Alora’s throat went dry when she caught the jagged tear in his left wing, a perfect crescent missing. “I see…”
Deimos shrugged, the motion unconcerned. “On occasion, sire allows me tounleashwhen whispers turn to treason.” He smiled wistfully at his satchel. “I look forward to those days.”
Alora had watched the Harbingers long enough to know where they fit in Rune’s circle. Calla directed with poise and Hadeon with quiet weight, and Deimos executed assassinations or secrets. Their roles were clear, personalities wrought from their factions.
Yet the lethal spy stood out. He didn’t look like other demons, and his unnerving energy fit nowhere she could name.
“What kind of demon are you?” Alora asked softly.
Deimos’s smile faded. His tail flicked once, sharply, as though the question had struck a nerve.
His eyes narrowed. “I am Abyss-born.”
The word meant nothing to her, yet it landed with weight.
“What is that?”
“Not all demons are born from mating,” Deimos said flatly. “Most are derived from the mist that bleeds into the Netherworld from the Abyss. During the full Blood Moon, sire gives us form and places us into one of the seven factions in his court once the Netherworld chooses our nature.”
“And what is yours?—?”
“Why do you care?” he snapped, bearing his fangs in a snarl. “For my size? I am part imp and something else too restless for Sloth’s rot.” His tail lashed once. “Do not ask me again.”
The Shades flitted around him, wailing in agitation.
She had seen Deimos annoyed before. Irritated by inconveniences or inefficiency.
This was different.
“I’m sorry,” Alora said quietly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Deimos made atsksound, disquiet flickering briefly across his face before he turned away.
Watching him go, she understood. It wasn’t merely that others had used his uniqueness to belittle him. It was that even Deimos didn’t know where he belonged.
And that uncertainty was perhaps more dangerous than knowing.
They soon reached a door in a section of the mountain Alora didn’t recognize. Deimos pushed it open, revealing an antechamber that unmistakably belongedCalla.
It was decadent. An indulgent blend of war and vanity. Weapons gleamed along the walls beside gilded mirrors; velvet draperies the color of wine softened the black stone. A dozen candles burned in gold sconces, their wax dripping slowly down carved holders. The air smelled faintly of perfume and smoke.
Deimos crossed to a lounge area where leather chairs were set before a roaring hearth, its fire casting amber light across the velvet carpet. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he arranged his glass jars in a neat semicircle around him, like a child laying out treasured toys.
“She’s in there,” he said dismissively, nodding toward a gilded door.
Then he lifted the jar containing the heart and studied it with quiet glee.
Alora lingered near the threshold, torn between curiosity and unease.
Rune had found a way to give Deimos purpose when the world chose to discard him. It spoke of mercy cloaked in cruelty. Of salvation shaped through consequence.
Yet it worked.
Her fingers brushed her sleeve, where faint light pulsed beneath her skin.
Perhaps some monsters could be tolerated.
CHAPTER 27
