Page 63 of Demonic Cage
“No!” I come to my senses. “You don’t have to do it. Don’t change!”
Lizander puts his hands to his ears and speaks in broken sentences.
“The problem is,” he starts, each word followed by a long intake of breath, “he keeps… talking… showing images of… her.”
I place one hand on his cheek, the other on his shoulder.
“You can destroy him, Lizander! In my world, they could help you – they could erase the…”
“Just like they helped you?!” he sneers at me, adding disdainfully, “Thanks, but no.”
He’s right. They couldn’t help me either. Despite all the medication they pumped into me.
“Who does he show you images of?”
Tears well up in Lizander’s eyes and his features begin to change. He closes his eyes, and when he looks back at me, it’s not him looking at me anymore.
“About our mother…” Nárs says with a smile. “I love replaying for him every day how he killed her.”
My every step resoundingly strikes the ivory-colored stairs as Nárs leads me to the seat below the throne. The techno music thunders through the spacious hall, my heart pulsating to its rhythm. Without Lizander, they would have torn me apart long ago. It’s as if the three months of training was worth nothing. With a stern gaze, I follow as familiar figures slowly appear on the prominent, white pyramid stairs. I hear the long, black skirts of Sylla rustling, the hissing of the snakes coiling around her head, but I don’t look at her. Green slime creeps into my field of vision, signaling Hépotis bouncing next to Nárs. Léthé barges in like a majestic panther, cutting through the intoxicated demons. She slightly crosses one leg over the other, like a model on the runway. The monsters flit away from her like birds fleeing from a predatory cat.
Ignoring me entirely, she strides up the ivory-colored stairs and settles into a white fur-lined chair. She crosses her royal legs and leans back in the chair, rings adorning her fingers sliding through her long hair. Eyes closed, her head sways to the rhythm of the music, as if in a trance.
Blood, smoke, and the scent of darkness fill my nostrils as my closed eyes sharpen my senses. I taste the gritty earth on the tip of my tongue. The demonic screams in the background blend with the music, their cries syncing into a rhythmic chant. I feel like I am liberated, I can finally breathe.
The tempo of the music slows, growing quieter. I open my eyes and blink. From a dark cave behind a rocky ledge emerges the Demon King. He spreads his magnificent wings, their colors blending with the lights of the hall. The thin crown atop his head is metallic black, matching his attire. My breath quickens as I think of his muscles straining against me, and his demanding lips. The demons erupt in cheers. They praise Darya. No, it’s more than that. The demonslovehim. Darya leaps off the ledge and lands beside me. The crowd roars, but I only see the storm-gray eyes. Darya’s calm gaze, framed by black eye makeup, falls upon my face, then onto my bloody, white garments. Does he enjoy the sight? Does he enjoy seeing me broken? That’s his goal, isn’t it? To break me.
He takes my face in one hand, his fingers wiping away the black tears. The damp, cold touch soothes my skin, heated from shock. Every hungry, angry, reverent, mad stare is fixed on us. They growl, awaiting the Demon King’s next move. Yet he gazes longingly at me, a lump forming in my throat. Darya’s eyes drift away, looking toward Nárs, and they seem to exchange silent words. Finally, he wraps his arm around my waist and turns me towards the crowd.
“Émías nosoik–my demons. This year’s ceremony is special. In thissuncircle, we can show a human our transformation into demons – one who will become one herself. And when that happens, she’ll open the thing that we’ve always waited for.”
Darya gives me a wicked look.
“She’ll open the Gates of Hell.”
My mouth falls open.
What?
“Yes, Émías nosoik,” Darya continues. “The Gate of Hell awaits us, so we can meet our fathers of old and avenge the torments caused by the herebias.”
The Demon King tilts his head subtly, his suggestive gaze meeting my bewildered one.
“I now have the opportunity to introduce you to our champion. This is Kindra, and in her blood flows the blood of angels and demons. Her strength will rival mine. She’s the one who’ll overcome our obstacles and lead us to what we’ve always dreamed of: true salvation.”
At Darya’s final words, the crowd cheers. But what the hell did he just say? Panic grips my throat like a hook, squeezing out the air from my lungs. He called me Kindra, which means champion. I have to overcome obstacles, and I too will become a demon. I realize it’s not what Darya thinks that bothers me, but how confidently he declared what I will become.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to become a demon.
The Kraldem still stares at me, and when our eyes meet, a reptilian grin spreads across his face. He leans closer to me and whispers in my ear.
“You’re mine. Whether you want to continue or not.”
The last of my strength leaves me, and if the Demon King didn’t hold me up, I would truly collapse now. What do they want from me? Ever since I stepped into this room, ever since Darya kidnapped me, I’ve been living in fear every day that they will kill me. I’ll be gone, and just like Bengt, I’ll be nothing but a faint memory, which will never hurt anyone as much as my brother’s death. I wish I knew what to do. Maybe I shouldn’t wait for them to kill me. I should just do it myself…
“Lotte,” the Demon King says, his gaze sweeping over my body. How long has he been staring like this? “Come here”
The Kraldem sits on the throne, patting his thigh. I gulp hard, mentally sending him to hell in Swedish – my mother tongue – and gingerly settle on his leather-clad, firm thigh. As I sit, his claws touch my back, but they only stroke the exposed skin gently. It isn’t hurtful, yet it sends shivers down my spine. Foreverything. For the fact that I might die. For the heat between my thighs from Darya’s touch. Despite the battle cries around us, I hear the Demon King’s calm voice clearly.
