21. Twenty-One

He’d been plied with food and drink, shown to the guest chambers, had taken a bath, and now roamed the bedroom in contemplative circles, wearing only a fresh black tunic. The hearth’s fire kept him warm, but the persistent stink of smoke irked. Ryurikov’s head throbbed, the copious amount of wine he’d consumed had done nothing to ease it. Rubbing his forehead, he hissed at the sharp flare of pain.

SIT AND REST.

Awimak looked out of place, perched on the edge of an enormous bed, overshadowed by all the dark wood, black bedding, and silver canopy. Ryurikov walked to him, dropping into bed to lie on his back, legs hanging off the side. He heaved a heavy sigh, staring up at immaculate fabric overhead.

“We need to harness that magic, Awi.”

STEAL THE WITCHES?

“Doubt I can, when every crone knows my face. They’ll melt it off before I can threaten them.”

PERHAPS IF YOU ASK NICELY, INSTEAD?

“Politeness doesn’t work on hags.”

THIS IS WHAT YOU KNOW.

Ryurikov glanced at the back of his demon’s head. “Yes.”

DIFFERENT TO WHAT IS TRUE.

“Is it?” He sat up, meeting sun-like eyes. “Even if being polite works, removing them would doom the townspeople.” He had done that to Eastcairn, he wasn’t about to repeat such a mistake. “Maybe Jezibaba can do it.” Ryurikov flopped back down with a sound of disgust. “That means I have to go back to the hut.”

IT WOULD BE RUDE TO LEAVE PERMANENTLY WITH HER brOOM.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll drown trying to work water magic.”

Awimak made a noise of amusement. It didn’t sound entirely sincere, more like he was humouring him. With a tired grunt, Ryurikov crawled further on the bed and under the sheets. He didn’t expect to feel Awimak shift, then wrap him in an embrace to pull him against that firm, chilly torso. He peered at the demon over his shoulder. His giant horn flattened the pillow, torrid breath dragging over Ryurikov’s neck and shoulders. At least some part of him would remain warm.

“How often do you need to feed?” he asked, settling himself against Awimak.

I WILL NOT BE SIPPING FROM YOUR MIND TONIGHT.

It wasn’t easy to find a comfortable position for his face, or to drift to sleep. A tempest of thoughts consumed him. When eventually slumber found him, Ryurikov was plunged into restless dreams.

Fire and smoke choked him wherever he turned. Skin Crawlers screeched, from a distance. Close by. The rapid clack, clack, clack of their scythe-legs chasing him down hallways of grey stone, lined with blue-flamed torches. He heard Valka shout before he saw her, visage flickering and blurred like the surrounding fumes. She radiated with fury and hatred, all directed toward him.

He’d sworn to her. He’d lied, allowing his friends and cousins to perish in a blaze now at his feet, gnawing its way up his leg. His skin bubbled and hardened to charcoal, wrenching horrified screams from him.

Ryurikov cried out. He flailed hard, his limbs connecting with toned muscles and bark. He sat up, his rapid exhales catching in his throat when the first thing his bleary gaze set on was the hearth’s fire, now but embers. Smouldering, hot, the stink of smoke twisting up his nose, clawing at his brain.

“Fuck, Awimak!” he snarled the second he managed to form words.

Awimak was still beside him, now leaning against the headboard. His eyes blazed, and Ryurikov’s anger contorted. He lashed out, but his hands didn’t connect, caught in massive claws that pulled him roughly against the chest he’d been trying to beat.

IT WASN’T I WHO CAUSED IT.

He struggled against the hold, briefly, then all fight left him in one breath. Ryurikov slumped against Awimak in a shuddering pile. His lips sought the demon’s mouth, bone sharply pressing into his injured cheek. It wasn’t easy kissing Awimak, he wasn’t even sure if he found his mouth. He was within its vicinity and it would have to do.

Great claws held him tight, his frantic breathing transferred into heated pants once the pointed tongue snaked out to delve into his mouth. He clawed at Awimak’s shoulders as he moved to straddle robust hips, stiffening cock pressing into a hard abdomen. He ignored the stinging bite marks while roughened palms roamed up his torso, pushing the tunic up, helping him out of it. The article went flying, and Ryurikov leaned down to press his lips back under Awimak’s skull just as clawless fingers left, slathered up.

