Page 73 of Prisoner of the Lycan Prince

Who are you?

Magic sparked against my skin, stinging as it struck.

I clenched my jaw. The book’s pages flipped, and now each page displayed the same three words.

Who are you?

The words glowed. Whispers whipped around me, repeating the question over and over. The magic burned. Its embers sank into my skin. Burrowed into my veins. Burning. The old, familiar fire flared to life.

Who are you?

My beast thrashed inside me. For so long, I’d asked the book to restore me. To do what the gods would not and help me find a way to repair the rent in my soul.

Who are you?

Gritting my teeth, I answered with my gift. “Einar Rothkilde!” But that was my name. Nothing more. Who was I, really? Prince. Lycan. Criminal. Unworthy of forgiveness. I was all of those things.

Harper’s face floated before me, her blue eyes shining with love.

Something wet touched my cheeks. I bent my head and let the tears fall faster. “Forgive me.”

Words blazed from the page, knowledge hovering underneath them. But I couldn’t reach it.

I extended my hand, straining toward the priceless knowledge. A red hand tipped with black claws burst through the center of the page and reached for me. It gripped my palm and tugged hard, dragging me forward. The stench of brimstone invaded my lungs.

Slowly, a potion wrote itself down the page. The words were foreign, but I understood them. Because they were for me. It was the potion to bring Harper back to life.

But the book demanded a price.

Who are you?

The book laughed, and its answer echoed through my head. Einar Rothkilde, you are mine.

Light spread. The hand gripping mine pulled me forward.

Arlo stepped into view, his body haloed by the light. Fully demonic, he hefted a long, black broadsword and bared his fangs. “I am King Crubeus’s son and heir,” he snarled. “And I command you to release Einar Rothkilde.” He swung the sword, severing the clawed hand at the wrist.

I fell backward—and landed on my ass on the warehouse floor. The Book of Crubeus slammed shut, its light winking out.

Arlo stood a few feet away, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. The black sword was gone. There was no sign of the clawed hand.

Around us, people stared at Arlo with shocked expressions.

“You saved my life,” I told him.

“You saved mine first,” he said.

A lump formed in my throat. “I didn’t.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “You don’t think giving me a place to live and offering me friendship saved me? I assure you, it did.” He came to me and put out a hand. When I grabbed it, he tugged me to my feet. “The human world didn’t accept me fifty years ago,” he said softly. “The demon plane doesn’t accept me now. But you do. You always have.”

I swallowed the impulse to argue, and I put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, old friend. But you didn’t have to reveal yourself.” Arlo could change his glamour, but his cover was blown. Now everyone knew my steward was the missing King of the Legerdemain.

“I was happy to do it,” Arlo said. His shoulder lifted under my palm as he sighed. “I can’t hide forever. And…a Scorab was here. It’s a long story, but he recognized me.”

Worry swirled through me. Arlo’s father had been dead for half a century. But the laws of the Legerdemain were clear. Arlo was heir to the throne. While he lived, no one else could rule. His people didn’t want him for their king, but they couldn’t pick a new one until he was dead. The Legerdemain were unlikely to try killing him outright. But they might send someone from a different demon clan to rid themselves of a king they were too bigoted and narrow-minded to accept.

I looked at the book. “It listened to you.” I turned back to Arlo. “That was a ballsy move, stepping into my vision.” It went against all the advice Arlo had given me over the years. Demons didn’t share their plane with humans, and their world was steeped in magic. Like all demonic artifacts, the book’s magic was potent and unpredictable. Arlo had taught me how to resist it over the years. The key was to read in short bursts, like ingesting small sips of poison to build up a tolerance.

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