Page 10 of Hell Sent

Five

The castle was not even out of sight yet before Azreth’s sense of triumph completely faded.

The landscape of the mortal realm assaulted him. Trees and waving grasses, two crescent moons, shifting white clouds, blinking stars. There was movement everywhere, drawing his attention in multiple directions at once, because there could be danger anywhere—how would he know? Everything here, absolutely everything, was new and different. He knew nothing except that he needed to keep moving.

He walked without thinking about his heading. His feet moved at a quickening tempo as his mind began to race.

He glanced down at the woman in his arms, who quickly looked away, her breath catching. She did not yet have the dead-eyed look that other mortal slaves had, but he supposed that she would eventually, if he kept her for long enough.

Could she tell that he had no idea what to do next?

The blood on his skin was cold and tacky, and as much as he’d enjoyed spilling it, he wanted it off. So he stopped when they came to a river, dumping the mortal onto her feet at its banks. Trusting that he could chase her if she ran—and that she had no way of seriously injuring him, even with the baton—he turned his back on her, pulled off his boots, and waded into the river.

Liquid bubbled around his knees. Instead of silky flames, freezing water gushed past. The cold didn’t hurt him, but it was foreign and disquieting.

He rinsed the blood away and then scrubbed at the runes on his skin. The paint was stubborn. Scratching it furiously, he suppressed a frustrated snarl. He comforted himself by remembering the sweet taste of Eunaios’s blood.

He would not be owned. He would not be helpless. He would not be weak.

When he got to the runes on his palm, he paused. He’d cleaned off the paint, but something remained—a set of silvery runes, shimmering faintly with embedded magic. He held his hand under the water, and they still wouldn’t come off.His stomach turned.

Some part of the binding spell had stuck. He’d interrupted the ritual too late.

What had they done to him?

“What is your name?”

The woman’s tentative voice startled him. He’d almost forgotten she was there. He turned to her, closing his hand to hide the marks from her.

What was his name? What a strange thing for her to ask, of all things.

“Do you have one?” she asked. Her face appeared open, earnest, even through the smeared makeup.

Mortals truly believed demonkind to be nothing more than dumb beasts, didn’t they? His kind might not have been as clever with things like magic and technology as mortals were, but they were not animals.

“All sapient beings have names,” he replied curtly.

She gave the tiniest of nods. “I am Raiya.”

He knew that already. He’d heard the others call her by that name. But he didn’t want to think about her name.

He recalled the hot, rich taste of her skin and blood when he’d pressed his tongue to her fingers. The serpent that was his hunger began to uncoil, and he waded toward her.

The mortal stayed completely still as he approached, either frozen with fear or impressively brave. Azreth touched her throat, and her fear spiked deliciously. Finally, she became unfrozen, and she fought him as he pulled her to the ground.

“Wait—” She flinched as he lowered himself over her, and then he missed whatever else happened to her expression, because his face was buried in her hair, her body, her neck, inches from a fluttering pulse that he could cut short if he just bit her there. Her heated distress washed over him, awful and wonderful. He held himself against the length of her, maximizing his contact to her body. Every part of her bled energy. It seeped into him like a vital tonic, like the essence of life itself, intoxicating and invigorating.

He felt dizzy with it—and with relief. He had dreamed of this kind of power and safety all his life. As long as he kept her, he would never have to wonder when his next meal would come… or whether it would come at all. He would never have to endure starvation and weakness for lack of a feeding source. With her, he could feed indefinitely. He could not just survive, but thrive.

Her small hands were pressed flat against his chest, trying to push him away, and she whimpered quietly. It was tragic. He couldn’t imagine being so helpless.

His lips parted as he considered biting her, not deeply enough to kill her, but enough to hurt. His mouth hovered over her shoulder for long seconds, but he didn’t move.

Trying to ignore her rapid breaths, he closed his eyes. He thought of the joy he’d felt when he’d torn through Eunaios and Nirlan’s guards, and he concentrated on recapturing that feeling, thinking of death and blood and sated hunger. He waited for that excitement to come again as he thought of sinking his teeth into the woman.

Nothing happened. All he felt was unease.

Perhaps he could work her into a lustful state, instead.Then he would not have to physically hurt her. If mortals were anything like demons, she would give in to pleasure eventually, whether she wanted to or not. She wouldn’t like it, but she would survive, just like he always had.

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