Page 25 of Demons in My Bed
I really didn’t think it did, but she was smiling now, so I let it go. “Where are we?”
“The woods behind the house I grew up in. It’s my favorite place in the whole world. Winter was the best, because the snow would come and cover up all of the dead debris on the forest floor. Leaves, twigs, animals… Everything was wiped clean with sparkling snow.”
I looked around and shuddered. It had been a long fucking time since I’d been around snow like this… and it wasn’t something that brought up good memories for me.
“I’d sit out here for hours and watch for animals. I love squirrels—they’re my favorite.” She was staring out across the landscape. She seemed to have calmed down enough that I felt okay about bailing. I didn’t say a word, just simply slipped away, like an illusion of the dreams people created.
If she remembered anything, it would just be that she’d dreamed and I was there. I could make it so that she’d remember the full extent of the dream—it was one of my favorite fucking torture devices to use against our enemies—but I didn’t want her to know that much about me yet.
Knowing she’d be asleep through the night, I rose from the bed and snatched my holsters, then headed over to my bookshelf. I had things to take care of before I grabbed a few hours of sleep for myself. A decorative mirror sat at the same height as my face, and I positioned myself so my entire face was in the frame. A few seconds later, after a click and a whoosh of air, the bookcase swung open.
My body instantly relaxed as I stepped inside, letting the door close softly behind me. This was my favorite place in the world. I wasn’t just good with knives, I was thebest. Hitting the lights, I surveyed my workshop. It was perfectly clean, with the metal gleaming beautifully as I passed by shelves and tabletops full of weaponry and tools.
The snow scene from earlier was still eating at me, and I cursed, dropping my daggers into the stainless steel sink to be cleaned. I hated that it had been so fucking long, yet still those memories could get to me. I got to work, cleaning my weapons and returning them to their rightful places on the walls. The stuff I had on display here in this room were all collectible or antique items that I’d acquired from both this realm and Besmet.
It had been a damned long time since I’d set foot in my home realm, and I really had no desire to return to the fucking shithole so long as King Thane was still ruling it. I’d been one of the lucky ones who grew up far away from Naryian and all that monarchy bullshit.
Besmet, the demon realm, was separated into six sections. I was from the northeast, Kyalta, where it was colder than a witch’s tit eighty percent of the time, with snow that piled up high enough to freeze my nutsack.
Growling, I slammed my fists down on the counter. I didn’t want to think about Kyalta. I’d escaped there, but sometimes it seemed like my mind would never be free of the horrors I’d endured.
“Boy!”
My stomach sank at the sound of my father’s voice. He sounded angry, which he always was. I’d learned a long time ago to predict his mood based on his level of irritation. Mad, furious, livid, or raging. There was nothing else, only shades of anger.
“Yes, sir?” I asked, crawling out from under the table, where I’d been playing with a toy dragon the neighbor had whittled for me.
“We have work to do. Let’s go. Leave that stupid toy.”
I didn’t want it out of my sight. Every toy I got always ended up going missing, or my father would break it as a punishment. I never disobeyed him or talked back like the other boys in the neighborhood, but somehow, I was always in trouble. Nothing I did was right, and even at ten years old, I knew my father saw me as a burden.
It took a lot, but I put my dragon on the table and followed my father outside. The icy wind hit my face, making me gasp. My eyes always watered when it was like this, and I hated it. We had a workshop behind our small, stick cabin that was barely big enough for the both of us to squeeze into. My father was the best blacksmith in our village, and I had become his apprentice the moment I could lift a hammer.
The only time he acted like I was halfway decent at something was when we were in this shed. He taught me everything he knew, the techniques required to produce the best blades in Besmet.
“There’s talk of the monarchy wanting to bring in a new royal blacksmith to create a new variety of weapons for their army,” my father told me as he examined a broadsword he was in the process of making.
“But you hate the monarchy,” I replied, grabbing the dagger I’d been working on.
He grunted. “Not as much as I hate living in this fucking shack. It could be my ticket out of here. My name is known throughout the realm already.”
I didn’t miss that he’d said it would be his ticket out—not ours. Though I didn’t dare question his choice of words. His temper was unpredictable, and I preferred not to give him any reason to blow his lid.
“Do you think they’ll send people here to meet you?”
“If the intel I received earlier was right, they’re already on their way. When they get here, I need you to be on your best behavior. Do you understand me? I will not have you fucking this up.” He brought the hammer down on the glowing, red steel.
“I understand.”
“Good, because, Misha? If you ruin this for me, I will make your life a living hell.”
Like it wasn’t hell already… but I believed him. So I nodded, getting to work.
Two days passed without incident, and I was in the forest playing with my dragon, thrilled that I still had it. I’d been gone for a while, and the sun was now beginning to set, so I wove through the pine trees, trekking my way through the snow.
As I stumbled out from the woods, I saw my father standing at the door of our workshop, holding up the dagger I’d just finished earlier. It had turned out even better than I’d hoped, and was by far my favorite piece. The blade curved like the waves I’d once seen at the coast with my mother, back when she was still alive. I’d fashioned a handle with pointed tips that you could slip your fingers through. I was hoping to create another, to have a matching set. If a demon were to have one in each hand, his fists could be as deadly as the blade.
My father held the dagger up, examining the craftsmanship, and I swallowed hard, hoping like hell he found no issues with it or this would be the end of my wooden dragon. I couldn’t take it anymore! Did he hate it?
