Page 110 of Under the Iron Sky

But those teeth were still sinking in. Until clamping down on the inside of her lip was all she could do to stop herself from making a sound. Coppery blood filled her mouth.

All around her, people were laughing and cheering and shouting awful things she really didn’t want to think about.

Soraya knew the moment Ikarus stepped into the room. Not because the weight on her back was suddenly ripped away, but by the low hush that swept over the crowd. The same quiet as between rounds of weapons being fired. Between life and death.

She saw Malakai first, grinning as he slowly trailed into the room like a panther stalking prey, then Aeris, who seemed to regard everyone in the room with cold disinterest—until his eyes landed on Emelda, and remained.

The look in Ikarus’s eyes when they met hers was enough to make whatever breath she’d been about to take still.

He made no move to come near her, but she felt each slide of his gaze over her skin like a touch nonetheless, first over her face, no doubt examining the scrapes she felt stinging her cheek and chin, the gold slash in his right eye near pulsing when his gaze dipped to the bite mark on her neck.

He closed his eyes, nostrils flaring as he took a deep breath, and when he opened them again—

The change in him sent her heart stuttering, instant as the flick of a switch, as though he’d closed his eyes as one person and opened them as another.

Because it wasn’t Ikarus that stood there now. It was Ramapheal’s Demon. She’d never thought of them as two separate entities before, but there they were, as different as slow-moving waves that drowned gradually and a vicious tide that crushed and consumed.

The Demon’s eyes slowly swept through the crowd with spine-numbing calculation.

He gestured to Soraya with a hand. “Which one of you did this?” His voice was cold and furious, the heart of a blizzard before it wreaks havoc on an unsuspecting village.

The question was met with silence. Even Morana, who’d been so ready to melt Soraya’s skin right off her bones with that whip seconds ago, was motionless.

Ikarus gave a mirthless scoff. “No? Oh, come on. It’s no easy feat, bringing the God Killer herself to her knees. Does no one want to take the credit?”

Light footsteps pierced the quiet, and all eyes turned to the young fairy with dark red hair meandering his way through the crowd.

Ikarus lifted a brow in question. “You? What’s your name?”

“Caspel.” The fairy’s voice was thick with pain. When he came to the front, Soraya noticed that he was clutching a rib.

“Caspel,” Ikarus repeated. There was nothing pleasant about the smile that spread across his face. He held out a hand. “Join me for a drink.”

When Caspel made to move, the fairy beside him caught his arm, dragging him back. “Are you sure this is wise?”

Caspel hesitated for a moment, seemed to suck in a breath before shaking his friend’s arm away and striding across the room, moth-like wings held high.

When he was within reach, Ikarus clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Caspel’s eyes briefly squeezed closed as though expecting something very sinister, only to be guided to the nearest table.

A flagon of wine floated into the air, presumably by Ikarus’s magic, though he hadn’t even glanced at it, and red liquid spilled into the silver chalice hovering below it.

Ikarus pushed the full chalice into Caspel’s trembling hand. “Drink. You’ve earned it.”

Ikarus watched Caspel peer into the chalice, then drink, the edges of his mouth curving upward. Standing there, his head tilted slightly to the side and the candlelight dancing across his face, he looked more dragon than Dar’rak.

The fairy, however, did not seem to realize this. He set down the now-empty goblet and smiled up at the Demon as though he’d been awarded a shiny medal.

“Did you enjoy that?” Ikarus asked, curling a hand around the back of Caspel’s neck.

“Yes.”

Ikarus’s grin stretched so wide, dimples cracked the sides of his face. “Good.” And then, moving so quickly Soraya wouldn’t have believed it possible had she not witnessed it herself, he slammed Caspel’s face onto the wooden table below.

Bone crunched, a mixture of startled snarls and gasps sweeping through the room like smoke. And when Ikarus pulled Caspel’s head back, there was a bloodied stump where his face used to be.

Blades were suddenly pulled from sheaths. The legs of chairs scraped across the floor. Several fairies shot forward.

“Finally,” Malakai hissed, although there was no malice in the sound, only pure joy, blue flames crackling to life at his fingertips.