Chapter 33

I dropped chunks of potato into the dented pot and stoked the coals beneath with a metal poker. The thin, brown broth looked far from appetizing, shreds of wrinkled carrot, limp onions, shriveled beans, and pieces of tough beef floating in it.

My tail lashed.

Two days .

I gritted my teeth, holding in a growl.

It had been two days since we arrived, and we'd made no progress in finding the tongues.

According to Emily's estimate, we had another twenty-four hours at best, then the quality of the herbal concoction in Kerys's blood would be too degraded. Without it, she wouldn't be able to create the invisibility enchantment to get us the Hells out of this accursed place, and we'd have to confront that beast by the exit.

The vines pressed against the inside of my palms, and I busied myself with stirring the stew, considering our options.

My instincts called for the easy way out—violence. I could have tortured the members of the Creed, attempted to force them to give me the information I needed, but the tongue cutting and self-whipping led me to believe that brutality wouldn't achieve anything. These people were prepared to make grim sacrifices for their beliefs. It was more than doubtful they were afraid of torment or death.

On top of that, I didn't like the odds of taking on the monastery's supernatural guard dog. My involvement with Aculeus allowed me to sense the strength of demonic energies easier than a regular mortal, and that creature possessed immense power.

It would provide a significant challenge, even to me.

I would fight if I had to—especially when it came to protecting my wife—though only an insecure cretin would take an unnecessary risk to prove his manliness or some shit. Before Kerys returned to me, I sought out pain, got myself caught up in stupid battles that weren't mine to fight. But this mission was about more than just me. I couldn't fail.

We needed to create that damn soulstone because finally, Aculeus had to go.

In the years without Kerys, the demon was a nuisance. Sometimes, I begrudgingly had to admit, he was even an asset.

Without his assistance in business matters, I would have gone bankrupt after Kerys's death. Exactly as Ytzal had planned, I'd lost everything. My attempts to bring my wife back had put me in further debt, and nobody was willing to take a chance on me, work with me, or help me to get back on my feet.

I never would have built my empire if it hadn't been for that soul-hungry demon.

I wasn't stupid enough to believe my wellbeing was ever close to Aculeus's heart, but his support was convenient. Taking out a business rival here, making a threat a little more convincing there—no surprise that people were much more willing to negotiate if I presented my own personal demonic enforcer.

And most importantly, I needed him to ensure that Kerys's soul would truly be reborn. Now that she was back with me, I had a chance to reconsider. First and foremost, he had become a threat to her , but even if he wasn't, I wouldn't have minded getting him out of my hair.

Killing Aculeus was off the table. Through our pact, his death would have meant my undoing, too.

Breaking a bargain wasn't entirely impossible for a mortal, but the longer the bond existed, the more dangerous an attempt became. For someone like me, whose body had been merged and infused with a demon's magic for over a century, there was no hope of coming out alive if I tried to terminate our connection.

I would have given my life for my wife's safety, without a second of doubt. But if we pulled off our plan, there was a better way.

Kerys's soulstone was exactly what we needed—and it would set us both free.

My chest squeezed as I remembered our separation when we arrived, how I felt her eyes boring into my back. It pained me not to look at her when I left with the nun, but we had to stay in character.

My guide had led me through narrow, empty hallways, winding like serpents. I always had an excellent sense of direction, and my demonic imbuement only improved my ability to navigate. I could've found my way back to the entrance in a heartbeat.

The nun brought me to a small waiting area, where we sat in silence. A while later, she took me to an awfully bright chamber, its walls covered in fine tapestries depicting the story of Dax'eia. They were hung up out of order, and she handed me a letter allowing me to speak one last time for the sole purpose of reciting the tale.

Clearly, this was a test to ensure applicants were familiar with the foundation of their beliefs.

It was easy. Annoying as fuck, but simple enough. I hoped Kerys was presented with the same challenge because it would have been a breeze for her, too.

Afterward, the nun cast a simple spell to detect any magical objects hidden on my person. Of course there was nothing to find, and she was none the wiser about my demonic aura, either. Over the decades, I'd learned to mask it well.

Finally, I was given a gray robe and put to work.

Since then, I had spent most of my hours on kitchen duty. I whiled away my so-called free time in the mess hall for breakfast and dinner, in the simple communal bath, or in a claustrophobic cell they had assigned to me as my lodgings, where I faked meditation and deep contemplation.

A Gods damned prison seemed like a luxurious inn compared to the rickety cot with its thin straw mattress and the wobbling stool in front of a tiny writing desk, stacked with hand-written books on humility, simplicity and some other trash I didn't give a shit about.

At least most dungeons had fucking doors, but the Wordless Creed apparently didn't believe in privacy either. Seeing Kerys in her room when I passed down the hallway of the dormitories had almost driven me to insanity. How she kneeled on the cold stone floor in supposed prayer … Fuck, it had taken every ounce of strength to stop myself from blowing our cover just to hear her moans echoing through these hollow corridors.

Irritated, I glanced up from the pot at the fidgeting man by the sink.

He was young, perhaps in his early twenties. Brown curls swung around z-shaped horns as he used a coarse brush to scrub food residue off rustic stone dishes, hands red from sharp soap.

We'd worked together in the kitchen every day, and on a surface level, he was just like the other members of the Creed: Silent, stoic, doing the meditations and the chores, and overall being a solemn good boy.

But I saw behind the fa?ade.

