Chapter Eight

Darius lowered his hand, the banishing of the light complete. He stepped forward from the shadowy alcove where he'd transformed back into a human, then approached the head of the stairs leading into the dining hall.

The girl— Tanitha— was on her feet, her posture tense and alarmed, and he cursed himself mentally. He'd hoped to set her at ease by allowing her to eat and recover from her ordeal before encountering him, but apparently the falling of darkness had rebirthed her earlier fear. Still, it wasn't as if seeing a demon lord would be any more comforting than not seeing him. Even if that weren't the case, he couldn't let her know who he was, and his face was stamped into half the coins in the city. She'd know him immediately if she saw him.

He began to descend the staircase, watching her carefully. A threat, his mother had said. A danger to all they held dear. This pale waif? He knew fate was a complicated, perilous thing, but… how could she be anything worthy of fear?

Unfortunately, that was exactly what he had to find out.

He reached the bottom of the stairs. Though he was moving silently, she turned to face him. The suddenness of the motion startled him despite the fact that there were still ten paces between them. He couldn't make out the color of her eyes in this light level, but they were intent and focused. Only the fact that she was gazing at a point slightly to his left convinced him that she truly couldn't see him. He frowned, taking in the rest of the scene. The knife at her place setting wasn't visible, which suggested she had it concealed under her shawl. Was that a legitimate cause for concern, a suggestion that she was more dangerous than she appeared, or was she simply quick-witted enough to seize any possible weapon when confronted with a threat?

Either way, it meant that she felt far more frightened than he'd hoped.

He almost spoke, then paused. For all he'd prepared himself for this meeting, he found himself at a loss for words. Something about the way she held herself, her alert gaze despite the darkness, gave him pause. He found himself admiring her face. She was quite beautiful, yes, but more than that, there was an openness and gentleness to her expression that shone even through her obvious alarm.

Alarm that he had to somehow mitigate. He grimaced. He was far more accustomed to offering intimidation than comfort. And yet, intimidation was probably the worst possible approach here. If he was to assess her, he needed her to lower her guard.

"Put down the knife," he said. She turned quickly, correcting her earlier slight miscalculation of his location, her hair flowing around her shoulders with the motion. He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth— he'd meant his voice to sound measured, but it had simply sounded authoritative, and tone aside, ordering her to surrender a concealed weapon was not likely to set her at ease. He made a face at himself, and then added, "Please," as if that might correct the error.

It hadn't, if the wariness of her expression was anything to go by. She didn't move except for a slight shifting of her weight to the balls of her feet. He looked at her in consideration. Her stance suggested readiness, but not in the way of a trained fighter. If anything, it was the readiness of a deer preparing to leap away deeper into the forest. It was an apt metaphor, he thought; there was an unexpected grace to the way she held herself.

Focus , he ordered himself. Beautiful and graceful or not, he had a task to attend to if he wanted to avoid killing her. And as repulsive as he found that task, he knew he wouldn't have a choice if he found signs of danger.

Slowly, Tanitha lowered her right hand, setting the blade she'd concealed back in its place on the table. She raised both hands briefly to show that they were empty, but she didn't step out of easy range of seizing the knife again. Whether that indicated that she wanted to be able to grab it if she felt threatened or simply lacked the situational experience to realize that she should move if she truly wanted to demonstrate peaceful intentions, he wasn't sure.

She swallowed visibly, then tried to speak once before clearing her throat and beginning again. "May I know who I am addressing?" she asked.

Straight to it, then, he thought regretfully. It was unfortunate that she'd chosen to begin with a question that he couldn't answer.

"I am a friend and an ally," he said. The air of command was still in his voice, and although it was again unintentional, perhaps it would lend the weight of truth to his words. At least, he very much hoped the words were true, if she had the sort of fate sealed to her that his mother had suggested. Deliberately softening his voice, he added, "You don't need to be afraid."

"With respect," she said, the faintest of tremors coloring her voice, "that does not answer my question."

"No," he admitted. "And I'm sorry for that, and for the darkness. But you will be safest if you don't know my identity." He would be safest that way, too, though she didn't need to know that. She started to speak, but he forestalled her.

"I'll tell you as much as I can," he said. "How much do you remember of last night?"

