my knees with relief.

The fledglings around me start to back away from the animals. It seems like a risky move when the wolf and dermison are still very much capable of inflicting more damage, but two golden-cowled figures are already swooping down from the spectator boxes toward us. The seraphim.

They’re more graceful in flight than any bird I’ve ever seen, moving through the air as if they’re gliding across silk toward the two animals rather than riding currents. In the same smooth motion, they stretch out their hands, palms angled downward.

Thick cords of lightning spider outward from their hands, forming a neat cage around the two beasts. It shows a terrifying amount of control, and when I squint at the seraphim’s hands, I can see they’re making tiny movements each moment to counterbalance the wildness of their power, as if they can predict what it’s going to do next and adjust accordingly. Then again, considering the extra sets of eyes staring from their wings—perhaps they can predict it.

The wolf and dermison are enveloped in the coursing veins of light. Smoke rises as the crackle of the seraphim’s magic sears the creatures in its grip, closing in tighter around them with every passing second.

Then in a blinding flash, it’s over. The lightning fizzes out of existence. All that’s left is a pair of blackened husks.

I choke back a horrified gasp. This is why the seraphim are in charge.

I asked Filippa the other day how they’re selected to be the ephilium’s leaders. She told me that when a seraphim dies, the Brigade holds trials to see who will replace them. Watching them now, it’s obvious that only the most powerful and skilled of warriors could win the contest.

It makes me feel lucky that they showed me so much mercy. If they were certain I was a threat, things would have been very different.

I expect the seraphim to make some kind of speech, acknowledging the fallen fledglings. But Orelle and Wyvier simply turn elegantly in the air and rise once more toward the spectator box. The closest thing we get to recognition is when Seraph Orelle lifts his hand and releases a flash of light. I guess it must mean something, as it seems to give many of the fledglings around me relief, their shoulders lifting as Orelle lowers his hand.

“So, have I served my purpose? Do you want to dismiss me now?” Syrus’s voice sweeps over my mind, sharp and bitter. It sends a chill through me. Now I’m not scared and desperate anymore, I can absorb the scale of the mess I’m in.

I’m surrounded by hundreds of armed ephilium—including the seraphim themselves—and I’m currently being possessed by a demon.

I quickly shut my eyes, as if that might hide any possible traces of him.

“Listen to me,” I say, trying to sound firm and in control, as if that will keep him from noticing I’m totally at his mercy right now. “If you don’t want your efforts keeping me alive just now to go to waste, I’m begging you to not do anything reckless.”

“You mean, like running off to a different realm full of killers who’d execute you the moment they knew what you really were—all because you got your feelings hurt?” His voice is ice, frosting up my veins.

I exhale, opening my eyes to see that the other fledglings are coming in to land, retrieving dropped weapons off the floor and searching for their friends. I hang back, nervous one of them will take one look at me and somehow guess the truth.

“What I really am?” I repeat.

“Mine,” he says, and I swear I can sense him staring back at me, daring me to disagree.

I swallow down my immediate answer. There’s no point arguing this with him—someone born a king and made a demon lord, who has always been able to claim whatever he wants. And even if there was a point, now is not the time or place to chitchat about what we are to each other.