Kiss of a Demon King

8

When Sabine shot awake, she found her bed was sitting in the pouring rain and muddy field she'd been buried alive in all those years ago.

She blinked her eyes, realizing this was a chimera scene from a dream. She'd always cast illusions when dreaming or in the grip of a nightmare. As she absently ran her fingers over the scar at her neck, the illusion faded, her bedroom revealed again. . ..

This tower room was once supposed to have been the private chambers of Rydstrom. It was in the west tower, the one closest to the water, and had wall-size windows that she kept open to the ocean breezes. She'd redeco­rated it with flowing banners in scarlet and black that whipped in the wind.

She knew going back to sleep would be impossible, since she'd scarcely managed to drift off the first time-

"You didn't dream of your prisoner," a voice intoned from the shadows of her chamber.

She jerked back to the headboard when she spied Omort's yellow eyes glowing in the darkness.

After hastily covering her scanty nightgown with an illusion, she made the room appear to blaze with fluo­rescent light.

This was why she could never sleep through a night. Omort could have bound her wrists behind her back, a simple move that would have blocked her ability to cast illusions-her only defense. "You've crossed a line by coming into my room, brother."

"Wasn't that just a matter of formality? One soon to be done away with?" He was sending his mental probes out like sonar, but she'd learned to block them com-pletely. He often demanded others open their minds to him, but never Sabine-as if, deep down, he didn't really want to know her feelings about him.

"What does that mean?"

"With Rydstrom's capture, we are one step closer to ... the inevitable."

How much longer can I put Omort off? His trespass in her room boded ill. Once she surrendered her virginity to the demon and bore the child, she would have no sanctuary to protect her. She hadn't thought he'd be waiting like a vulture, especially not with Hettiah to tide him over.

When he approached the bed, she kept her demeanor composed. Barely. "What do you want?"

"Your covenant is still intact on the east wall. It doesn't go well with your captive?"

"He is as determined and strong-willed as you said."

"Maybe I should go see-"

"No! That's not possible. He doesn't need to be reminded of our connection," she said, then hastily asked, "How goes the search for an oracle?" They were caught in a vicious cycle, locating weaker and weaker soothsayers. Each one invariably made mistakes and was executed. Then an even weaker oracle replaced the dead one. "Finding any talent?"

He gave her a look that let her know he'd allowed the change of subject. "I've selected one and dispatched fire demons to collect her."

To collect her. Oracle Three Fifty-Six had been a volun­teer instead of an "acquisition" of Omort's. Some females stepped up for the position, no doubt thinking they'd be smarter, better, less expendable. They never were.

"It's critical that we have one in place as soon as pos­sible," she said in a measured tone. Sabine had to tread carefully with this subject, for it was a potentially enrag­ing one for Omort.

He'd once stolen the gift of foresight from an oracle'but had no talent for interpreting the visions he received. It had made him even more deranged before he'd been forced to relinquish the ability.

"And we shall," he said absently as he crept around her room, inspecting her things, pausing to pick up a book here and there. Hundreds were stacked all over. Most were histories of this kingdom, of Rydstrom. She'd been studying him for years.

"I hadn't known you were so well versed on my enemy."

"I take this seriously-my opportunity to garner power for the Pravus."

"Yes, I have studied him much as well. Rydstrom has long fascinated me." He carelessly flipped through an ancient tome, then tossed it away. "Does he believe you're his?"

"I think so."

Omort smiled, revealing flawless white teeth, but the expression never reached his cold eyes. "How disap­pointed the demon must be." He sat down on the bed beside her.

Calm . . . calm . . . distract him. "What happened that night you faced him? When the kingdom fell? I've read what's been recorded, but the details are hazy."

"I'd made a secret pact with the Horde king, Demes-triu. He aggressed Rydstrom, depleting his armies, then launched a surprise attack. Rydstrom was forced to jour­ney away to defend. That's when I captured Tornin. The castle was unprotected because Rydstrom's heir Cadeon refused his summons to defend the holding."

