Damn you, Xuri. Damn you.
And damn her. She gave a scoffing laugh as she realized it was too late. She was already damned, and there was no salvation for her.
Adarian staggered, then caught himself. What the hell? He glanced about and was grateful no one had been near just then to see his misstep. As the Malachai, he couldn’t afford for anyone to see him hold any kind of weakness, and normally he didn’t.
However …
Something wasn’t right. Ever since he’d pierced the veil that separated the worlds and entered the human realm, he’d been weaker than normal. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear he had a son here.
Impossible, he knew, since he hadn’t been here in centuries.
But that was what it felt like—his powers weakening to accommodate the powers of a rising Malachai.
His replacement. A bastard born to kill him.
Which was why he’d taken care to make sure he had no issue. Male or female. Still …
The sensation was unmistakable. A light hum in his ears. Peculiar fog in his eyes that made everything dull, and the weakness of his limbs. Those were definite giveaways that he was growing weaker.
Slower.
“My lord?”
He froze at the sound of Vine’s voice. An ancient Deruvian, like her sister, Mara, she was a fiery redhead. One given to extreme tantrums over the slightest provocation. Just not with him, as she knew he reacted poorly to such theatrics.
As in he tended to snap such people in half.
Literally.
Adarian composed himself before he faced her. “What is it?” he hissed.
“Your generals are here. Laguerre and Grim.”
That made him feel better. War and Death. Of all his generals, they had always been his favorites, in spite of the fact that the two of them had played a major role in the damnation of the entire Malachai race and in particular his own family. Which was why they were enslaved to him now.
Payback was his pleasure.
Those two personally owed him and his predecessors, and he made sure they paid their debt in full. That they would for all eternity.
True to their style, they entered as if they were the ones in charge. Though Mot was nowhere near as tall as Adarian, the plucky little bastard strutted as if he was. Dressed in black on black, he appeared to be a cross between a funerary attendant and a military commander, hence why most called him Grim. His Colonial-style coat was similar to what the British officers peacocked about in, except for the fact that it appeared to have been dipped in night. Even the buttons were flat black. Along with his feathered tricorne.
Dressed in a bloodred riding habit, Laguerre was even more striking with her jet eyes and long dark hair that fell in spiral curls to her slender waist. The two of them had been seeding exceptional discord in his name, and they appeared quite pleased with themselves.
“I take it I won’t be gutting either of you today?”
That caused Mot to back up a step.
As the daughter of all evil itself and a war goddess in her own right, Laguerre wasn’t so easily intimidated. She actually smiled. “The day’s still young, but I think you’ll be happy with our report.”
“Then thrill me.” He gestured for her to take a seat.
With an audible gulp, Mot sat down. Laguerre chose to stand in the large room, near the window that looked out onto the sea where Adarian could take advantage of the beauty there. While he’d been held in Azmodea—the nether realm ruled by Laguerre’s father, who had tortured Adarian for centuries—he’d been unable to see any kind of beauty whatsoever. There had only been violence and gore. Screams for mercy and pleadings for death.
That had come from his own lips.
The others tortured there had been worse.
Now that he was free, he would burn this world down before he’d ever go back. To hell with Kadar and Azura, and all the old gods. They could all rot, and this world with them.
