Page 96 of Demon Touched

“They’re working with the demons!” she shouts, just as a fresh wave of intruders pour into the reception room, unaware that their leader is already dead and their rebellion is doomed.

Seizing the moment while the seraphim are distracted, I scramble over to Viz’s prone body. Syrus meets me beside him.

“Ready to get out of here now?” he asks as he hauls his friend into his arms.

“Just about,” I say breathlessly as we sprint to the end of the entrance hall. A flash lights up the building behind us, casting huge shadows against the walls as more stone crumbles to rubble. I don’t look back, but I assume it must be the seraphim taking out what’s left of Garion’s followers.

By the time we reach the huge arch leading out of the Seraph Seat, my brain is shooting off in wild directions—replaying Garion’s death, and Wyvier spotting me, and the explosion.

“Viz is going to kill us when he finds out we left his books behind,” I say breathlessly, the words finding me before logic does.

“I’ll buy him a whole fucking library,” Syrus grunts as we stretch out our wings and throw ourselves into the sky.

We don’t slow down even when we’re out of sight of the Seraph Seat, skimming down over the outer edges of the city into the shadows of the lower tiers. I keep waiting for Syrus to slip into my mind so we can strategize over our next steps—then remembering that less than an hour ago, we shut ourselves off from that forever.

Still, I glance at him now and find I can read his look. We both know we’re too conspicuous with our black wings and with Viz in Syrus’s arms. Even from a distance, we’re identifiable. We need to get out of sight. When I spot a narrow, empty alley below us, I look over at Syrus again, and he nods. We come in to land fast.

My feet have barely touched the ground when he turns to me.

“They have their hands full right now, but the seraphim won’t let a demon lord roam loose in their city for long. Especially now.”

I wince. “You heard what Wyvier said?”

“About your grandfather’s rebellion being in league with me?” he nods. “In his shoes, I’d likely think the same thing. Although if I actually was going to be involved in a hostile takeover of Luminis, I would do it with a little more finesse, trust me.”

I’m still struggling to process it all. This whole time I’ve been watching Garion orchestrate this insane grab for power right in front of my eyes, and I never suspected this was where he was headed. I knew he didn’t like the seraphim, but⁠—

I shake myself out of it. There are more important things to deal with right now. Like Viz still lying unconscious in Syrus’s arms.

“What are we going to do about that?” I say, brushing Viz’s hair back lightly. The green of his blood is shockingly bright against the silver locks and bone-white skin. “It looks like it needs stitches.”

Syrus glances skyward.

“It’s impossible to get Vizmodeus treated here. We need to get him out of Aradis.”

“I’ll come with you,” I say. Staying clearly isn’t an option, not with the seraphim against me. I don’t have time to consider what that means—what I’ve lost now I’ve been aligned so clearly with Syrus and my scheming grandfather. There’s too much else to consider right now.

A strange mix of emotions passes across Syrus’s face, but he just nods.

“Can you open a rift to Infernum from here?” I ask.

His jaw tightens with worry. “Viz is our expert, and even he found it difficult. But I’m going to try. I’ve watched him do it a few times in the last few weeks. Though lately…” He shakes his head, obviously thinking of Viz’s recent complaints about the aether.

There’s a shuttered window in the alley which will work for a frame, and Syrus lays Viz gently down on the ground so his hands are free. I kneel beside Viz, propping his head up so the blood doesn’t get in his eyes.

Syrus draws his sword.

“Wait. Here,” I pull a small knife from my boot and hand it to Syrus. “It’ll be easier with this.”

He raises an eyebrow in a silent question as he takes the blade.

“After Keros tried to kill me, I started carrying more than just my sword around,” I explain.

He works fast to carve the runes into the wood of the window frame, pausing only occasionally to try to recall something.

“That’s my best guess,” he says when he’s finished, voice tight with frustration.

“We’ve just got to hope your memory is better than your carving skills,” I say, squinting at the chicken-scratch shapes. He rolls his eyes as he hands me back my knife, and I slide it into my boot then shove my hands in my pockets as I nervously watch the next part.