Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(10)

From the top bunk, Lanthe gave a feigned pissy exhalation.

Earlier, with a clipped “Oh, very well,” she’d agreed to look out for Ruby. Carrow suspected Lanthe might actually like kids but kept that fact secret, protecting her street cred as a wicked sorceress.

After all, she was the notorious Queen of Persuasion, a sorceress who could compel others to do whatever she bade them. To be deemed a “queen” meant that she was the best at her talent in all the Lore.

Though Sorceri and witches shared a common ancestry, many of the Sorceri class belonged to the Pravus, an alliance of evil factions that warred with the Vertas, the relatively good alliance that Carrow affiliated with.

Before allying, loosely, with the Vertas, Lanthe and her sister had fought on the Pravus front line.

Still, Carrow felt a level of trust toward Lanthe. She usually had a good sense about people, and the week she and Lanthe had spent confined together in this cell felt like a lifetime.

They’d played tic-tac-toe in the condensation on the steel walls, gabbed about the hotness known as King Rydstrom, Lanthe’s new demon brother-in-law, and commiserated about the man drought they were both presently gasping through.

Carrow had had lovers—more than a couple, less than a handful—and a single night on Bourbon Street could score her another one. But she had her reasons for her current coitus hiatus . . . .

“What will happen when you get us free?” Ruby asked.

How much confidence the girl had in her. “I’m going to take care of you myself. You’ll live with me.” Mental checklist, item eighty: find us some new digs.

Witches with kids didn’t get to live at Andoain. Carrow had felt a pang at the thought of giving up her sorority-style life there—and her coveted suite with a private bath—but when she’d looked at Ruby’s tearstained little face, she’d easily decided that it didn’t matter.

“We’ll get a pad near Andoain so you can still go to spell school there. I’ll pack lunch”—bag leftover pizza—“for you every morning.”

Lanthe made a sound of disbelief from overhead.

“I will. And when you get old enough, I’m going to teach you all about the Street that is Bourbon.”

Ruby yawned, her puffy lids drooping. “I heard some witches talking about you a couple of weeks ago. They said you were rutterless.”

Now a chuckle from the top bunk.

“Rudderless?” So true. “Maybe so. But I’m not going to be anymore.” How’s it feel to be a rudder, kiddo?

“Will you hold my hand until I fall asleep? And stay here till I wake up?”

“You got it.” Maybe the reason she’d never done well with responsibilities in her personal life was that she’d never had any practice? Carrow had led armies—but she’d never had another depend solely on her.

In minutes, Ruby was out, her countenance relaxing, her brow smoothing. Carrow waited a little while, then eased from the bed to recheck her pack and begin studying the dossier.

When Lanthe slunk down from her bunk, Carrow noted yet again that the sorceress looked flawless, displaying no signs of a week’s worth of stress, discomposure, or even wrinkles. But then Lanthe wore typical Sorceri garb: a metal bustier and a mesh skirt, held together with bits of leather.

Her dark hair was a mass of braids in the wild Sorceri style. The only things missing were her metal gloves—with built-in claws—and the half mask that would normally adorn her face.

Carrow found it interesting that the mortals left their prisoners in their own street wear for the most part. She herself still wore her jewelry and club duds.

“They’re going to double-cross you,” Lanthe said.

Did Carrow suspect Chase would go back on his word? Of course. But she also knew she had to operate under the assumption that he would release her and Ruby. What were two witches to them? And more importantly, what other choice did Carrow have? “I don’t know that for certain,” she said as she began rooting through the pack Dixon had offered her earlier.

At once, Carrow had demanded to go to the facility’s PX store for her own supplies. While the Order might have a dandy assault pack for soldiers to make an incursion, they didn’t have an all-purpose Carrow pack for witches bent on seduction.

So after a few hygienic tweaks to her gear—and her first shower in a week while her clothes were dry-cleaned—she was ready.

“In any event, witch, I think you waste your time.”

“Look, I might not trust that they’ll keep their word about releasing us,” Carrow said. “But I trust one hundred percent that they’ll keep it about killing her.”

Lanthe sighed, gazing over at Ruby. “Well, then, let’s see this dossier.”

They sat on the floor with their backs against the wall. Fitting. Carrow opened the folder to the first page, a summary of her destination and its peoples.

“I still can’t believe they’re sending you to Oblivion.” Lanthe shivered.

“Come on, it’s the only place you can get fresh vemons this time of year.”

Oblivion was one of the hell planes, a place of such limited resources that only the harshest demons could survive. In this case, water was scarce. No rain fell, and the few collections of water were underground.

According to the dossier, the Trothan culture was a chaotic mix of slavery, violence, and cruelty—its members brutal. Yet they had a deeply entrenched class system in their society.