She glanced to the left. "Nothing," she said. "I remember speaking to Ivathi Yarun, and then nothing until I woke up here."

That, he strongly suspected, was a lie. She'd been drugged, yes, but not strongly, and she'd been perfectly alert atop the necropolis' hill before he'd forced her into unconsciousness himself. But he couldn't fault her for the evasion; she was testing his intentions in much the same way he was testing hers. By denying any recollection, by allegedly relying on his account rather than her own memory, she was creating an opportunity to assess his honesty. Fortunately, he intended to be truthful with her.

Mostly.

"Last night, you were drugged and taken to the top of the necropolis, bound in the manner of a sacrifice to the One Who Sleeps," he informed her. She took a slow breath as if grounding herself, but she didn't show any surprise. So she did remember that much, at least. "It was not, however, at the request of the One's representatives. Someone in the city with significant influence wished you dead." He paused. He could only hope that she took the vagueness to mean that he didn't know the identity of the person of ‘significant influence'. Keeping his voice largely absent of emotion, he added, "I was ordered to kill you."

She went very still. If she hadn't already deduced his nature, she certainly had now. She swallowed twice, clearly struggling to find her voice.

Darius decided to take pity on her. "You're wondering why I didn't," he said.

She firmed up her shoulders as she nodded once, and then doubt flickered across her face, likely as she wondered if a nod was enough and how well he could see in the darkness that kept her blind.

"Yes," she said, her voice small. "May I ask why, my lord?"

He stifled a reflexive urge to correct her on the title, rolling his eyes at himself. If the objective was to conceal his identity, it wasn't the wisest thing to inform her that she should be referring to him as ‘highness'.

"You and I have met before," he said, making an effort this time to keep his tone gentle. "And I could not believe that a woman who spends her days looking after doves and sparrows truly deserved to die."

What little color there was in Tanitha's face drained out of it as realization of the circumstances in which they'd met struck her. He half expected her to drop to her knees, either out of penance or simple inability to keep to her feet from fear. She surprised him, however, by simply gripping the back of the chair beside her to steady herself. Stifling a tremble, she bowed her head.

"My lord, I most fervently beg your forgiveness for my actions," she said. He had to give her credit; she was exhibiting tremendous composure for someone who'd just been told she was trapped in darkness with a demon. One that, from her perspective, had ample previous reason to be annoyed with her. She continued, "I never would have even considered —"

"I know." He tried to keep his tone gentle, to make the interruption comforting rather than curt, but he wasn't certain how successful he was; her only response was to fall silent, her previously direct gaze now fixed on the floor. He considered her for a moment. He wasn't certain how much of her actions were an act, meant to give an impression of harmlessness, but in any case, the course he'd earlier decided on still seemed best.

"I want to assure you that I mean you no harm," he said. "You are here as my guest."

With her face lowered as it was, he couldn't quite read the expression that flitted over it before she schooled it into neutrality.

"As a guest, my lord?" she asked.

"Yes," he said firmly. "I intend to determine the exact nature of the threat against you and find a safe place for you." To his surprise, he felt a slight twinge in his breast at the misrepresentation of the truth. Although he did mean to relocate her as soon as possible, the delaying factor had far more to do with his own safety— with his people's safety— than hers.

He stifled the misplaced sense of guilt and continued, "In the meantime, you will remain here."

She was silent for a few heartbeats. "With respect, my lord," she said at last, "a guest may come and go as she pleases."

His eyebrows rose. Perhaps he'd imagined the hint of accusation in her voice there… or perhaps not. Either way, the subtext that she might believe herself a captive was clear.

"You're welcome to leave, if you trust your own protection over mine," he said. He'd moved into outright falsehood there— he couldn't allow her to go— but the last thing he needed was for her to view him as a captor instead of a rescuer.

She didn't respond, and for a moment he thought that despite his efforts to be gentle, she had taken the reminder of the threat to her life harder than he'd intended. Perhaps he'd been flippant to the point of sounding callous. Ally, he reminded himself. Present yourself as a concerned ally.

"I am sorry, my lord, if I seemed ungrateful," she said, still keeping her gaze lowered. "I fear I may have already trespassed too far upon your good nature. But… may I make a request?"

