Leth thought he was prepared. He isn’t.
Upon the raised circle crouches a demon. His form repels the eye, like a human shape twisted to the limits of recognition. Or a monster twisted almost to the shape of the man. His limbs are too long, his bones too sharp. Red magic wavers through the air between him and the man who summoned him—no less monstrous in his gleeful rictus.
Anton stands at the edge of the black stone platform, his cloak flung back from his shoulders. His laughter rises in fitful geysers, interspersed with pained gasps. Blood spatters what parts of him Leth can see. He doesn’t turn as Leth enters; all his attention is on the bloody array painted across the platform.
The array is similar to the one in the cave, but much larger. The blood is fresh. Pieces of another corpse spread out over the entire array. Hands too far away from arms. Ribs too far away from pelvis. A wet, slurping sound echoes as the hunger demon shovels shredded organs into his jaws.
The dead man’s head has rolled to the edge of the platform. The skull is dented and misshapen, but Leth recognizes the scraggly beard, the gaunt features and weak chin. One eye is wide open and dead. The other eye is gone.
I guess Anton valued your friendship after all, Javius. You were sacrifice enough.
The irony strikes painfully. Leth’s ancestors would spin in their graves to learn both Tariel brothers had contracted with demons. But the roads that led them here are nothing alike, and their contracts couldn’t be more different.
Anton and his demon lift their heads at the same time, swiveling to face the intruders. A miasma of power wavers between them. Anton’s arms and chest are wet with blood, and he holds his greatsword in one hand.
“You’re just in time.” Anton’s voice echoes through the chapel. He sways where he stands. “He’s still hungry. Ozarell! Kill them for me.”
“Mortal maggot,” the demon Ozarell rasps. “Do not speak my name so lightly.” But he pulls himself to his full height and lurches a step forward.
Madness burns in Anton’s eyes, searing away Leth’s last hope of talking his brother down. Capturing him will have to wait until the demon’s gone.
“Handle your brother,” Evain says. “I’ll take the other ugly brute.”
Leth takes one last look at Evain—features carved from finest marble, a wild fierceness in his brow—and lets his desire fill his heart with strength.
Armed with magic, sword, and love, Leth races forward to meet his brother.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
EVAIN
“That’s no way to behave,” Evain addresses the hunger demon, aiming to draw his attention away from the humans. Ozarell, Anton called him. “You’re a guest in this realm. Show some respect.” He punctuates the scolding by flinging a shadow dagger at the demon’s head.
Ozarell jerks around and snatches the dagger from midair. Blood drips from his jagged bared teeth. Only half a foot taller than Evain, his form is so close to human, but the proportions are wrong. Marble cracks under his feet, and his aura presses heavily against Evain’s. His true form must be far larger when not constrained by mortal physics.
“You’re a demon,” Ozarell says, in an abyssal language Evain hasn’t heard in centuries. He cocks his head. “But you reek of humans. How long have you been trapped here?” His rattling voice is punctuated by the ring of steel on steel from the brothers across the hall.
Evain forces himself to focus on Ozarell. He can’t get distracted by Leth. “Was I unclear?” Evain flexes his power and flings another pair of daggers. “I’m not here to talk.”
Ozarell lunges forward. Beneath him, sacrificial flesh scatters and bloody runes smear. Magic flares red and black as he crosses the perimeter of the array—it doesn’t contain him at all. Evain skids across the marble, barely dodging the other demon’s strike. Stone shatters where he stood an instant before.
A shadow-knife circles around to deflect the shrapnel as Evain dodges again. Only the power of the freshly-sealed contract gives Evain the speed to avoid Ozarell’s onslaught. There’s a mad unpredictability to his movements that requires all of Evain’s attention. Despite Anton’s orders, the hunger demon isn’t trying to kill him quickly. Ozarell wants to wound and restrain him. He wants Evain alive for his devouring.
Evain lands one knife in Ozarell’s shoulder, but Ozarell catches the next before it hits his throat. Laughing like gravel, he brings the knife to his lips. His bloodstained teeth gnaw directly through the blade.
Tipping his head back, Ozarell swallows the shards. “Is that little thing your captor?” Black blood oozes from his shoulder. “Shall I save you a bite?”
Evain throws out his arm in a burst of pure power, deflecting the blow Ozarell aims at Leth—and dodging the next strike at himself. The hunger demon is easier to manage than Evain expected. Part of that is Evain’s new contract, strengthening and stabilizing his magic in a way he hadn’t thought possible. Part of that is Ozarell.
The hunger demon is unpredictable, but he’s not as quick as he should be. Not as strong. His erratic movements aren’t always an advantage. His flaring magic lacks the crucial edge, as if not all of Ozarell came through between the realms.
Anton’s summoning was flawed in more ways than one. A new, uneasy feeling creeps behind Evain’s shoulder blades. The barrier between realms is too thin here. The shivering echoes of the demonic realm aren’t just from Ozarell’s aura.
“Ozarell!” Anton roars from across the chapel. “Forget the demon. Kill Leth first! That’s a fucking order!”
Swearing, Evain interposes himself between Ozarell and Leth again—but Ozarell pauses. “I’m not strong enough, Master Human. May I take more power?”
