Page 3 of The Demon's Due
In another dimension
Ashmedai's claw hovered inches from the quivering membrane, its surface rippling like dark water in moonlight. He barely remembered what the moon looked like since he was imprisoned in this festering nothingness. Recently, he had felt a presence, warm against the chill of his skin. The presence was almost…feminine. As he probed again, tasting the barrier's tension-a heady mixture of mortal fear and unwitting longing-his thoughts turned into chaos and madness. Once, his minions had served him without question. Now their betrayal festered like a wound. They had whispered behind his back, stolen shards of his power, and led him into a trap that had stolen his sanity with excruciating slowness. His fangs shot out from between his parted grey lips. A drop of viscid venom mixed with the crimson of his cut lip dripped down from the tip. They would pay for their treachery; each curse he had crafted in this sterile court of limbo was primed to burn their flesh from their bones. Slowly.
He clenched his fist, the membrane recoiling under the pressure. How he longed for Solomon's reign to endure, so that he might exact the ultimate vengeance upon that usurper of his freedom. The creature whose chains and seals had bound him here so long ago. He had been used and forgotten in thishell. No one knew the pathway here and the key had long been ground into powder and scattered in the winds. Ashmedai closed his eyes against the million silent shudders of the grey realm. Time had ceased to have any meaning in this emptiness- days, centuries, epochs blurred into endless waiting.
Opening his eyes, he returned to the wall. Six shadowed archways shimmered beyond the veil like a promise. One pulsed with a faint, fevered glow-the pledge of mortal weakness to be exploited. It was not the pathway to his domain, but that can wait. He pressed harder, sinews straining, and felt the membrane flex a little at last. A strangely liquid snap echoed through the silence. Patience, he reminded himself. Soon, with the right spark on the other side, this barrier will shatter and then his vengeance will truly begin.
Chapter 3
Morgan (an hour before Síofra made her appearance)
Morgan Dane surveyed the transformed Library hall while trying to shake off Debbie who had attached herself to him the moment he had set foot inside. She had the tenacity of a leech. The rest of her clique were not far off. He had started to think of them as the Barbie crew. They all paled in comparison to the only one he desperately needed to see. Síofra. It had been a week since he had laid eyes on her. After his fuckups had caught up with him.
Being a Dane meant carrying weight on your shoulders. The Skhol wolves were Fenrisúlfr stock,the stuff of legend; bred for dominance and violence. His older brothers had shifted early, both strong alphas with teeth and claws sharp enough to be named enforcers of the Council before they’d turned twenty. His sister was a clever little minx, all teeth and ambition. Even his kid brother had the fire.
And then there was him.
Morgan Dane, the pitied one. The “latent.” A wolf caged by ancient runes no one could read. Etched down his spine likecrude scars from a god’s blade, the marks pulsed and ached sometimes when the moon swelled, but nothing ever happened. He had hoped for years that it was not true, that his wolf would show itself against all odds. But his eighteenth birthday came and went and still not a tinge. Just a permanent silence in his blood.
The elders had shaken their heads, calling it a repayment of some forgotten favour. A debt owed was what the old warlock elder had deciphered.The runes were in an ancient language long lost- even the elves couldn't read it. His loving family never said it out loud, but he knew. He was the weak link. The runt. The Dane without a wolf.
Still, he had the body, the charm, the golden-boy mask. Rugby gave him something to hold on to, something that helped him forget that there was a big empty space inside him where his wolf should have been. But every time Síofra’s soft green eyes had met his across the university hall, he’d felt something coil inside him that his wolf should have named. A mate? No. It was impossible. A latent couldn’t have that. How could a latent identify his mate or mark her? And yet…
He remembered Freshers’ Week, when he’d collided with her outside the poker tables, cards spilling, her surprised laugh catching him off guard.They had been in the same university for more than two years now and their paths had never crossed. He had felt her touch like he had plunged his finger into a socket. God, he’d wanted her even then more than he had ever wanted anyone.
But he had been with Debbie back then. No commitments, only temporary physical release-a few moments to forget his reality. But he hadn't missed the gleam of ownership in her eyes. Alia’s sly whispers and Debbie’s cloying touch had been chains around his wrists. He had wanted to fit in and hoped his silence would shift their attention from Síofra.
Sloe-eyed, perfect Alia was the one who had first spun the net, weaving her games with that sly smile that made half the university bow to her. His silence had made him complicit in their schemes and cruelty. A witch of no small power, though she hadn’t chosen a prime consort yet. Alia had tried to add him to her harem but he’d never been interested in her beyond the occasional nod.
Debbie was another matter. The shape-shifter had tried to sink her claws into him more than once, curling close and whispering promises of faces she could wear just for him. He’d shut that down fast. She wasn’t his and he wasn’t hers.
It hadn’t stopped her.
Even big, buff Colin from his rugby squad was tangled in Alia’s games. Poor bastard was in love with her, though everyone knew she used him. She’d bang him sometimes when it suited her, but they weren’t exclusive and they never could be. Alia didn’t love anyone but herself.
And Morgan? He was desperately trying to keep Síofra his secret. Too late, he realized that if he’d separated himself from his toxic so-called friends, maybe Síofra wouldn’t have been caught in the fire. Instead, his silence had burned their chances of a relationship to ash.
Still… there had to be a way out. A way to break the cage on his back and the runes down his spine. Lately, he’d been thinking of seeking out the cursed pair-Connor and Vaelor. Everyone knew something was off about them, whispered that their names were bound together in ways that defied the usual rules. It was all over the university.
If anyone knew how to decipher what had been carved into his flesh, it might be them.
If only he could track them down.
Those beautiful pictures of Síofra. They were meant for his eyes only. He suspected Debbie had something to do with itbut there was no proof. And now she wouldn’t answer his calls, wouldn’t even look at him. Why would she when he had been so colossally stupid.
Debbie leaned in, her heavy perfume making him sneeze as sharp nails grazing his arm. “I’ve got to say, I’m digging your getup tonight. Zombie Prince Charming? Bet you were hoping your Cinderella would show up.” Her smirk sharpened. “Shame she didn’t.”
Morgan’s eyes didn’t stop scanning the crowd. Every sweep of the hall came up empty. A week without seeing Síofra, and the ache gnawed at him like hunger.
Debbie tilted her head, dropping her voice into a purr. “But I can play Cinderella. I know a place just beyond the stairs. You and me, you could collect on that wager.”
Her words finally cut through his distraction. He turned to her suddenly as something occurred to him. His hand snapped around hers, fingers digging painfully making her gasp.
“Was it you?”
Her smile faltered. “What?”
“Was it you who put Síofra’s photos out?” His voice was low, dangerous, thrumming with barely restrained violence.
