Page 1 of Bond of Passion

Prologue

About a dozen years ago…

“Eyeballs! Kidneys! Gargantua bile ducts! Get ‘em here, hot, fresh, and deep-fried in genuine manfat! Get yercrisssspy eyeballs!”

Holy beer-battered shit on a stick, Tavin hated demon festivals.

He was a fucking assassin, and yet even he couldn’t stomach the insanity that went on at the massive events. Events where tens of thousands of demons of all sizes and species gathered to hawk their wares, showcase their skills, or slaughter as many things as they could in inventive ways.

At least the fests were divided into surprisingly orderly districts according to both population and the Ufelskala, a scale of evil ranging from one to five.

Demons from species categorized as Tiers One and Two got their own tiny sections to do their relatively non-evil things like sell vegetables, sharpen horns or hooves, or give orgasms with their minds. Tiers Three, Four, and Five demons got much larger areas to do things like play grotesque carnival games, hire assassins, or buy and sell cursed artifacts and implements of torture. You even got to “try before you buy!”

He knew that because some eyeless, snaggletoothed chap was currently yelling it in his ear as he strode past the dude’s stall. An ugly, squat booth fashioned from a moist gray hide stretched over the rib cage of some massive creature. And, no, Tavin didn’t want to try that bone saw on any of the victims huddled in a cage nearby.

Damn, Sheoul sucked. Every time he started thinking the human realm was a cesspit, he got some sort of assignment that sent him to a demon festival and remembered right quick that most of the human realm wasn’t so bad.

Renewing his focus on the mission, he tuned out the people peddling their goods, the wet sounds, the shrieks of pain. People were butts to balls in thoroughfares as wide as a four-lane highway, and he had to navigate carefully to avoid pissing off a twelve-foot-tall Gorehorn demon or getting a knife between the ribs.

The aroma of roast fleshebiest seasoned with a fragrant Neethul herb told him he was nearing his objective.

He slipped through the crowd, slowing as he caught glimpses of spiky, black and gold Neethul armor. He’d have to get past the sentries to enter the Neethul camp, but that wouldn’t be the tricky part. The tricky part would be locating his mark.

Gristlenthe Unseen was a bit of a hermit, not often seen in public—hence the name—unlike the rest of the mercenary clan members. Tavin’s research indicated that Gristlen, a high-ranking Neethul royal, served the clan from a desk, dealing with their financials and scheduling.

Had to suck. The Neethul were Fifth Tier demons on the Ufelskala, about as evil as underworlders came. Neethul didn’t want to be behind desks. They wanted to be out causing pain, fighting, and running slavery operations.

What was really fucked-up was that as evil as the Neethul were, they were also among the most beautiful of underworlders. Freakishly dexterous, fast, and graceful, with pointed ears, creamy pale skin, and silky hair in shades of white, blond, or silver, they were what the elves of human lore had been based upon.

At least, on the outside.

Inside, they were the monsters other monsters warned their baby monsters about.

He crossed into the Neethul camp and scanned the crowd for the Draghoul Clan’s severed head crest while simultaneously trying to ignore the horrors going on in the vendor stalls. The fleshebiest burgers did smell good, though, and a guy had to eat.

As he started toward a food stand, movement caught his eye, a flash of midnight armor and a cloak sporting the black, navy, and purple colors of Gristlen’sDraghoul clan.

After one last regretful glance at the burger joint, he made his way to where the armor disappeared around the side of a hut. No one paid him any attention as he slipped down a narrow path between rickety huts and was rewarded with another glimpse of the armor.

He couldn’t see a face, just thick, white-blond braids that could have belonged to pretty much any Draghoul Clan member—male or female. The mystery Draghoul sped up and ducked between two enormous animal enclosures.

Avoiding getting too close to the hell stallion pens, Tavin lowered his hand to the hilt of the dagger at his hip and rubbed his thumb on the smooth, icy ruby seated just above the blade. The jewel, enchanted by his mother’s spellcaster people, masked the sound of his breathing and heartbeat when touched, a handy feature when hunting predators.

In almost total silence, he eased around the back of another of those moist hide tents, taking care to keep from touching it. Wet things in Hell tended to be poisonous, caustic, or worse.

The muffled sounds of sniffling…no, crying…rose over the background clamor of the festival. Stepping carefully to avoid feces and puddles of urine from the penned animals, he peeked over a stack of barrels.

On the other side of the barrier, a female Neethul cradled some sort of little animal in her arms, her long, gloved fingers stroking blood-soaked gray fur that stuck up in tufts between iridescent scales. A teardrop plopped onto the creature’s broad head.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

The Neethul…was crying? What the…what? Neethul didn’t cry. They didn’t feel sympathy. Or empathy. Hell, he thought all they felt was sadistic joy and maybe anger.

He’d tangled with a few Neethuls in his life, and if they weren’t trying to enslave you or kill you, they were fantasizing about it—even when they had sex. He’d been dragged down that road before, and he had the road rash to prove it.

The Neethul’s platinum braids obscured her face as she gazed down at the demon animal. One hand stroked its back lightly, but Tavin couldn’t tell if the thing was even alive.

This was so bizarre.