Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(56)

Most of the buildings had decayed into ruins, their bricks crumbling and wood splintering.

Even with the full force of Carrow’s remaining magic, crossing that hateful desert had taken her agonizing hours. And with each one, she’d become more convinced that the demons had captured Malkom to execute him.

I’ll never forgive myself if I’m too late.

Down a main thoroughfare, she saw a crowd gathered in the distance. With the last of her power, she wove a glamour over herself so she’d appear to have a fine cloak covering her body and hair. Beneath it, she would be bedecked in a rich silk gown, gold jewelry, and even a crown.

If she had to interact with demons from a class-stratified society, then she’d look like money and be quick to give orders.

In this master/slave world, perhaps she should even act as if she owned Malkom. Didn’t the owner get to mete punishment to her property? She might be able to demand his release under her recognizance.

So says the chick who weekends in Parish Correctional.

Once cloaked, she hastened toward the crowd. The demons were gathered around a bloodstained stage made of stone. In the center of it stood what looked like a pyre platform, except this had manacles attached. In the background, colossal statues of horned figures loomed, likely representing the demons’ gods.

Piles of blackened bones lay at the foot of the pyre, and charred hands and feet rotted in the manacles. The hands were clenched in fists, the feet curling downward.

The Trothans burned victims alive. Did they plan that fate for Malkom? Over my dead body.

The denizens attending this sacrifice had the same shifty eyes as Asmodel, and she perceived in them a sick happiness at the prospect of the upcoming execution.

And these were the demons she’d once hoped to find, to unite with? No way could she trust her and Ruby’s futures to these dicks.

She felt dirty drawing power from them, from their sadistic glee. But she forced herself to, allowing the crowd to begin fueling her.

When she spotted half a dozen swordsmen leading Malkom toward the stage, relief sailed through her to find him still alive.

On the heels of that, her fury at the demons returned tenfold. Malkom had been beaten, and they were hauling him directly out into the sun. The light here still wasn’t strong enough to outright kill Malkom, but he was unmistakably exhausted, his skin blistering.

She began pushing through the crowd toward him. But the Trothans were huge, immovable.

The six swordsmen dragged him through a gauntlet of deranged demons who stabbed him with spears fashioned from bones. And at the end of this, they would expect him to be burned alive?

Malkom must have known this was the fate awaiting him, and still he’d surrendered to Ronath.

To protect me.

The swordsmen maneuvered him to the front of the stage, where a chopping block stood. Forcing him to kneel before it, they shackled him to bolts in the stone, securing the ends together with an antique-looking padlock.

She put out a probe. Naturally, Malkom’s bonds were mystically enforced. She could open them, but it’d take time.

There was acceptance in Malkom’s expression, even when the swordsmen shoved his head to the block and one of them raised an ax.

“What the hell is this?” she demanded of the group of demons closest to her. They scowled down at her, uncomprehending. She needed a new spell, the translation spell, but it required so much power . . . .

The ax came down before she could react. They’d cut off one of his horns.

Though Malkom didn’t make a sound, his magnificent body shuddered in the chains, his blue eyes resigned.

The guards swiftly forced his head back to the block. Her stomach churned when they chopped off the second. She knew the horns would grow back, but to lose one—much less two—was supposed to be excruciating.

This torture filled the demons with joy. She gritted her teeth as dirty power coursed through her.

Malkom continued to stare straight ahead, an innate pride lingering in his expression. She perceived no shame from him. Which meant either he’d done nothing wrong—or he was a hardened killer.

Carrow wished she could believe the latter, since it would make her mission easier. But she couldn’t. She gazed at him up there, chained, his body covered with gashes.

He was so much better than these people. Malkom is noble.

If he’d killed their prince, then the guy’d had it coming.

Malkom must have scented her then, because he stiffened, rattling his chains. Then she got hit with a bolt of something like utter joy.

She swayed and moaned, “Whoaaa.” Yet he instantly followed that emotion with a helpless kind of rage.

No takesie-backsies, demon. She’d just scored a spike of uncut, pharmaceutical-grade vemon joy. Delectable power surged inside her. This would be enough for several simultaneous spells, and she’d need them all—protection, language, her continued glamour. As she was hurriedly spellcasting, the demon who’d led Malkom’s capture climbed to the stage, dressed in full armor from feet to chin, everything but the helmet.

This Ronath had an air of deviousness mixed with conceit. And she didn’t think he could possibly ever have been happier than he was right now. I’ll take a shot of that—and then I’ll defeat you with your own delight.

After quieting the crowd’s frenetic cheers, Ronath addressed them: “Blah blah blah MALKOM SLAINE blah blah.”