He gave a sharptchsound and let the burlap sack he held drop unceremoniously onto her bed. Out fell a rough chunk of bread and a block of cheese.
Calla scowled at him. “That’s all the sustenance you brought her?”
“I don’t know what else humans consume,” Deimos said with an indignant curl of his lip, exposing a fang.
He stalked across the room, giving her a wide berth when Calla stepped close. Unlike most demons, Deimos was leaner, built narrow and quick, and stood a little taller than Alora herself.
He stalked across the room, giving her a wide berth when Calla stepped close.
Unlike most demons, Deimos was of a leaner build and scarcely taller than Alora herself. Four short horns, no more than a few inches each, were nearly hidden in the messy waves of his dark hair. Hooked knives were sheathed at his thigh, another at the small of his back—blackened blades etched with runes that drank the torchlight. Small wings twitched on his back. Batlike, though one hung oddly, the membranes scarred. Both blended seamlessly into his black leather armor.
Deimos crouched in one of the chairs like a cat, tail lashing with agitation. “Seven Hells,” he muttered to the phantoms. “She said to bring her food. That’s food, yes?”
They whispered back.
“I meantplenty,”Calla snapped. “That is hardly enough to keep her alive, you thoughtless kook.”
The vertical slit in his red eyes narrowed with his low snarl. “It is beneath me to fetch meals like a servant. I had to suffer the stench of humans while gathering whatever worthless trinketsshe asked for, then I was in the catacombs until dawn, scouring the?—”
Deimos caught himself at Calla’s sharp hiss. He ducked his head like a chastised child, wings and tail curling close. Both demons glanced at Alora. She watched them, mildly entertained and fascinated.
“Did you find my belongings?” she asked hopefully.
Deimos waved a clawed hand, and a mist of smoke spiraled into existence before her. Her old satchel materialized and fell onto her lap with a soft thud. Alora gasped, fingers trembling as she opened it. Inside lay her mother’s tattered journal, the golden harp, the little cornsilk doll, and a velvet satchel with bitter herbs for her menses tea.
But Alora’s smile faltered when she noticed one item missing.
“My hairpin…” she said, looking up worriedly. “It’s silver, in the shape of a lark. I left it on my vanity.”
“Your father’s castle was ransacked,” Deimos said flatly. “Anything of value had been pilfered by the time I arrived.”
Sadness twisted through her chest. It was all she had left of her mother, and now it was likely sitting in the pocket of some Calveron soldier. She would never see it again.
Seeing her expression, Calla glowered at him. “You should have searched more thoroughly.”
“I found the other trivial things she asked for,” Deimos grumbled, eyes narrowing. They were as scarlet as the shard dangling from his pointed ear. “I am made to assassinate or steal secrets from the shadows. Not rummage through wardrobes. Have the lesser demons handle your errands.”
Calla’s claws crackled with purple magic. “Hush or I will have Hadeon toss you into the Abyss.”
Deimos hissed at her, baring his small fangs.
Alora smothered a soft laugh.
He glowered at her. “Foul thing, human food,” he muttered, looking away. “At least once she eats it, the horrid smell might mask hers.”
Calla sighed. “Forgive my companion, Your Majesty. He will return with more in the evening.”
Deimos groaned exasperatedly.
“Call me Alora, please,” she said, fighting a smile. “This is enough, thank you.”
She thought they would excuse themselves then, but they stared at the sack expectantly, waiting. Then she realized they were holding their breath.
Ah.
Alora cleared her throat. Reaching for the food, they watched as she nibbled on a piece of stale bread and slice of cheese.
“Mm,” she said awkwardly. “Good.”
