Lovely Demons

Part 5

"Wake up, witch."

Your dreams are interrupted by a voice, spoken from one of the two shadowy figures lurking at the foot of your bed. No – forcing an eye open – you see two beings are actually present in your small, tavern room.

Without thinking, you roll to land on your feet. Reaching for your bed stand, you search for your knife – only to stop when one of the figures holds it aloft.

In dull, morning light, you recognize two of the Spartoi from last night's tavern. The woman Spartoi, and – glancing at the other – you feel your heart sink. Not the handsome, hooded Spartoi who saved you.

Although this Spartoi is also handsome, you concede. Both are, but neither are beautiful in the way the other was. As though understanding your thoughts, the male Spartoi sighs.

Flicking reddish-brown hair from his gaze, he looks at the woman.

"Oh, give her the knife, Gemma," he says, sounding bored. "It'll make her feel better."

Gemma – the woman – scowls. "Stop giving my name away, Lucian," she mutters, but tosses the knife on the bed.

Glancing at it, then back up, you make no move to grab it because it could be a trap.

"What do you want?"

"Ooo." The other Spartoi – Lucian – chuckles. "I see why the High Prince is interested. He always did like them feisty."

The title of High Prince catches your attention, but not for long – there are two Spartoi standing in your room, after all. Glancing at the door, you wonder how much they paid for a key to your room. Scowling, you plan to have words with the tavern owner.

Assuming you get out of this alive, that is.

Gemma looks at the ceiling. "Feisty," she agrees. "Or foolish. Hard to tell. You – witch," she says, looking at you. "How long have you been in Gehenna?"

The simplest lies are ones rooted in the truth.

"Three days," you answer.

Lucian stares for a moment, then breaks out in a laugh. "Brimstone," he says. "She's serious. This witch marched straight through Hell's Maw and immediately picked a fight with three shades – over a succubus."

Gemma doesn't seem to share in his merriment.

"Indeed," she says softly.

Straightening, you glare. "I don't need to explain myself to you," you huff. Reaching out, you grasp the handle of your knife. "Now, if you'll kindly leave, so I can –"

"Your presence is required by the High Prince."

Immediately, your hand stills.

When you look up, you find Lucian looking gleeful – it seems he's incapable of anything else – but Gemma seems serious, and this is what convinces you.

"Why?" you ask, keeping the tremor from your voice.

Gemma lifts a brow. "You've been here for three days, so you might not understand how things work. In Hell, when the High Prince requires your presence, you go. No matter the reason."

A chill travels your spine, but you force yourself to stay calm.

"I haven't broken any laws, Spartoi," you retort.

Lucian's brows lift. "So, she's not completely ignorant of Hell's hierarchy. If you know what we are," he says, "then surely you understand it's in your best interest to comply."

"But–"

"Yes, yes." Gemma waves a hand. "You're innocent – you've done nothing. We both know that's a lie, witchling, so why try? You started a fight in a tavern. You attacked three citizens belonging to the Prince of Wrath without provocation –"

Your jaw drops. "They drew first blood!"

Gemma doesn't seem to notice. "Destruction of property was incurred at one of the High Prince's favorite taverns. And so, he's requested your presence. Tonight."

At this, you pause. Tonight also happens to be the night of the new moon.

"This doesn't have anything to do with his consort, does it?" you ask.

Gemma tilts her head. "Interesting," she muses. "You cross Hell's Maw and aren't sensible enough to steer clear of shades but know all about the Spartoi and consorts."

For a second, you wonder if you've said too much. Then the moment passes, and Lucian looks at Gemma.

"I like her," he says. "I hope the High Prince decides to keep her around."

Stifling an eye roll, Gemma turns.

"Let's go," she says, striding for the door. At its threshold, she turns to glance over her shoulder. "Take your clothes and belongings, witchling. You won't be coming back."

Her use of the term witchling is grating and you're about to correct her but stop yourself. If you said your true name, they'd identify you as witch-hunter and then you'd never get close enough to the High Prince.

So instead, you swallow and force yourself to move on.

"Fine," you say, turning away. "Leave, so I can change."

Lucian's laugh drifts into the hall. "Modesty," he calls, his voice growing softer. "How quaint."

Gemma follows, shooting you a look which warns you not to try anything stupid. You won't, though. Little do they know they're giving you exactly what you want.

The potion rests, wrapped, at the bottom of your satchel. Slinging this over one shoulder, you buckle your belt and slip two knives into their sheaths. Your sword remains covered in the bottom of your bag, too distinctive to be carried around in the open.

You pause when the room's empty, glancing around with a brief sting of uncertainty. A small part of you is sorely tempted to stay. Others have sought haven in Gehenna – you could do the same, and simply not return to the mortal realms.

It wouldn't be the same thing as freedom though, you think to yourself. Your sentence from the Witch Council remains and, while it does, you could never return to Witchery. Besides, it's not in your nature to run from a challenge.

And so, you shoulder your pack, and you walk out the door.