They were too close. When they’d been in the assembly hall, Archie had only seen Damian from afar; this evening, even though they had been sat closely together, it had been side by side. There had been no chance to look into the deep brown of Damian’s eyes, ringed with a gleam of gold only visible when the dancing candlelight caught it just so. The hair curled artfully against his forehead, still perfectly set despite the hours they’d been here, and there was no sheen of sweat or oil against his skin. Archie had been sweating since he’d stepped into the room. He was – perfect. Too perfect.
And not real, he reminded himself.
Damian-Damaris closed his eyes and inhaled. Archie felt the fizzle of a false breeze against his skin and when it subsided, Earl Damian appeared more solid, more real. Archie caught thefaintest wisp of damp moss and wished he could meld into the wall. He’d notforgottenso much as not fully thought through the implications that Damaris could sense his desire at all times. There was no hiding his thoughts from the demon, no matter how embarrassing or inconvenient the moment.
One of the prince’s other friends joined them to refill her drink. “Hallo, what are you gentlemen having?”
Archie had to swallow twice before he found his voice. “I’ve been – the port is a little stronger than I expected. But it’s very good.”
“The refreshments tonight have been delicious,” agreed Damian, his voice like butter as he raised his glass. It wasn’t even a real glass. He hadn’t been drinking anything at all, Archie realized suddenly. The glass and the drink in it were part of his shadows, a consistent inch of dark liquid that had been there no matter how many times he’d pretended to sip at it. The only thing he’d had to drink all evening was – Archie.
The room, already too warm, became stiflingly hot. The new friend – Lady Keller, Archie was pretty sure – topped up her glass and wandered off again as Archie swayed. He’d lost all strength in his legs, and he wasn’t sure if it was the drink or everything else.
Damian reached out to steady him and Archie made a noise, though even he couldn’t tell if it was meant to encourage Damian closer or warn him away. Damian held his hand up in the air: innocent, didn’t mean any harm, in plain view. OF course, Archie was the one who came off looking unreasonable.
“I’ll ask someone to attend on you. It seems you’ve overexerted yourself,” said Damian-Damaris airily, leaving Archie clutching the table.
Did Prince Ixthan know? He must do, surely. He had been able to sense Damaris when he had been inside Archie’s head, let alone outside of it. Archie didn’t know enough about demonic magic to know how this was even possible. He’d thought that the entire reason Damaris needed to possess him was because he didn’t have a corporeal form in this realm. The only two exceptions were the two demon princes who, being half-human, were born with bodies of their own.
All of this was beyond him. Archie was no mage or scholar, he only knew about demon possession in so far as any average person did, which was that it was dangerous and restricted. And yet, what could he do about it now? Report it? That would risk the whole story coming out. And to whom, given they were in the prince’s own quarters already? He swayed, half-wishing he’d accepted Damien’s offer to help now that the ground seemed to move beneath his feet.
The door opened and Archie jumped nearly a foot in the air. With his mind on being discovered, he thought wildly that perhaps the guard were coming to arrest him. But no, it was just a procession of servants, laden with food. Gods, was it only dinner time now? Between the drink and the toll of the conversation, Archie had thought it much later already.
The servants were evidently familiar with Prince Ixthan’s informal arrangements, with the meal arranged as finger foods. Everything was placed on low tables that allowedpeople to lean in from a couch or cushion and help themselves, like a picnic, but indoors.
“Sir? The gentleman said you requested this,” said one of the servants appearing suddenly at his elbow, and Archie looked down to see a glass full of clear liquid. He drained it almost in one go, grateful despite the embarrassment of having to be coddled like a child who could not yet hold drink.
“Thank you, could I get another?” asked Archie. The sudden coolness steadied him somewhat, and he made his way back to the group, careful with each step. It was far too early to beg off already, and some food in his stomach would settle him.
Except it seemed that the food was just another way for Damian-Damaris tounsettle Archie. He watched as Damian picked food up, as anyone else did. But somewhere between picking the food up and actually eating it, the morsel disappeared. And yet Archie could not pinpoint when it was happening, when his impression of the food was merely manifested by the shadows that made up Damian. And where did the real food even go?
The worst part was trying not to stare. Archie engaged with the conversation the other side of him with half an ear, nodding along to a story about going to a tailor or something to try and distract himself, but that only led to him constantly wondering if he was seeing a wisp of a shadow in his peripheral vision all the time.
“Oh, you must try this one,” said Damian, pointing out one of the dishes. A flaky pastry stuffed with meat, from the looks of it. He pinched one off the plate and held it out forArchie, who had no choice but to let Damaris press it straight into his mouth before he dropped it. It fit, barely, Damaris pressing his thumb against Archie’s lower lip to push it all the way in. It felt solid. Solid enough to send a shiver down his spine, at least.
Archie chewed, already feeling the heat rising up his neck, feeling somewhere between foolish and horrified. He hid his face behind a napkin at the first possible moment, shrinking into the plush back of the settee even though no one was even watching them.
Damian-Damaris closed his eyes briefly. “As delicious as I thought it would be.”
Archie didn’t know if he was talking about the pastry, or Archie’s sudden spike of arousal. He’d been used, he realized, by Damaris wanting to taste the food he couldn’t himself. And yet, as Damaris inhaled and reeled that desire away from him, it felt good. Sinfully good.
As with all parties, the guests ebbed and flowed. Archie mostly stayed put, but a group broke off to play cards, others changed conversation partners, and even Damian left to be drawn into a different discussion. His new settee partner ended up one of the men who’d seen him initially in the library and thankfully he was slim enough they both fit with a sensible few inches between them.
“You, I’ve not seen around before. Have you know Dami for long?” he asked. His name was Philippe, perhaps?
“Dami?”
Maybe-Philippe tilted his head. “Lymond?”
Oh, gods, Dami was Damian. He’d been here for all of two days and he already had a cute pet name from Prince Ixthan’s group. Archie stumbled through his horror, “Oh! No, not really, just a few weeks. How about you?”
“Oh, about three years now, I think. I don’t recall very well,” said Philippe, his eyes going distant as he tried to remember. “I can’t believe he’s still not engaged.”
“Is there a reason?” Archie inquired, trying not to sound like a busybody. He felt a bit like his mother, couching nosiness behind an air of concern.
“There’s nothingwrongwith him if that’s what you’re asking, he just needs to get out of the market so the rest of us don’t look like heaving disappointments next to him,” said Philippe wistfully. Of course Damian was handsome, that easy enough to accomplish when it was manifested from years of Archie’s fantasies, but Archie was still trying to figure out how no one else had realized it was a real body yet.
“No, no, I merely meant, I don’t know much about him. He doesn’t seem to have much of a reputation,” said Archie hastily. He had no idea how Philippe thought he’d been around for three years. He hoped it wasn’t because Earl Lymond was a real person Damian had stolen the identity of.
