The Duke leaned back. “And what is she to you?”
Demons understood lust, cravings, beauty. Any other emotion would pique the interest of the Duke.
St. Silas shrugged his shoulders, but his bleeding hand formed a fist behind his back. He had learned the trick of lying to the Duke of Fray years ago, even when the rest of the boys in white had never been able to achieve such deception—to their detriment. To their demise. “A pretty face to keep around until she wears out her welcome.”
Maskless, standing within the revelry of the Festival of Demons, she stared at him, wild hair unbound, eyes large and flared with emotion, mouth inescapably full, the gun still held to his abdomen. It was not the first time he’d marked how beautiful she was, but it was the first time he’d resentedit.
The Duke’s expression was oddly speculative. “Have you bedded her yet?”
“Not yet,” St. Silas responded stoically, ruthlessly quelling the images that flashed through his mind at the Duke’s question. He did not have the luxury of his thoughts carrying himthere,not while His Grace watched him carefully.
That speculative light never left the Duke’s eyes. “Bed her, if youdesire, but a word of caution: It will not serve you to become fond of her. Do not forget your loyalties to me.”
St. Silas wanted to bare his teeth at the Duke.
Instead, he inclined his head. “We have unfinished business, Your Grace. I’ve had plenty like her before, and never have I let myself lose focus.” He tapped his gloved hand on the ledger. “And the proof is here.”
Oh, yes, St. Silas’sbusinesswould not be finished until the Duke lay in his death shroud.
His Grace assessed him with narrowed eyes for another moment before nodding slowly. “You may continue, Bram.”
“Will you call me Bram?”
“I am safe here, sir, on the other side.”
An unfamiliar feeling had risen in his chest then: humiliation.
In a moment of rare weakness, on that night when Theodore Daye had reappeared, St. Silashad wanted to hear his own name said back to him—and not by a demon who held power over him, but by her.
The old Duke leaned back once more in enjoyment as St. Silas read.
Finally, just as he turned the last page, the Duke’s eyelids began to droop, and he heaved a sigh as if he’d just finished a satisfying meal. Years had been scraped from his face. He held out his hand, showcasing the silver ring that he wore on the knuckle of his index finger. “Come, bid your farewells. Leave with health.”
With his bleeding palm, St. Silas took the Duke’s hand. Schooling the disgust that threatened to curl his lips, he placed his forehead on the ring.
The Duke smiled. “As always, your payment for the next round of confessors will be delivered to you.”
For the first time, St. Silas allowed his eyes to harden as he gave a brief nod.
“Good boy,” His Grace said. “You’ve proven yourself to be an asset. Was I not merciful for having decided to keep you all those years ago?”
“Why should I keep you?” the Duke had asked, barely glancing up from the accounts he was reading. “You cannot meet your end of the deal. You’ve become useless to me.”
Bram stood frozen on the stone floor, his heart hammering. He’d only just turned sixteen. He knew that because he was the only one of the Duke’s boys to know his birthday. Even Theo Daye had to guess his age based on the day his mother had left him, like a wrapped parcel, on the steps of Weavingshaw.
Still, despite the turmoil he felt, he’d already learned the trick of turning his voice into a smooth poison. “Let me live, Your Grace. It would be an honor to serve you longer.”
The Duke put the accounts down. One long, spindly finger tilted Bram’s chin upward, and the glitter from the silver ring mocked him.
“Such beautiful manners,” His Grace murmured. “Almost like a demon. But there is something bitter about you, boy, that repels my taste and has the undesired effect of aging me. You have become a burden to me, and I cannot keep you.”
“Unbind me,then.”
“You have broken your promise to me.” He clucked his tongue. “I do not take kindly to liars.”
The Duke of Fray had taken everything from Bram. He would not take his life. Bram bent a knee on the cold stone floor and placed his dark head at the feet of his sire. His posture was lowered, but spite kept his mind agile. It was not to the demon he bowed, but to the altar of his own making. The ring on the Duke’s finger became his contract, Bram’s silence his signature, the demon unknowingly his witness, as he vowed to himself:One day my hands will be stained red by the blood of the Fray house.
“Have I not done everything you have asked of me? And am I not yet willing to do more?” Bram could not stifle the bleakness from breaking his voice.