Slickened fingers found the cleft of his ass, dipped between, and pressed in without hesitancy. Ryurikov gasped, shakily, raking his own digits through silken hair, diving under the horns to seek out the ears and give them a gentle few strokes. Awimak purred under the touch. It sounded as raspy as anything else. So terrifying before, now the only comfort he had. A second finger pushed in, curling into Ryurikov in a way that had him gasping, arching his back, stroking his own cock. He rocked his hips with urgency, desperate to free himself of the persistent ache in his chest.

Awimak complied, shoving a third finger in while simultaneously flipping Ryurikov onto his back. His head spun. Everything still hurt, but he groaned with pleasure, fingers stroking deep and deliberate. He wanted to reach out and touch Awimak’s cock, but his demon didn’t seem concerned with that, staying just out of reach while stretching him.

And then Ryurikov was on his stomach, flipped with such swift force he was left reeling. Powerful hands around his thighs hoisted his hips off the bed and a tongue lashed at his hole, saliva hot and slick. He turned his face so as not to rest on the injured side, reaching behind him to grab hold of a bark-covered forearm, his own breath raspy with desperation.

Other than releasing one thigh, Awimak didn’t warn him before pressing the tip of his long, thick cock against the centre of his body. A firm pressure, and Ryurikov’s pained grunt jounced the chambers as the head of Awimak’s cock pushed in. Filling him in such a way he no longer had to think about anything but pain in his ass, intermixed with spikes of pleasure.

A fierce rhythm built up, the wet slap of rocking hips and harsh groans filling the room. A hand came down onto his shoulder, pinning him down. Ryurikov fisted the sheets, bit into the pillow to muffle his cries.

Awimak was merciless, now clutching both his shoulders to pull him down hard onto his cock. Over and over again, driving up to the hilt each time and still he pushed in further, as though trying to fuse them both together. Between trying not to make too much noise and keeping his face off the bed, Ryurikov struggled to breathe. He shoved his hand between himself and the bedding to fist his erection, soft cotton fabric adding to the friction.

His gasping became frantic. He clenched down around Awimak pounding into him with hard, controlled thrusts. Ryurikov spilled, the moan he’d been biting down on escaping. A hot deluge filled him shortly after, Awimak’s snarls and flaring breath bringing his already feverish skin to a boil.

The last wave of his climax faded, and Ryurikov collapsed in a heap, covered in sweat and panting, unable to summon the strength to move off the injured side of his face. Awimak eased out of him, his sweltering come slipping between Ryurikov’s thighs to stain the sheets. A swift breeze brushed over his rapidly cooling skin, then something fluttered across his body. Awimak had covered him with his side of the sheets.

REST NOW, MY DRURY.

He slept better after that, but didn’t feel especially refreshed.

Ryurikov sat up, his head throbbing worse than after a night of drinking and fucking his brains out. One of which he’d done sufficiently.

He groaned in misery, blearily staring at nothing in particular. Every single part of him hurt. Cold sweat clinging to his skin made him shiver, and his ass cheeks were stuck together.

The smoke outside kept light from entering the room, but still he squinted as he glanced at Awimak, seemingly fast asleep. The hollows of his skull were empty. Did that mean his eyes were closed?

Ryurikov struggled to get out of bed, his entire body aflame with discomfort. He went to the silver ewer and basin situated on a clunky dresser by the window to wash his face and the mess Awimak had made of him. After which, he reclaimed the black tunic and slipped into the equally abyssal breeches he’d been provided with the night prior.

GOOD MORNING, DRURY.

He got ready to greet Awimak the usual manner, but when he turned, the “fuck you” fell away. His demon lay on his side. An absolute giant, hooves touching the foot of the bed, and one arm under the side of his head to support it while the massive horn would likely have permanently flattened the pillow. The burning spheres were inside the sockets again.

“Good morning.” He winced at the sound of his voice, no better than the s.

YOU SOUND TERRIBLE.

Ryurikov cleared his throat. That didn’t help, it only hurt. “It’s the smoke.”

Gathering his boots, he stiffly walked back to Awimak, now sitting upright. He hesitated, then leaned forward. He hesitated again. His demon was motionless, as if waiting, the beautiful details on his skull once more lighting up and gleaming with a rising sun they couldn’t see.

Ryurikov pressed his lips to just above the skull’s nostrils, but did not linger, moving away fast enough to make his head spin. A raspy hum of satisfaction was his reward all the same.

Clearing his throat again, he slipped into the boots, gathered his equipment, and wrapped himself in the cloak. Ruined though it was, he wasn’t about to walk around exposed.

“Come on,” he croaked.

Awimak rose, his horns a leaf’s width away from scraping along the ceiling. WHAT ARE YOU PLANNING?

“Locate me some witches.”

