Chapter 18

Acrew of oneiroi waiters bustled into the hall, carrying silver platters laden with food. A waiter pushed one of the trays between Ursula and Goth Princess, and her gaze slid to the roasted meat, seasoned with rosemary and garlic. At least they know how to eat here.

Her mouth watered at the sight of meat and potatoes—and the bowls of luminescent mushroom soup.

The waiter placed a bowl in front of Ursula, and she breathed in the rich, earthy scent. It looked terrifying, but smelled amazing, and her mouth was already watering. As he dropped a bowl before Goth Princess, he leaned in to ask, “Would you like bottle of wine for the table?”

Goth Princess’s lip curled back from her fangs, and she snarled, “Would you like a bottle of wine for the table, milady.”

The waiter nodded frantically, avoiding eye contact. “Milady, I’m sorry?—”

“Stop talking and fill my glass,” she snapped.

“Of course, milady.”

Ursula glared at her. Wanker. Too bad there would be no tournament between the women of this table.

Ursula focused all her energy on keeping her mouth shut. A waiter bustled around the table, slicing up the meat and serving it on plates. Ursula waited until Goth Princess began cutting into her food and then followed suit. The meat tasted as delicious as it smelled. Roast beef maybe? It wasn’t ham, she was certain.

Viking raised her hand, snapping her fingers at one of the waiters. She pointed to her plate. “Is it from Nyxobas’s stables?”

The waiter bowed. “Yes, milady. Strictly moth-fed around Asta, no supplements or additives.”

Ursula stopped mid-chew, her stomach turning. “What kind of meat is this?”

The waiter bowed again. “Milady, it’s bat-shoulder. Just slaughtered this afternoon.” He flashed a proud smile.

She swallowed the lump of flesh in her mouth. Maybe I’ll just stick to the mushroom soup.

She lifted a spoonful into her mouth, savoring the woodsy, garlicky flavor. Perfect.

She tried not to stare at Viking, who ripped through the bat-shoulder with the terrifying ferocity of a pit bull. Maybe it’s for the best we’re not part of a tournament.

Talons leaned across the table, her eyes locked on Goth Princess. “How was your vacation on Earth?”

“Glorious. We rented a little cottage on a private atoll in the Maldives. The water was amazing—beautiful night swimming. The locals were delicious.”

“I’m so jealous,” Viking cut in. “Hothgar’s idea of romance is drinking five pints of blood and asking me to watch him rut with a human in a hayloft. He likes to control their minds, you know. Make them supplicate themselves before him. He makes them call him Nyxobas and praise his lunar staff.”

“We know,” said Talons. “The entire Shadow Realm knows.”

Goth Princess shrugged. “Abrax does that, too. It’s just what demon males do. Especially incubi, of course. He can’t get enough of his little human playthings.”

“I hate Hothgar,” muttered Viking. “The last time he showed me any affection was our claiming ceremony. But it isn’t a woman’s place to complain to a husband. At least, not to his face.”

“All demons want to dominate humans,” said Goth Princess. She turned to Ursula. “You’re basically human. I mean, you’re a mortal demon. You have no powers here in the Shadow Realm.”

Ursula paused, mid-spoonful. “What, now?”

“We know you’re here to be someone’s whore.” Talons poked a finger in her face. “Is it Bael? Are you his consolation prize for the loss of his wings and his manor?”

Ursula cringed. “Can we go back to when you were ignoring me?”

Goth Princess narrowed her eyes. “What depraved things has he been making you do in that ruined manor of his?” She licked her fangs. “He is quite gorgeous, so I’m not sure that I’d mind if I were you.”

Talons licked the soup off one of her curled claws. “He is reputed to be an amazing lover, you know. Not like Hogarth. Long ago, he was worshipped as a god in his home country. It could be worse for you.”

Ursula frowned, and she glanced at Bael on the dais, sitting silently by the other lords. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. He’s a perfect gentleman.”

Viking snorted. “You’re an idiot. They don’t exist.”

Talons raised her champagne flute, smiling. “Demon males view all women as their property and playthings. And when it comes to weak little human women, that goes double. You’re here as a harlot, my dear. We all know that.”

Ursula could feel her face heating from anger. Just as she was about to indulge in a tirade, Hothgar banged his gavel from the dais.

“It is time to begin the Selection of the Champions. We will start with the most junior lords.” He turned to the lord furthest from him, a cloaked man with milky-white skin and eyes like black pearls.

Hothgar raised his gavel. “Lord Vepar. you may nominate your five.”

Vepar stood and spoke in a firm voice. “I nominate Inth from my legion.”

A lanky demon in a full suit of silver armor entered from a side entrance, gripping a long spear. He strode into the empty space in the center of the hall, then bowed deeply toward the dais.

“Inth of the Vepar Legion. May Nyxobas grant you the grace of a shadow and the strength of a warrior.”

As Inth finished bowing, inky tendrils of magic lifted from his body, curling toward Nyxobas.

“What is that?” asked Ursula.

“His immortality,” said Talons. “It’s not much of a fight to the death if no one can die.”

“He’ll get it back if he wins,” said the Viking. “Except, he won’t win.”

His voice booming through the hall, Lord Vepar nominated the rest of his champions—all enormous men, shielded in silver armor.

Without seeing them fight, she couldn’t quite gauge their prowess. Somehow, none of them seemed quite as formidable as Bael, but you couldn’t always tell just by looking at someone. Some skinny men were just psychotic enough to put up a terrifying fight. In London, she’d once seen a slender Millwall F.C. fan bite the ear off a man in a Chelsea Football Club shirt.

Hothgar called upon one lord after another to nominate their five, and Ursula stared at the stream of muscled champions filling the center of the hall with a growing sense of dread. Bael must kill all of them. He must cut through each warrior, and he’s not even at full strength.

