Page 4 of Demon Touched

“It means the seraphim will be ready to hear your case quickly,” she replies. “It also means more witnesses. More accountability.”

I’m not sure exactly what that means, but I’m pretty sure I don’t like it. It almost sounds like she’s talking about accountability for the seraphim, rather than me. What would happen if there weren’t witnesses? Exactly how ruthless are Aradis’s leaders? I know there’s six in total, two for each of the ephilium’s major cities, and that they come from a stock of their most powerful warriors. That doesn’t bode well for someone who might need a little mercy right about now.

Because what Pellery doesn’t know is that I do have something to hide. I might have mastered blocking Syrus out, perhaps indefinitely, but I’m still bound to him by the spell Hathwell’s sorcerers conjured. I’m still intimately linked to one of the ephilium’s biggest enemies. Something tells me they won’t be so eager to take on a nephilim who’s been demon touched.

As we soar toward the pinnacle of Luminis, I can only hope there’s no way for the seraphim to sense that. Otherwise, I might just have walked out of one prison and into another.

Chapter 2

Leah

Iwas totally right about the ephilium and architecture. When we get to the Seraph Seat, it’s clear the pale-bloods don’t have a single subtle feather in their wings.

A palatial building rises up in front of us, decked out in marble pillars and gold domes. The entrance is a circular arch that takes up almost one whole side of the building, carved from more of the pale stone I’ve seen everywhere and wide enough to fly half a battalion through it.

Below it, steps from the building lead down into a series of cascading terraces bordering the largest tree I’ve ever seen. A rare exception to Aradis’s sparse plant life. Its trunk—which must be at least fifty feet wide—stretches up and over the building, huge boughs shading it like an ancient guardian.

We start to descend, gliding through the archway into a vast hall full of ephilium. As we touch down, a few of those milling around cast interested looks in our direction. Most, though, seem to be busy at work, cutting across the tiled floor of the hall with a scroll underarm or a stack of papers.

I’m reminded of Viz, and I try to ignore the light pang in my chest at the thought of Syrus’s disheveled chamberlain. By contrast, the ephilium here all look incredibly put together, polished and shiny in sets of golden armor or flowing, elegant clothes.

“Come,” Pellery says, leading us toward the back of the hall, where a grand set of doors sits half open, watched over by more soldiers.

Pellery doesn’t even need to exchange a word with them. As soon as they catch sight of her, they salute, letting me and my escort pass without comment. She’s clearly important around here. I’m starting to wonder why she was ever stationed on the trade rift to begin with. It kind of seems like grunt work to me.

There are maybe fifty ephilium in the room beyond, the crowd easily parting to let us through. Despite the size of the gathering, there’s a distinct lack of seats. Maybe the pale-bloods think they’re too strong and mighty to sit down? Or maybe it’s a status thing; at the front of the room two ephilium sit in throne-like chairs, and there’s no doubting they’re the most powerful people in the room.

I shiver, my newly awakened magic responding to the aura rolling off the pair. Both have black hair peeking out beneath the close-fitting golden cowls that swathe their heads. The woman is as pale as me, minus the freckles, while the skin of the man beside her is a deep, rich brown.

But as I lean closer to get a better look at them, I feel a touch against my mind—Syrus, testing my walls a little more firmly this time. My first reaction is panic. I’m surrounded by powerful ephilium here; it would be disastrous if even a hint of his presence slipped through right now. I quickly check the barriers I’ve built, slamming down what extra protections I can—only to be hit by that uncomfortable wave of emptiness again.

I push it down, trying to focus on what’s happening in front of me. The seraphim are listening intently to a woman kneeling before them. Her voice is low and rough, like she’s on the verge of crying but is trying hard to rein in her emotions. I don’t think I’m imagining the strange atmosphere, the ephilium around us shifting restlessly as I catch the tail end of her words.

“…and then I hesitated, which led to further casualties.” She ducks her head, but from this angle I can see the shame she carries. “I was weak, your honors, and for that I can only beg for forgiveness from the ancestors.”

The seraphim exchange a look, then the female seraph speaks, her voice cool and commanding. “You were weak, Miseia Charis. You indulged in cowardice and dishonored your family.”

The kneeling woman looks like she’s been slapped.

“However…” the female seraph continues, and the woman’s eyes glimmer with hope. “Your bloodline is old and strong, and this is the first time you have brought disgrace to it. Seraph Orelle and I believe it would be unwise to condemn you now without giving you a chance to redeem yourself.”

The woman jerks her head up. “Please, your honors,” she says, almost excited. “I will prove myself, I swear it.”

“Very well,” says the male seraph—Orelle—as his companion rises and draws a long, shining sword from a sheath at her belt. “Show us that you can overcome your weakness, and you will bring glory to your family once more.”

The woman nods eagerly, even as the female seraph steps up to her. Fear prickles across my skin, not for myself but for her, and yet I’ve never seen someone look so pleased to be approached by someone with a drawn weapon.

I watch, every muscle tense, as the seraph lowers her sword slowly to the woman’s shoulder. For a moment, nothing happens. Then a frisson of power crackles across the seraph’s knuckles, igniting and rolling down her wrist onto the metal of the sword in a storm of white-hot lightning.

It shoots down the blade, hitting the woman and pulsing through her. Her whole body goes rigid, an animal groan escaping from between her clenched teeth as her eyes bulge in their sockets. I can’t look away, even as my stomach turns when the scent of burning flesh fills the air. The lightning is searing through her. Any human subjected to this would instantly be dead. Ephilium must have some resistance to their own magic—but not enough to keep it from being agonizing. I cringe back, horrified as the woman’s body starts to seize, hitting the ground and twitching violently.

What must be seconds later—though it feels like much longer than that—the lightning dissipates. The seraph steps back, sheathing her sword as she looks down expectantly at the woman lying crumpled on the floor, her head twisted away from my view.

It’s silent in the room. I have to bite down on my tongue not to demand answers from Pellery. Did they just execute that woman? I thought they said were going to give her a chance to prove herself?

The seraph hasn’t moved, still looking down at the disgraced woman. Watching. Waiting.

Raw burns crisscross the exposed arm flung out across the floor, more silver than red, given the color of ephilium blood. I follow the route of the lightning back up across the woman’s singed clothes, onto her neck, where the burn spreads outward, scorched flesh feathering its way up to her face.