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“Help her!”My roar shakes the shingles above and rattles the glass bottles lining the shelves.
The Alchemist whirls on me, quivering with indignation. The spiny feathers on his shoulders stiffen defensively.
“Are you a gambling man, Lucifer?” he asks me, his tone ominous and haunting. His sharp teeth glisten in the firelight.
“What nonsense are you spouting? Help her.”
This man is sharp in tooth and beak, knowledgeable in life and death, but still smaller around than my arm, and older than bone dust. I could snap him in half, and he knows it. I see it in the dark recesses of his eyes, that primal terror, but over it, a spark of stubbornness glows.
“Your human is as likely to die from the treatment as she’s to be healed by it,” the Alchemist tells me. “The herbs of Hell are not intended for the children of Earth. Should I treat her and she die, my life would be forfeit. Should I refuse to treat her, my life would be forfeit. Your feelings for this woman increase the risk tenfold, as—should my nervous hands falter—she will certainly die.”
Fury boils through my blood and I take a step toward the little demon, my hands itching to rend him limb from limb for even suggesting such a thing. The chances of her survival are dwindling with every word passing through his lips, with every second he wastes arguing with me. I should kill him where he stands.
Then what? Fumble through his tinctures and poultices myself, hoping I stumble across the correct cure? I swallow my rage and step away, giving him space. Forcing myself under control is more of a struggle than I’d like. He’s right about my feelings too. At this point, between the Alchemist and myself, I’m the one putting her at risk.
“Make the attempt,” I tell him. “Your life is only forfeit if you refuse to try.”
“I have your word?”
“You have my word,” I state as evenly as I can manage, panic squeezing my throat.
Just like that, he transforms from a shivering servant-class minion to a master of potions. Quickly, confidently, he moves about the room, collecting various items. He’s muttering to himself as he moves, speaking complex words which could be names of plants or spells and I wouldn’t know the difference. After several moments, he returns to her side with a tray covered in medicines, which he sets down on the small table beside her head. A scent, fresh and spring-like and utterly out of place, catches my attention.
“Mint?” I ask.
He nods as he applies poultices to the wounds on her chest. “It’s no guarantee,” he says. “But I’ve found mint and lavender sometimes help humans respond positively to the treatment. The trick is to use just enough to protect their humanity without neutralizing the magic of Hell.” With that, he opens a small glass bottle and places exactly one drop of lavender-scented oil on each poultice.
I keep silent as he continues his work. Oils under her tongue, talismans in each of her palms and between her toes. The poultices shrivel, curling in on themselves, and he swaps them out. He doesn’t include the lavender oil this time, and the smell of mint has been overwhelmed by the heavy aromas of Hell plants.
He retrieves a bowl of thick, red liquid, so dark it’s almost black, from the tray and holds it in his right hand. With his left, he begins painting sigils down her body, from the center of her forehead to the tops of her feet. He chants ancient spells as he works, and the sigils begin to shimmer, glowing dark as shadows.
Her breathing stops. I force myself to be still as the Alchemist’s chants grow louder, faster, maybe more frantic—or maybe the frantic one is me. I’m powerful as a god, yet helpless as a kitten in this moment with my Sophia dying in front of me.
Then, sweeter than the most harmonious of music, a rattling gasp fills her chest. Outward from each sigil, color spreads across her skin, bringing life back to the gray. She’s breathing easily, rhythmically. I touch her wrist, checking her pulse. It’s even and strong, beating firmly against my fingertips.
“She will live,” the Alchemist says. “She will need rest, but she will recover.”
“You have my gratitude,” I tell him.
It’s a boon worth more than any payment I could have brought with me, even if I had thought to do so; a fact that he knows as well as I do. Relief washes over me as I pull her into my arms. My precious, lovely Sophia. The sigils fade from her skin, leaving only her flawless beauty glowing with life.
Life that someone in the palace tried to take from her.
Rage licks at my heels, driving me into the sky, consuming me as I fly back to the palace. Someone hurt her. Someone tried to take her from me—again.
Dawn spreads across the sky like the colors across her cheeks, chasing away the gray. The palace is still quiet in the early morning hour as people sleep off the sludgy haze of their excessive indulgences, but there are three, at least, who will be awake. Only one is trustworthy, the other two will be dealt with.
Bypassing the window of the suite I was given, I reach the tower opposite, where Fenriz’s rooms are. Entering through the open window, I bellow Fenriz’s name as I carry Sophia across to the unoccupied bed. Fenriz enters from the hall, frowning. His eyes widen when he sees her, draped across my demonic arms like a fragile doll. “Check the bed,” I command. “Snakes, needles, poisons, anything out of place at all.”
Fenriz doesn’t ask questions while he follows my orders. The bed is clean, but of course it is. Whoever attacked Sophia expected to succeed, and even if they considered failure, there are thousands of beds in this palace. Booby-trapping them all would be an idiotic waste of effort, but I don’t gamble on the intelligence of the denizens of Hell.
Only when she’s snugly settled in the center of the bed with the covers tucked around her does Fenriz speak. “She was bitten,” he notes. He saw the marks on her chest, smelled the lingering odors of medicinal herbs and Hell magic.
I gaze down at Sophia, stroking her hair. “Someone released the elapythe in my chamber. They must have known it would attack her first. Those serpents have a taste for human blood, and an opportunistic streak for weaker prey.”
“And how fares the Alchemist these days?” There’s a hidden question there. Fenriz knows my temper. He’s seen my control slip when it comes to Sophia. I answer what he hasn’t asked.
“I let him live,” I tell him. “With gratitude.” I stand and move away from the bed. The rage receded only long enough for me to tend to Sophia’s comfort. Now that she’s safe and secure in bed, it demands my attention.
