With relish, St. Silas remembered the Duke of Fray’s white-faced fury when he had first heard his name, St. Silas—a derivative of the Saint of Silence.
“Stupid, foolish humans.”His Grace’s lips had curled with disgust. The Duke of Fray had been a young lordling when the purging had happened nine hundred years ago. He was the last remaining demon to remember that time, and he never forgave the Saints for slaughtering the demons who had lived in the above-world. “The Saint of Silence was the most depraved of them all. He used to drag demons from their beds and burn them alive.”
“Did he?”St. Silas had murmured, with a slight lift of his brows.
Of course he had known this, just as he had known that it wasthe Saint of Silence who had curtailed the demons’ reach. Back then, there had existed far more vessels, allowing the demons to easily cross between worlds without hindrance, lying with humans and stealing their resources. Above all else, they feasted on human emotions to prolong their lives and replenish their powers. Now, with many of the vessels destroyed by the Saints, only the demon nobility could afford to keep a steady stream of humans to feed upon. The rest of the demons had to contend with shorter lifespans, their powers to curse limited, their impotency made visible.
“It was my father who had the Saint of Silence’s tongue cut off and his mouth scarred.” The Duke of Fray’s bony fingers swiveled the silver ring he wore on his index finger. “He should not have been so merciful.”
“Mercy is a failing,”St. Silas had agreed mildly.
The Duke of Fray had leveled a long look at him. “Do you pray to the Saints?”
“I do not pray to them, Your Grace.”
“Why not?”
“They are not sinless,”he had answered, and the Duke of Fray seemed satisfied with that.
He had not been lying; the Saints were fallible. St. Silas had acquainted himself with the long and bloody history between the Saints and the demons, perused books and translations from both worlds, and he had always reduced that history to the same conclusion. The Saints had been too staid in their dealings with the demons.
Brutality should always be met with worse brutality.
A servant led him into the Duke of Fray’s invalid room now, and on admission St. Silas’s face retained only a mild interest.
The Duke’s room was a collector’s box of trinkets, as demons always hoarded. Jewels were woven into the blankets and wallpaper, which would have been dull without their rarity. The ceiling was covered with the delicately carved mourner’s masks from every funeral the Duke had attended, and the floor was littered with baskets filled with painted fans, gold-encrusted jewelry, and silk wraps.The clutter, which seemed to satisfy the Duke’s vanity, offended St. Silas to his very core.
“Your Grace.” St. Silas bowed. “I trust your health has been good?”
The Duke of Fray seemed not to have moved an inch since St. Silas had last left him months ago. He’d been dying slowly for years, and His Grace resisted that soft decay at every turn. Lord Calligan Fray—his son and heir—had high hopes that his father would not last the winter, but St. Silas was not so easily fooled.
The Duke sat in a plush chair with a throw tugged across his shoulders. His parchment-white throat, aged and spotted, peeked out of a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, but his eyes were as alert as the day St. Silas had been presented to him all those years ago. There was a simmering danger about him, like a father who didn’t need the excuse of drink to beat his younglings.
“My boy.” His Grace beckoned him forward and St. Silas sat on an adjacent chair with practiced ease, a deceptive languor. “You have come to see me at last. Must I wait so long between visits?”
“I have been working, Your Grace.” St. Silas’s tone was thick with false graciousness.
The Duke grunted. “Indeed, your work has made you quite infamous. Your reputation has reached even my debauched son; he has been asking after you. I was tempted to invite him into our consultations, but I do not think he yet deserves such a…treat.”
St. Silas mentally filed the telling information that Lord Calligan was inquiring after him. Their contract forbade anyone but the current Duke of Fray to hold any power over St. Silas, and only in specific ways. St. Silas had been collecting information about each of the Frays, so he knew that Calligan’s debts were long and enduring. That Calligan was asking about him now, after so many years of neglecting his duties as future duke, meant one thing: Calligan was debating whether to ask St. Silas for a favor. And when that moment came, St. Silas would be ready.
“I am here to serve,” St. Silas murmured.
“Is that so? Then what have you brought for me?”
St. Silas withdrew his leather gloves from his pocket, and his jaw tightened when he realized he was missing the left one. Instantly his face flattened once more as he took out the black ledger next, keeping it carefully away from his bare skin.
These are no ordinary books. Have you cursed them somehow to inflict such evil?
St. Silas continued seamlessly, his voice always smoothly apathetic, every aspect of his emotions hidden, his thoughts a blank canvas. Impossible to feed on. “A few secrets to strengthen you.”
“I do feel a chill today,” His Grace said. As always, a silver cup-and-saucer set was placed beside them on a side table. St. Silas’s expression remained neutral as he poured the Duke a cup of lukewarm tea and stirred in a teaspoon of sugar.
One undeniable truth I have learned about you, Mr. St. Silas, is that you always take two spoonfuls of sugar in your coffee.
“Good boy,” the demon said, gripping the cup with elongated fingers. “Now read aloud.”
St. Silas didn’t need to be the one to read the secrets for the Duke to feed. One of the servants could’ve done it just as easily. Or His Grace himself.
