Page 29 of Demon Touched

Midane nods. “It’s a good thing I don’t have a reckless bone in my body, then,” he says.

“Not one?” Lady Jing asks. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

It’s a light, teasing comment, but when I look up and meet her gaze, I read something more serious there. Jing is no peacemaker, but she doesn’t want open conflict between domains any more than I do.

“As far as I can see, ruling a domain isn’t really about fun, Lady Jing,” Midane says politely, taking a seat that Liege Damein offers him. “Or personal gratification in general. That’s something my predecessor would have done well to remember.”

“The chef who only cooks for himself won’t keep his restaurant open for long,” Liege Damein agrees.

Midane seems to be weighing something up, then takes care to look us each in the eyes as he speaks. “I’m perhaps an unexpected choice to take General Kaliban’s place. Though I was one of the highest-ranking officers in Infernum’s army and Rancor’s militia, I was never close to the lord.”

“Kaliban’s fighting forces were his pride and joy,” Lady Jing says, giving him a calculating look. “It seems strange he wouldn’t make sure all his key officers were personally loyal to him.”

Lord Midane nods. “In most cases, you’d be right about that. I was suspicious of my promotions under Kaliban myself at first, but it became clear that after Grata’s coup, he was cautious about which demons among his ranks he gave power to. For some reason, he didn’t consider me much of a threat.” He gives a small smile as if he finds this amusing.

“I’m sure that will be our gain, Lord Midane,” I say, making a mental note not to underestimate the demon. Rancorites are tough, and they wouldn’t have chosen Midane as their new leader if they didn’t think he had the mettle for it. Which means all of these pleasantries could mean nothing. There’s no way to know, yet.

I know I should be spending this whole meeting trying to read Midane’s every expression and dissect each piece of phrasing to work out if the Rancorites really will hold a grudge against Malice for what happened. On the surface, everything is back to normal. The Morphos has been restored, and there’s no war between our people. But I can’t help thinking that “normal” may be exactly what some demons don’t want.

That’s what my focus should be on. But as the meeting goes on, I find I can’t concentrate. I’m going through the motions, and whenever an answer isn’t expected of me, my mind starts to drift back to Leah. Wondering what she’s doing. Worrying about her.

Less than two weeks ago, we were in Infernum together, and now she’s a whole realm away, fighting in some insane pale-blood war game. Which means, despite my efforts to the contrary, we’re a step closer to her becoming exactly what I feared: an ephilium weapon that someday, somehow, might destroy the very land I’ve vowed to protect. Is this how prophecies work? That no matter what you do, or how hard you fight, you only end up running harder and faster into the waiting arms of fate? How did we get here?

I’m determined to find out and also determined to keep her safe. Which means not giving her the chance to block me out again. I’ve gently tested her walls since yesterday and found that they’re no longer impenetrable. I don’t know whether it was deliberately or by accident, but she’s left a way back in for me. Maybe it’s delusional, but there’s a part of me that believes she might have done it on purpose.

Because when I said she was mine, she didn’t deny it.

Now I just need to find a way to remind her of that.

Leah

The first trial changes things.

The academy instructors start to acknowledge me more, pairing me with fellow fledglings to practice my magic and learn some non-flying combat skills. And what’s more, most of the fledglings accept it. Not because they have to, but because I came out of the Eyrie better off than many of them. My injuries are superficial, and my move with the dermison attracted more than just Rowan’s attention. Suddenly, I’m equal to them—or closer to it than I was before, anyway—worthy of their trials and their respect.

Sure, Keros and a handful of his friends still seem irrationally angry that I’m here at all, but they’re in the minority. Two days after the trial, a fledgling even commends me on how I handled the wolf. When I point out that I mostly ran and hid from it, she said it was a decent strategy considering my “obvious limitations.”

I decide to take it as a compliment.

Being around all these ephilium is changing me too. I’m nearly as strong and fast as the rest of the fledglings now, and my injuries from the trial are almost gone after two days. It’s not as if I’ve actually done anything to earn those advancements, but it’s hard not to feel good, knowing every day I’m getting more powerful.

The good feelings are tempered with wariness, though. I’m more powerful, but that may still not be powerful enough. Because try as I might, I can’t seem to get my mental barriers back to how they were before. It makes me nervous, knowing that I’m exposed, and even more nervous when I don’t hear from Syrus for a full forty-eight hours after the trial—though once or twice I think I feel the touch of him on some outer defense of my mind.

I know it’s only a matter of time until he intrudes on me, and the delay has me constantly on edge. On the second day, at breakfast, I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt that telltale prickle up the back of my neck. It turned out to just be a sudden draft from someone opening a window, but my reaction was so extreme, Filippa asked me if I hit my head while I was in the arena.

It makes me feel crazy, how the waiting is almost…anticipation. Even after we’d been bonded for a while, I still considered Syrus my enemy, yet my body welcomed his presence. Craved it. So it shouldn’t really surprise me that my treacherous body remembers how that felt now. Or that it wants more.

It’s almost a relief then, when he finally does find me. I’m alone, standing on one of the fledgling training fields. Maybe he knows that—maybe it’s why he picks this moment. I’m practicing shooting imbued arrows at a target and have just nocked an arrow when I feel the back of my neck tingle with his touch.

I’m proud of myself for not missing a beat. I release the arrow and watch it hit just a little south of the bullseye, lightning radiating from the arrowhead across the target’s face with a satisfying crackle.

“What do you want, Syrus?” I ask, drawing another arrow from my quiver.

“Now, is that any way to greet the person who saved your life two days ago?” he tuts. It’s twisted and fucked up, but his voice sounds so good rumbling in the inside of my head. Part of me wants to find ways to keep him talking, just so I can enjoy the feeling of it stroking across my mind.

“Yes. Saved it. Past tense. So I’m not sure why you’re here now,” I say. It’s harsh and ungrateful, but I have to keep him at arm’s length, or else that other side of me—the shortsighted, craving part—might take control.

“And you don’t think you’ll be needing further assistance in the future?” he asks mildly. “There are no other extremely dangerous events lurking on the horizon designed to kill and maim you?”