He hung his head, panting, as the chair settled back onto the stones. Every inch of his body was damp with sweat beneath his soaked clothes, and his heart pounded as if he’d just slaughtered a horde of demons. The taste of Morozov’s fear still sparked on his tongue, as delectable and potent as aged kvass. He swallowed once, then again, trying to rid himself of it. Saints, what had he almost done?
“Look at me.” The tip of Berezin’s blade was at it again, lifting Niko’s chin.
Niko could have resisted. But what would be the point? For one thing, maybe it would do him good for Berezin to believe that Niko knelt to him by bond rather than by choice. And for another, he had no desire to be stabbed again. Once had been more than enough. And so he met Berezin’s eyes.
The man was brave, Niko would give him that. There was no fear in his gaze, only determination and contempt.
“You expect us to believe that you still walk on the side of the Light,” Berezin said. “And yet, you have no more dominion over yourself than a pup after his first Change. You dare to turn your corrupt gift against one of your own.” He spared a glance for Morozov, who had unpeeled himself from the door and stalked forward, gripping the hilts of blessed blades in both hands. Then his gaze found Niko’s again, and this time, it held naught but steel.
“May the Saints abandon you, Niko Alekhin, former alpha of Kalach. This was a test—of your control, of your purity, of your loyalty. And on all counts, you have failed.”
Chapter Eleven
SAMMAEL
Sammael’s scrying room was a disaster, and he had only himself to blame. Papers littered the thick burgundy carpet, their curlicues of blurred ink visible amongst the wreckage. His books had been torn from the shelves and scattered, spines splayed and pages torn. Worse still, they were wet: his fountain had overflowed its marble basin, the water slopping over the sides and seeping into the carpet, which, he knew from experience, would be the very devil to dry.
Luckily for him, he commanded several minor devils whose only job was to do his bidding—whether that be housekeeping or homicide. But that was beside the point. None of this should have happened, nor would it, if he had not had the misguided idea to bring Elena here.
All he had wanted was to get her out of that damnable house he’d built for her, the replica of her wedding cottage in Kalach. He’d thought if he managed that, she’d snap out of the fugue state she’d descended into, where she alternated between weeping over her lost Shadow and plotting ways to wreak her revenge. But no. She’d destroyed his possessions, then plunged, still wearing her torn, stained wedding dress, into the sacred fountain of his scrying pool…right next to the naked statue of Lilith, the first woman to whom Sammael had ever given his heart.
“You can use this to see aboveground. I know you can,” Elena shrieked at him. “Do it!”
Sammael and the statue of Lilith shared a weary glance. Though she was carved from marble, Sammael fancied exasperation marked her features. Were Lilith truly here, she would never have put up with these histrionics. She would have chopped off Elena’s head and used it as a fruit bowl. Or maybe a planter; Lilith had been quite fond of gardening. Either way, she would have had no patience for dramatics such as this.
“I explained this to you, Elena.” He took a wary step forward, careful not to crush his precious first edition of Daemonologie: An Illustrated Compendium, which she had flung to the floor in a tantrum. “My scrying pool only allows me access to what takes place in the realms of the Underworld. We cannot use it to spy on your Shadow.”
Elena stamped her foot, sending a fresh cascade of water over the side, and Sammael winced. Not only was this bad for his book collection and the carpet, which had been handwoven from the softest moss by Mavky—female forest spirits he’d gone to great pains to capture—but it was highly inconvenient. The water in his scrying pool was sacred, infused with a tincture of his own blood and the ground petals of a flower that could only be found in the remote mountains of his realm. It was not meant to be splashed about in, like a human toddler in a wading pool. Far less was it meant to be defiled by a full-grown Vila in a wedding gown, her platinum hair in tangles and her eyes dark with a rage Sammael hadn’t seen since he’d ejected Gadreel from his realm for the last time.
Gadreel was what he should be worrying about. That, and the Darkness. Not Elena Lisova and her untenable obsession with her undead Shadow. Yet here he stood.
“I don’t believe you.” Elena tossed her head, haughty as any ruler of the infernal realms he’d ever had the misfortune to encounter. “You’re jealous, that’s what it is. But I will have what I wish. You will give it to me.”
“Or what? You’ll destroy all that I value? Forgive me, but that ship has sailed.” He swept a hand at the havoc she’d wrought before leaping into the fountain, ignoring the discomfort that ignited in his chest at her mention of jealousy. The Venom of God would not be brought so low as to envy a dog, far less one that, in its human form, had crawled, begging for mercy. It was absurd.
Elena trailed her fingers through the water, the motion graceful. For a moment, Sammael saw the beautiful woman who had entranced him by the ruined chapel, the one who had gazed upon him with fear, then awe, and then finally, with trust. The one with whom he’d dreamed of ruling an empire. How had it all gone so wrong?
Then she raised her head, her blue eyes swimming with the Darkness that possessed her, and his nostalgia vanished, replaced with trepidation. In her eyes, he saw no hint of the fragile yet determined Vila who’d wanted only to save the man she loved, nor yet the fierce warrior who’d wielded the elements in an effort to put an end to Dimi Ivanova. All that remained was this: a single-minded vessel for the Darkness who knew only that something she coveted had been stolen from her, and she would do anything to have it back again.
She no longer loved Niko Alekhin; Sammael would wager his realm on it. Maybe she never had. The creature standing before him wasn’t capable of such things. She simply wanted, and her fury at being denied might doom them all.
“I will burn this realm to the ground if it means retrieving my Shadow.” She advanced to the edge of the fountain and climbed onto the lip of it. The train of her dress trailed in the water, threatening to drag her backward, but she paid it no heed, gesticulating at the room and its wreckage as if to make her point.
“I see. And then where will you live?” Sammael said, eyeing the droplets that trailed from her fingers with alarm.
She hissed at him, her nostrils flaring. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d started breathing fire, like one of the multi-headed Zmije serpents he kept in the dungeons for special occasions. “That is of no consequence! The Darkness and I are one. It will care for me, as you never have. It will provide for me. Together, we will rise, and we will conquer, and we will take up residence anywhere we please. We will not have to occupy a dull, bookish realm such as this, with a ruler who failed to act on my behalf when it mattered most.”
As if to make her point, the water in the fountain began to roil and steam. Then, to Sammael’s horror, it boiled over the side and cascaded onto the carpet, drenching everything in its path. One of his more sensitive volumes, A Pictorial History of the Minor Demons and Damned Souls, howled as its pages soaked through, and Sammael felt an answering pang.
Elena was smirking now, as if daring him to challenge her. Well, enough was enough. He stepped forward and took hold of her, throwing her over his shoulder. She kicked and tore at him, but he ignored her, striding out of his ruined scrying room and down the hall with his burden.
“Where are you taking me?” She beat at his back with her fists. “Put me down!”
Grimly, Sammael pressed onward, into the room that he had once hoped would be Elena’s own. He pushed open the door, stalked across the mosaic tile floor, and dumped her on the four-poster bed, drenched wedding dress and all. And then he summoned his powers, pinning her to the bed with no more than a glare. She kicked and fought the invisible bonds, yelling for him to free her, but to no avail.
“You may find me dull and bookish,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above her furious screams, “but you will find yourself a poor match for a prince of Hell in the heart of his kingdom. Savor your time with the Darkness, for it will be the only company you enjoy until I change my mind.”
Turning his back on her, he strode to the door, stepped through, and shut it, locking it behind him. He traced one protective rune on its wooden surface, then another: for entrapment, for guarding what lay within, and finally, for silence.