His tongue had the habit of darting to the corners of his lips while he focused, proving it was still in its rightful place, and he hadn't been sworn in yet. When he thought no one was looking, his tail twitched, and his mouth moved with silent words as if he found it difficult to keep quiet. His eyes were always bloodshot from too little sleep, his cuticles bloody from gnawing on them in secret.

I stifled a grin.

He was afraid. Rightfully so. This monastery was little more than a jail indeed, and a non-magical mortal like him had no chance of ever getting past the beast. It was hard to guess which expectations he'd brought with him when he applied to join, but obviously, they had been disappointed.

A scared, isolated person was easiest to manipulate. If I played my cards right, lent a sympathetic ear to his lonely plight, he would become my puppet before he realized it. I wasn't a nice man, but I was damn good at acting like it if it suited me.

He was my best opportunity to take action.

I turned to the scratched table where we prepared the food, grabbing a tattered notebook from behind the cutting board I'd used to dice the potatoes. Identical tomes laid in every communal room, a scuffed pencil dangling from a string sewn onto the cloth spine. Most were barely used, a handful of pages filled with the plain orders needed to fulfill daily chores.

I flipped the book open, leafing through scribbles detailing a new bean casserole recipe, the request to purchase another bag of coal and other trivial correspondences.

When I reached the last page, I started writing. The scratching of the pencil on rough paper had the young male spinning around. His lips parted as he stared at me, sudsy water dripping from his hands onto the floor.

He was starved for attention, for interaction.

Are you okay? I have been watching you. You seem scared, like you don't want to be here , I wrote and turned the notebook, holding it out to him.

He skulked closer, tail whipping like a skittish animal as he stopped an arm's length away. His eyes grew wide then narrowed while he looked from the page to me. Back again. Wood clanked on stone as he dropped the brush.

I knew what must have been going through his head, I saw it in his gaze.

It was the same clash of feelings that tore my chest apart the first time Kerys approached me in the mine, offering freedom—and herself—to me.

Hope and mistrust.

The desperate need for an ally in a helpless situation. An impossible wish for salvation.

I smiled, just a quick upward tug of my lips in case someone came in. The man glanced over his shoulder at the door before his hands shot out, ripping the book from my grasp. The tremor in his fingers turned his penmanship jagged, but he had taken the bait.

I thought I hid it well , he wrote.

I gave a nod and stepped beside him, taking the pencil.

You do, I wrote . But I've always been empathetic, and I hate to see anyone suffer .

A blatant fucking lie. Or more a half-lie.

I had a knack for reading people. Being alive this long had taught me to pay attention to details in body language and facial expressions, minuscule changes most folks weren't consciously aware of. But far was it from my mind to use that skill for the greater good. Manipulation was the name of the game—always had been, always would be.

I laid the pencil atop the page, and he grabbed it again, scribbling on.

Are you going to tell on me ?

I shook my head, giving another fast grin while I pried the pencil from his white-knuckled grip.

I think we have something in common, and I want to be your friend .

He frowned at me, still not convinced.

I regret bringing my wife to the monastery , I wrote. We thought being here would cleanse us of the hurt we caused each other, of the evil in our hearts, but when the Creed's physician treated her for nausea, we found out she's with child. I don't want my offspring to grow up in this prison . We want out.

His brows jumped. "Pregnant?" he mouthed, and my chin dipped in confirmation of another bold-faced lie. His shoulders dropped as he sighed.

No one gets out , he wrote. I've been here a year. Another tried to leave . Her screams started moments after she'd slipped through the door, and they didn't stop for minutes. You can't fight that creature.

I took up the pencil again . Have you seen the beast? Why doesn't it attack the monks and nuns?

The man huffed as he wrote. No, I haven't seen it. The other members feed it sometimes, I've heard the ringing of cattle bells when they return from the town. Only sworn devotees of the order can come and go freely. It must have something to do with the initiation ritual, but I don't know what.

I grabbed the pencil. I don't intend to lose my tongue, and neither do I intend to fight the beast. But I need help from someone who knows their way around. Once I have what I need, we will escape and take you with us. You have my word .

I held out my hand. His head tilted, and he chewed on his lip, staring at my fingers, but hope won.

I won, as I always did.

He shook my hand, his grip firm, not at all befitting the pale shadow of a man he was when we started our silent exchange. The prospect of freedom invigorated him.

What do you need ? he wrote and handed the pencil back to me.

I need to know where the tongues are .

He grimaced in disgust before he added another few sentences to the page. I won't ask what you need them for. If that's your condition for getting me out of here, I'll tell you.

He paused, waiting until I nodded. His lips quivered, and I thought he was going to cry, but instead, his mouth pulled into an unsteady smile as if his muscles had almost forgotten the movement.

The tongues are hidden in the library , he wrote. The order only takes them out for special occasions, but every night, before curfew, one of them opens up the secret chamber and offers a prayer . I don't know how to get inside, though. There's a lock with some secret rune language on it , and only sworn members know the right combination.

I shrugged, taking up the pencil. No problem. Just show me where it is. I'll figure out ?—

Soft steps sounded from the hallway. The man startled and hurried back to the sink, picking up the brush mid-stride. He clattered extra loud with the dishes, creating a distraction while I ripped the page of evidence from the notebook. I put the tome back behind the cutting board and took up station at the pot. The crumpled paper dropped from my fist into the flames, just in time for a white-haired nun to stick her head into the kitchen.

She glanced around the room, lips puckered like a strict teacher. Then she turned her nose up at us and strode back the way she came.

I locked gazes with my new accomplice, finding his eyes shining with defiance.

Finally , I thought. Progress .