Her panic only worsened as Hothgar called on the senior champions, whose warriors grew in stature. One—a near giant—sent trembles over the floor as he walked.

When Hothgar reached Bileth—the Demon-Bull— he paused for just a moment. “Lord Bileth. Are you prepared to nominate a champion?”

“I am,” said Bileth, his deep voice filling the room. “I nominate my son, Sallos.”

An enormous beast of a demon strode into the center of the room. Like his father, his white skin had an almost bluish tinge. He wore only a white fur kilt about his waist, revealing a muscled torso. In one hand, he gripped a massive axe. Ursula’s stomach flipped. His weapon was as least five feet long, with a head of blue steel. She’d never seen Bael wield a weapon like that.

“Congratulations, Sallos. May Nyxobas?—”

A door slammed open at the other end of the hall, cutting off Hothgar. Completely dressed in gray cloth, a stranger strode through the hall. A scarf covered most of his face, apart from a thin slit for his eyes. The entire hall stared.

“What is this interruption?” Hothgar bellowed.

He strode into the center of the hall, taking his place among the champions. “I wish to compete in the tournament.” His scarf slightly muffled his voice, but his words were clear nonetheless.

“Who are you and on what grounds do you claim the chance to compete for Bael’s manor?” roared Hothgar, rising from his chair. His cheeks had reddened, and fury sparked in his eyes. “This tournament is only open to the champions of the lords of Nyxobas.”

“I am not a member of a lord’s legion,” said the intruder. “But by the law of the warrior, I request the chance to challenge a champion. I will take another’s position.” He turned to Sallos. “If there are any here brave enough to take on this challenge.”

Before Hothgar could respond, Sallos raised his axe. “I accept.”

Sallos circled the stranger, swinging the massive axe around his head like a drum major’s baton. Ursula held her breath. The intruder didn’t even have a weapon. What was he thinking? As Sallos neared striking range, the stranger dodged back. Sallos lifted his axe to strike, but the stranger dodged again.

“Fight me, you coward,” Sallos shouted.

The stranger remained silent.

Sallos continued circling, thrusting, striking—while his opponent weaved and dodged, just out of reach.

Fascinated, Ursula stared. She had a perfect view of the fight from here. She could see the sheen of sweat on Sallos’s forehead, but he continued to press his advantage.

From the lords’ table, Hothgar called out, “You won’t win by the grace of your dancing. A challenge can only be settled with blood.”

A few of the lords chuckled. Apparently that comment passed for a joke in the Shadow Realm.

Dodging another strike, the intruder leapt backwards in a perfect backflip. When he landed, he’d deftly produced two daggers, one in each hand.

Ursula’s throat tightened. Bloody hell. He may be small, but he’s agile as a gymnast.

Sallos didn’t seem to understand the threat. He threw back his head, laughing. “You think you’re going to hurt me with those children’s toys?”

The stranger merely stared at him, gripping his daggers.

Sallos advanced again, swinging the ax in great curving arcs. As he closed in on the intruder, he drove him closer to Ursula’s table—so close, she could actually hear the whoosh of Sallos’s blade as it sliced the air. She turned in her chair, her eyes locked on the fight.

When the stranger stood only a few feet away, he dodged toward Ursula. His foot caught on the fabric of her dress, tearing it. Her heart jumped into her throat as she watched the intruder fall to the floor. Please don’t die because of my dress.

Instantly, Sallos charged, thundering at the fallen man like a bull at a toreador. Lifting the axe above his head, he prepared to strike the coup de grace. But as the axe descended, the stranger rolled away.

He dodged the swing. Then, with a perfectly timed stroke, he slashed at Sallos’s foot.

Sallos’s face reddened, and he bellowed in pain. He spun to face his assailant, but the stranger was already on his feet, already out of reach.

Sallos charged forward, but stumbled as his foot gave way. His axe flailed wildly.

The stranger circled behind him, then dove for the floor, slashing at Sallos’s other foot with his blade. Ursula cringed at the audible snap of a severed a tendon.

The stranger had crippled him.

Sallos fell to his knees with a bellow of pain. He gripped his battle axe, glaring at the stranger, eyes red with rage. “Come fight me like a man,” he bellowed.

Ursula knew the fight was over, even if Sallos didn’t.

The stranger circled him slowly. Sallos tried to lunge for him, but the stranger merely sidestepped behind him. In a flash of steel, the stranger’s blade severed the sinews in the back of the Sallos’s knee. The demon howled, fear and rage tearing from his throat. He twisted his body, trying to keep the stranger in front of him, but the stranger was faster. With a lightning-fast strike, the intruder slashed through the other knee.

Sallos fell forward, crashing on his face with a boom that shook the hall.

Around Ursula, the demons in the hall sucked in a collective gasp. Sallos rolled on the ground, trying to get away—but the stranger was too fast. In one strike, he carved a gash across Sallos’s chest. With another, he severed the ligaments in the demon’s wrist. He worked his way around the demon, hacking through tendons, until Sallos lay immobile and trembling on the floor.

Defeated and bloody, Sallos opened his mouth and howled.

The stranger straightened, bowing to Hothgar. “I have defeated him.”

Hothgar rose. “And yet he lives.”

The stranger shrugged. “He is immobilized.”

Bileth’s nostrils flared, and angry black magic sliced the air around him. With a deafening roar, the lord leapt over the table and charged. For a moment, Ursula expected him to attack the stranger.

Instead, he snatched his son’s battled axe.

Ursula watched in horror as he raised the axe above his head. He brought it down in a ferocious strike, crushing his son’s skull with a sickening crunch of bone.