Finding the way back to the presence chamber was easy enough when Yavor hunted him down just so he could lead him there again. He babbled about noises in the night, but Ryurikov paid him no mind, unable to focus on anything other than how fucking awful he felt.

Not until Awimak said, YOU WERE RATHER LOUD, did he realise what the monk was on about.

“I understand of course, his daughters are all lovely! Charming, truly, despite their quirks,” Yavor continued. “Although I’m not sure how the Jarl will take—”

“I didn’t touch any of his daughters, for fuck’s sake.”

The monk peered at him, eyes wide. “No? Then…”

Ryurikov whirled. “Do you enjoy playing with your gunny sack? Roll it around your palms, maybe give it a little twist?”

Yavor’s cheeks flushed. “That’s none of your—”

“Fucking business. Exactly.”

PERHAPS YOU NEED SOME FOOD.

“Stop infantilizing me,” Ryurikov snapped, then immediately regretted it.

“I—I wasn’t,” Yavor stammered, with more to say, no doubt, but Ryurikov stalked away from him to plonk down on the bench by the firepit.

The servant turned the spit with goose, this time. He ate the bread and goose provided, ignoring the way the Jarl’s daughters tittered when they bustled past him to sit on their thrones. Their father was nowhere to be seen.

“Am I permitted to visit the crones?” Ryurikov asked the monk, who perched himself on the bench beside him. Awimak had moved much further away and wasn’t looking at him. Fuck.

“I–I doubt it.”

He wrenched his attention back to the monk. More laughter echoed down to him. Had they heard him get fucked? “Where is the Frue?”

“Ah,” Yavor leaned in, whispering, “the corruption opened the door.”

“Skin Crawler?” Ryurikov asked. Yavor nodded.

So it was true. The morally corrupt were the first to be burrowed into, used as a host. Fed on until the Skin Crawler was strong enough to emerge and spread more fire. Ryurikov thought about his parents. How, as far as he knew, they hadn’t been burrowed into. Maybe they would have been, sooner or later, and doomed the kingdom either way.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d chewed the bread for too long, swallowing with difficulty.

He set the plate on the bench, let the knife clatter down to it, and rose to make his way to Awimak dawdling by the leaded windows. Standing beside him, he looked out onto streets muddy with smoke and beggars. His demon wasn’t acknowledging him, only looked out the window, and it made Ryurikov’s chest hurt more.

“I’m…” he jerked his head to the side, “sorry.”

Awimak still did not regard him. WHAT ARE YOU SORRY FOR?

Ryurikov grunted in frustration. “For being a cock. I…” He cast his gaze back out the window, his words clipped, “I just—Awimak you are—I—”

Finally, Awimak turned to him. I THOUGHT YOU WANTED TO BE BY YOURSELF.

His brows furrowed. An unfamiliar ache dominated the cavern in Ryurikov’s chest. He wasn’t sure what to do about it, let alone how to handle the sudden need to hold his demon close.

“I don’t want to be by myself,” he said, surprised to find he meant it. “I…”

Although it took courage he didn’t truly possess, Ryurikov reached out. He waited, stomach twisting, until Awimak took it in a great claw. The breath Ryurikov released was annoyingly shaky.

YOU ARE FORGIVEN, said Awimak in as soft a tone as he was likely capable of. Then, more sharply, DO NOT SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT AGAIN, OR ELSE.

There was promise in that threat, filling Ryurikov with a peculiar blend of dread and excitement. Was it wrong to smile right at that moment? Probably. But fuck it, he couldn’t help the twitch of his lips.

“Ready to find those witches? Yavor told me I won’t be allowed to see them.”

Awimak’s exhale rattled with interest. WE ARE DUE FOR SOME ENTERTAINMENT.

It had been a while since they last caused chaos.

“That we are.”

Ryurikov turned, remembering then that others couldn’t see Awimak, which explained why Yavor and the Jarl—who must have snuck in—were gawking at him. Yavor more so, while the Jarl stroked his beard with a look of intrigue.

“To whom do you speak, Sir Dracus?”

“A dead loved one,” replied Ryurikov without missing a beat. “In times of hardship, I see their ghost.”

“I saw a ghost once,” said the Jarl, drawing near. “Of course, it turned out to be a touch more than that.” Grey eyes flicked to his hand, and Ryurikov swiftly squirmed it out of Awimak’s hold. “My beloved succumbed to the Skin Crawler. I saw it before it emerged, and I put her down.”

Ryurikov narrowed his eyes. “Are you threatening me?”

The Jarl laughed. It did not sound sincere, yet he waved a hand as if to dismiss the concern. “Of course not. You are my guest!”

