Page 13 of Hell Sent

“Yes. It is night.” Mortals slept at night. He knew that much.

She crossed her arms tightly, looking around. “I need to find a safe, warm place before I can sleep. It’s too cold out here.”

Even the mortals didn’t like the chill of their own plane? Who was it for, then?

They were such delicate creatures. What other allowances would he need to make for her to be sure she stayed in good health?

He didn’t want to risk giving off smoke that might be seen for miles, nor did he have any materials to build a warm shelter for her.

Reluctantly, he pulled her toward him and sat down on the cold ground. Her eyes were bright and wary, but she allowed him to pull her into his lap.

“You must stay with me. You will be warm enough.” He braced his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. Her body felt cool; it barely gave off any heat. He hoped this would be enough. He truly knew nothing about how to survive in this place, and the longer he spent here, the more uncertain he became.

“Oh,” she said softly.

He tilted his head toward her, narrowing his eyes. “Turn on me, and I will destroy you,” he reminded her, lest she get too comfortable and think otherwise.

She sighed and said nothing.

“Now… go to sleep.” He waited, watching her.

She blinked a few times, glanced up at him, then resolutely closed her eyes and didn’t open them again. She let her head tilt to lay on his chest, but she did so hesitantly, as if his skin might be poisonous. Perhaps he just disgusted her, which would pose a problem if she really intended for him to pleasure her in order to feed.

They sat in silence for an hour or more, neither of them acknowledging the other, and neither of them sleeping.

Eventually, her breathing slowed, and her head grew heavier. Her fists uncurled. Azreth looked down with only his eyes, careful not to jostle her. Her expression had gone slack, the muscles of her face toneless in sleep.

Pale makeup still covered her face, a shield against his gaze, and her hair was tied back in a thick braid. Nearly her entire body was covered by clothing. She wore an elegant robe with a collar that crossed neatly at her chest and was belted at the waist, its blue color a little lighter and a little greener than his skin. Beneath that, she wore a long-sleeved shirt and long, loose trousers. It all looked more designed for comfort than defense.

He stared at her, feeling like a voyeur as he did so. It was the first time he’d witnessed another person sleeping. He had always thought a sleeping person might look a bit like a corpse, but he’d been wrong. She looked very alive and very relaxed, her entire body soft and at ease.

Holding her with one arm, he slowly reached for the bag she’d tucked by her feet, then peered inside. It was mostly empty. Apparently her blanket had taken up most of the space before she’d removed it. But there was also a book. He was intrigued. Books were where mortals stored knowledge.

He flipped through the pages. It was handwritten in a rather disorganized way, like the knowledge was still in progress, and there were several different scripts. He couldn’t read any of them—the magic that gave him knowledge of other languages didn’t extend to writing—but he recognized the distinctive shapes of the enchanting runes he’d seen all over the dungeon. The back of his neck prickled, and he glanced at the woman. She was still sleeping.

Reaching inside the bag again, he cautiously sorted through more cloth, some small jars, and a waterskin, and then his hand brushed something sharp and metallic. A weapon?

He pulled out the item to look at it, but its purpose became no clearer to him. It was a slender piece of metal about the length of his forefinger. The end had been sharpened to a severe point, but it didn’t look especially ergonomic for stabbing.

Looking at the pointed end, he was suddenly reminded of the runes on the baton that was still attached to her belt. He looked down, studying the tiny runes carved on the baton’s shaft. Tiny carvings required a tiny carving implement, he supposed. It was a stylus, not for writing, but for enchanting.

Who was this person he’d just stolen?

He silently put her things back inside her bag and rested it at her feet again. He didn’t dare move from beneath her, even long after his legs had gone numb.

Six

eight years ago

Azreth’s boots pounded the dry earth as he gave chase across the wastes of the fourth hell.

It had been weeks since he’d fed. Hunger was eating him from the inside out. His mind was unwinding.

When a scrawny, turquoise-skinned demon had wandered through his path, it had felt like an act of mercy from the universe. Azreth had approached him, raising a hand in a solemn greeting. But the demon hadn’t given him a chance to speak. As soon as he’d seen Azreth, he’d turned on his heel and taken off in a sprint.

Startled and annoyed, Azreth had run after him.

Azreth’s legs were longer. He closed the distance between them quickly. When the smaller demon stumbled, Azreth tackled him from behind, and they crashed to the ground in a jumble of flailing limbs.

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