Page 9

Her pupils blew wide with what I assumed was fear as Astaroth loomed over her.

The creepy bastard lifted one heavily ringed finger and traced the air beside her face, following the curve of her cheek without ever allowing skin to meet skin. Cerilla went perfectly still beneath the almost-touch.

His nostrils flared, and something in his expression shifted.

“My name is Cerilla Draven,” she said with enough confidence that I was mildly impressed. Most people, when introduced to their eternal tormentor, had the decency to piss themselves.

“Draven,” he repeated with disgust, dragging the syllables over his tongue as if they were pure rot.

He leaned closer, drawn towards her by some invisible tether neither of them seemed to understand. Astaroth inhaled slowly, his nostrils flaring as though he’d caught the scent of something unexpected.

“Your soul…” Astaroth inhaled again, something dangerously close to fascination sharpening his features. “It reeks of my magic.” His head tilted. “Tell me, little witch, did you truly dare steal from me?”

Cerilla squared her shoulders beneath his stare. “I did what I needed to do for the people I love.”

Astaroth laughed with twisted delight. Unfortunately, his newfound fascination with Cerilla wasn't quite distracting enough for him to forget about me. I remained lying in the fucking dirt, trying to breathe through the pain without giving the bastard another scream to enjoy. “Love is nothing but devotion waiting to become grief. A foolish construct of the living, devoting their fleeting existence to something loss will inevitably turn to agony.”

“You are wrong,” she said, her voice unwavering. Power burst from her in a dark, rippling wave, sending ash billowing away from her feet as though the earth itself had recoiled.

A slow smile tilted Astaroth’s mouth, apparently delighted by the little display of stolen power. He lifted one hand between them, thumb settling against his middle finger.

Oh, that can’t be fucking good.

Snap.

Cerilla shrieked as her body began to change. Her spine compressed with a sickening series of cracks, stealing inches from her Fae height as her limbs shortened and the pointed tips of her ears rounded, disappearing beneath her black waves. The otherworldly sharpness of her features softened as her magic vanished, leaving her smaller and softer than before.

Mortal.

Astaroth had stripped the magic disguising her as Fae from her with the snap of his fingers. Her breaths came in short bursts, and her fists clenched at her sides as if she was thinking about striking the god before her.

Yet his smile only deepened as if he preferred her like this.

“Stealing is a cardinal sin.” Astaroth tilted his head, bringing his face within inches of hers. “But stealing from me is an offence of an entirely different kind.” He lifted his hand, dragging one ringed finger through the air along the line of her throat without ever touching her. “Your screams will be so beautiful in my Nether.” His finger stopped above the frantic beat of her pulse. “I can already hear them.”

Cerilla didn’t so much as bat her eyelashes.

He flicked his hand, and Cerilla’s scream tore through the air. Her spine snapped and lengthened, bones cracking beneath her skin as her limbs stretched and the pointed tips of her ears pushed through her dark hair once more. Her body contorted violently before her magic surged back into her flesh, restoring her Fae form.

Judging by the way his colourless eyes brightened, the stupid woman had just made herself infinitely more interesting to him.

“Many witches and mages practice dark magic,” she panted. “Will you punish all who steal your power?”

“I am not talking about my power.”

Astaroth stepped back before either of us could question him and clapped his hands once. Several guards emerged through the curtain of ash, bone armour gleaming against the grey, their faces concealed behind expressionless white masks that revealed nothing but their eyes.

“Take them all to the Nether. Except for Edgar… I believe he still has four days of freedom left.”

Four days until the damning trials would be held. Four days of Lyra being tortured.

Fuck.

I'd survived centuries beneath Astaroth's hands, but Lyra had barely survived the monsters already living inside her own head or what I had made her endure.

The Nether wouldn't simply hurt her. It would find every fracture and pry until something broke.

My fingers dug into the ash.