“In that case, let me meet the crones.”

“Why would you want to?” the Jarl asked with affectation.

“You said they’ve mastered water magic, and not just any, but the kind that can fight against the Skin Crawlers,” said Ryurikov. “If I can transport such magic effectively, I can take the fight to them.”

More laughter met his words, and Ryurikov glared.

“My apologies, don’t think me rude,” said the Jarl. “But what do you hope to accomplish? There is no fighting a fully fledged Skin Crawler. I would know,” he pulled aside the collar of his black tunic, revealing a pronounced collar bone mottled with scarring. “I have tried.”

“As you can see, I’ve met them too,” said Ryurikov. “On more than one occasion, and I’ve lived.”

BARELY,said Awimak.

Ryurikov ignored him.

“I’m afraid the witches are indisposed. It wouldn’t do to distract them from a task that requires their full attention.”

“Then, pray tell, how do you allow them to shit, or eat?”

It was the first time Ryurikov ever felt any sort of indignation toward the treatment of crones. He couldn’t say he enjoyed feeling sympathetic, mostly because they were all ornery, but not even his own parents had treated Radmila quite that poorly.

The Jarl only smiled, his sharp profile lined by the glow of the fire when he turned to make his way to his daughters. They had been watching the exchange with keen interest, grey eyes trained on Ryurikov in particular. It was honestly unsettling.

SOMETHING IS REMISS.

Ryurikov withheld a sigh. Of course it fucking was.

Yavor approached him with a smile that looked nervous. “If you’re done eating, perhaps I will show you around?”

Although he kept his gaze fixed on the Jarl, Ryurikov shrugged. “I suppose.”

“I know you said you believe in a higher power only when it suits you,” said the monk as he led the way down a stuffy hallway lined with yet more dead animals on display. “However, perhaps you’ll reconsider once I’ve told you more about Goreldion!”

“No, thanks.” Ryurikov smirked at Awimak’s amused snort behind him.

“Oh, please, do humour me,” said Yavor, cheeks growing red. “I promise you won’t regret it!”

“Yeah, right.” Ryurikov clamped the monk’s shoulder and forced him to a stop. “Listen, vacillating monk, I don’t care about your deities, but I care about that water magic. Lead me to the crones, and I will pay you handsomely for it.”

Yavor squirmed out of his hold, anger now splotching his face. “I certainly will not be bribed!”

Ryurikov rolled his shoulders, then whipped out his long dagger from his belt, holding its tip against Yavor’s throat in one swift, practised move. “I asked politely, now I’m not.”

The monk squeaked, a trickle of blood gliding down the blade. That squeak promptly turned into blabbering terror.

“Get a hold of yourself,” snapped Ryurikov. “Point the way.”

With a violently shaking hand, Yavor pointed down the hallway. “D-Do-Door t-to the–le-le-le—”

“Good grief.” He brought his fist down on the monk’s temple, sending him sideways into a stuffed deer. Ryurikov peered at Yavor’s limp body, ensuring he was out cold before moving on.

“This is what happens when I try to be polite.”

AT LEAST YOU TRIED.

Ryurikov gave Awimak a wary look. “You sound like the Quinary.”

Something his demon seemed to think was hilarious.

There were many doors to the left, all of which he needed to check before opening one leading down a steep stairwell into darkness.

“That’ll be the one,” he guessed.

The stairs wound deep, torch flames flailing in a draft, the surrounding stone damp and freezing cold to the touch. After what seemed like forever, Ryurikov reached the bottom, along with a set of heavily bolted double doors. He wiped sweat off his forehead and muttered a swear, sliding the bolt open before shouldering his way into what was, unsurprisingly, a dungeon.

And yet, Ryurikov froze at the sight before him.

In the centre stood a large stone well. Bright, crystal clear water swirled within it like a waterspout. Evenly spread around it, six large cabinets. He didn’t need to look twice to know those were iron maidens. Open, the crones trapped inside, their arms tied up, palms facing the vortex.

The wretched stink of death and shit lay heavy, he wanted to gag, but walked further in to round the iron maidens for a closer look. Contraptions of rope and wire ensnared the crones’ arms. Should they lower them, the fronts would shut and kill them.

With each witch he inspected, their orange eyes would only briefly flick down to him. Their whimpering and strained, close-mouthed cries sent a chill down Ryurikov’s spine.

As the Jarl had said, only four of the six crones were alive, but the two dead hadn’t been removed, their cabinets still shut, pools of blood long since dried at the bases.