He tilted his head, curious. "Make it."

She folded her hands together, still looking demurely down. "I have a sister," she began.

"You've mentioned her," he said. "Perhaps you don't remember. But you asked for my word that she will be cared for." She bit her lip, waiting, and he continued, "I gave it."

Precisely none of the tension left the set of her shoulders, and he wondered briefly what she believed the value of a demon lord's word to be. He'd definitely need to explore the matter of her feelings toward her city's rulers later, but for now, he just needed her to view him as a friend. Or at least, not as an enemy.

"Thank you, my lord," she said at last. "But… there's something else. She'll worry for me if I don't come home, and mourn me if she receives word that I've been…" She faltered, apparently unable to say the word, then took a steadying breath. "I don't wish her to suffer," she continued, her voice stronger. "Is there a way I can send a message to her, to tell her I'm well?"

He hesitated. He had no idea if the sister had been told of the sacrificial selection or if she'd simply think Tanitha had vanished. In either case, though, sending word to her of Tanitha's survival was impossible. If his mother was the least bit suspicious about Tanitha's fate— he didn't see why she would be, but she'd surprised him often enough before— a sister who appeared to be mourning too little could be the only hint she needed to look closer.

Darius supposed he could just reassure Tanitha with an easy lie that he'd see to it, but he found himself unwilling to do that. She might not know what the worth of his word was, but he did, and he wasn't about to devalue it like that.

"She means a good deal to you, I take it," he said, playing for time while he thought of an appropriate response.

She gave a single nod. "We're both foundlings, my lord," she said. "Brought to the city together as very young children. We've only had each other."

His attention pricked sharply. Foundlings? Now that was interesting. For someone to have brought them here, there would have very likely been some sign that the girls could possibly have demonic heritage. Most likely nascent indications of magical ability. Combining that with the strange behavior of the sparrows the first time he'd met her…

Was it possible she was a soul-speaker?

It seemed bizarre and unlikely— soul-speaking was a treasured gift, and if she was a foundling, she'd have had every motivation to prove herself valuable— but still, it fit, in a strange way. And if she was a soul-speaker, it might explain why he'd found himself not once but twice unable to raise a hand against her. It was a disconcerting possibility, one that raised a plethora of dangerous prospects.

He realized she was waiting for a response. He dragged his mind back to the conversation about her sister, although investigating the possibility of Tanitha possessing hidden magical talent was a much higher priority than the emotional state of a lone foundling girl. He sharply reined in his desire to question her further; urgent or not, he had to remember that his main task right now was to set this lone foundling girl at ease. Prophecies and fate were perilous things. If he didn't manage that much, if she did come to view him as an enemy… If that happened, he would be setting the very thing he feared into motion.

"I'll see if it's possible to get word to your sister," he said. "But you should understand there will be difficulties. It may be better to wait until I've gotten you to safety elsewhere, then send word. To do otherwise might be dangerous to you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said quietly.

Good; he'd half expected a protest there. At least she was somewhat biddable.

Or perhaps she just wanted him to think that she was. He gave himself a little shake. His thoughts would circle themselves to exhaustion if he second-guessed the meanings and layers to her every word and action. At least the looming threat of driving himself to distraction would serve as strong motivation to handle her quickly, though.

Whatever that ultimately meant.

"My lord," she said, her voice still quiet. "May I ask a question?"

"You are a guest," he reminded her. "You don't need to ask permission for so small a thing as a question."

She dipped her head slightly in acknowledgement. "Thank you, my lord. I wanted to ask… Why am I in danger?" She paused, then said, "Why would someone in power even know who I am well enough to wish me harm?"

He pursed his lips. It was an obvious question for her to ask, but even more obvious was the fact that he couldn't answer it. Saying ‘the queen of the demons determined that you were a threat with minimal evidence and decided to have you murdered' was an excellent way to ensure that Tanitha had less than friendly feelings toward his people. Harmless though this girl might look, epic quests of vengeance had been founded on less.

"I don't know," he said. "But I'll find out the truth of the matter. In the meantime, please rest. I want you to treat this as your own home."

She swallowed. "You will be here as well?" she asked.

"In the evenings, yes," he said. "I'll see to it that your needs are met."