"Why would he do that?" From everything she'd heard about the mercenary Cadeon, he was fearless.

"Who can understand demons? I find great pleasure in knowing that Rydstrom blames Cadeon for turn­ing his back on his kingdom. What Rydstrom doesn't understand is that I well knew the importance of Cade-on's presence in the castle. That's why I had five hun­dred revenants waiting to ambush the prince. If Cadeon had obeyed his brother, he and his guard would've been slaughtered."

Interesting. "And you personally faced Rydstrom."

"He's the only being I've ever fought that lived. Instead of merely burning him to ash, I played at honor,

facing him in a sword duel in one of his strongholds. He beheaded me-the blow was true, and deadly for any other. But I rose. He used his brute strength to topple the roof, trapping me inside, and was able to escape."

Omort's hand was inching closer to her covered ankle. "Sabine, how much can I trust you?"

"Probably not as much as you can Hettiah. Shouldn't you be with her now?"

"She doesn't understand things as you do. And as much as I will it differently, she is a pale comparison to you. A dim shadow to your light."

"Did you come into my room just to state the obvi­ous?" Her brother's attraction to Sabine wasn't fueled only by her looks. She believed Omort secretly hun­gered for death. In lieu of that, he hungered for her, a woman who knew death so intimately.

When he grazed his forefinger over her covered ankle, his eyes slid shut and drool collected at the cor­ner of his lips. Stifling a shudder, she hastily rose, then crossed to the seaside balcony.

This place always calmed her, like a balm for her mind. During most of her sleepless nights, she stood out here, watching the sea.

Omort moved behind her, not touching her, but standing far too close. No warmth emanated from him. He was cold and deadened like a corpse.

Rydstrom had been all inviting heat.

"You should go, brother. I have a challenging day tomorrow. I'll need to be on top of my game to be the first to break the iron will of Rydstrom."

"I'm glad that you've ceased underestimating him."

When she could feel his cold breaths on her neck, she whirled around, hastening to her chamber's drink service. She poured sweet wine-only for herself-then held up her goblet to Omort. "Brother, do be a dear and poison me."

Every month, Omort gave her and Lanthe the mor­sus, literally the "stinging bite poison." The power of the morsus was that it didn't cause pain upon ingestion but upon withdrawal.

Weaning from the poison was supposed to be so excruciating that she and Lanthe were considered per­petually "condemned." Without an antidote, the pain would be so great they'd eventually die from it.

The morsus kept them from leaving Omort and from rebelling. For the most part.

He exhaled as if she were putting him out, then rotated the thick ring on his forefinger. As he snapped open the jeweled covering of his poison cache, she stared at the ring. It held so much significance for her. It was the source of life, the enforcer of her obedience.

And the ring told her when Omort lied, as he'd unconsciously rotate it.

When he poured the black granules into her wine, a hiss sounded and smoke tendrils seeped upward. But once it settled, it would be odorless and tasteless to those who weren't trained to detect it.

Ages ago, he'd slipped the morsus into their wine before they'd learned to identify potions by smell and taste-and before they'd learned to create their own to counter him.

Sabine nonchalantly held up the goblet. "Slainte." She drained the contents. "Now, I really need to get some sleep. Remember, Omort, I'm doing this for us. And I know you want us to succeed."

"Very well, Sabine." With a last lingering gaze, he finally exited, but not before she heard him murmur, "Soon."

Alone once more, she returned to the balcony. As she surveyed the tumultuous sea and breathed deep of the salt air, she mused over her current situation.

Plots and subplots. She wanted Tornin for herself and for Lanthe. Yet after tonight, she suspected Omort would try to force her to surrender before she ever even got a chance to make her play.

She shivered. He'd been emboldened to come into her room, bringing with him coldness and misery hang­ing over him like a cloak. She felt pensive, unclean.

For the first time ever, Sabine's gaze wasn't held fast by the sea. She turned to the south, toward the dungeon tower.

The demon was such a force of nature, she imagined herself getting lost in him. Ultimately, she found her feet taking her in his direction, her heart aching for ... something.