She didn't look reassured; if anything, the uneasy set to her posture had grown more pronounced. "And… I am not permitted to see you?" she asked.

"No," he answered. "I'm sorry. It's safer that way."

Her hands, still clasped together, tightened on each other. It took her a few moments to speak again. "Is safety the only reason, my lord?"

A chill ran over him at the possible implications of that question before he sharply corrected his own thoughts. The power of true forms was a well-guarded secret; there was simply no way a Sanctuary-raised foundling who spent her days monitoring pigeons had stumbled across it. But he wasn't certain why else she would ask that, unless…

Oh. The tension left him. She had no idea what form he was using at that moment, or even what forms he could use. She very well might have drawn the conclusion that he had summoned the darkness to conceal a monstrous appearance. And he knew how focused on appearance humans could be.

He considered this, how she was probably feeling, for a moment before giving a quiet sigh. "Step closer, Tanitha."

Her shoulders tensed. "My lord?"

"There are about five paces between us," he said, keeping his voice low and— hopefully— unthreatening. "There is nothing in your path. Come closer."

The deer-stance was back, and for a second, he half expected her to bolt. Then, slowly, she firmed up her posture and took a single deliberate step forward. A second later, after visibly bracing herself again, she managed two more, her footfalls light and nearly silent on the marble floor.

He regarded her for a moment, trying to gauge what she might be thinking. She was obviously frightened, but he couldn't read anything beyond that.

"Extend your hand," he said, taking one step forward himself. She went very still, her gaze darting to the side as if assessing an escape route despite her inability to see. "I don't mean you any harm," he said quietly. "I'd like you to believe at least that much."

She pressed her lips together. Slowly, a slight tremor running through the motion, she lifted one hand, her palm flat toward him. He lifted his own, and very gently, he pressed his hand against hers. She started at the touch, her fingers curling for an instant to lightly brush over his palm before she mastered herself and was still once more.

He laid his other hand over the back of hers, keeping the pressure light and gentle. This time, she didn't shy away.

"This is my usual form," he said quietly. "Not my only form, by any means, but the one I use most often. The one I'm most comfortable with."

There was a faint tremble in her hand as she considered this for several seconds. Then, to his surprise, she reached up with her other hand, lightly curling her fingers around his right wrist. The sensation of her skin lightly brushing over his sent a light prickle of desire through his body, and he firmly rejected an unexpected urge to draw her closer. She trailed her hand down the length of his forearm, her touch incredibly light, and he found himself looking intently at her face, at the pleasing curve of her lips.

Darius released her hand, stepping back. Absolutely not , he told himself sharply. She was beautiful, certainly, but she was also in an extremely vulnerable position. He wasn't going to risk making her feel ill-used in any way.

She remained where she was, her expression strangely… shy? She cleared her throat. "You're…"

"More often human than not," he said. Finally, some of the taut readiness of fear seemed to be leaving her, even if her posture still seemed uncertain. "Yes."

She let out a shaky breath, then nodded once. To his relief, she finally appeared somewhat reassured. "I… I don't believe I've thanked you," she said. She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. "For sparing me," she clarified. "For bringing me here."

"There's no need," he said quietly, though gratitude was certainly to be encouraged. "You didn't deserve the fate that was about to be dealt to you."

She gave a small laugh, but the sound carried more sadness than mirth. "I don't believe that most people do deserve the fates dealt to them, my lord." She lifted one shoulder in a half shrug, the motion loosening the strand of hair that she'd just pushed back so it tumbled forward again. "But in truth, I've been more fortunate than most so far."

He raised a hand to tuck the strand of hair back into place but stopped himself, his hand still several inches away. Surprised at himself and glad she hadn't been able to see the action, he took a deliberate step back, his hand dropping to his side. "The suite of rooms on the northern side of the manor are my bedchambers, where I require privacy," he said, slightly louder than was perhaps strictly necessary. "Aside from that, you're free to go where you will within the manor's walls."

With that, he turned away, firmly ignoring the completely irrational desire to prolong the exchange with her. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw a slight loosening of her posture at the sound of his retreating footsteps. Reluctantly, he turned back to the front, ascending the sweeping staircase. Clearly, if he wanted her to feel safe, the best thing he could do was leave.