City of Thorns (The Demon Queen Trials #1)(30)

With my arm looped through Orion’s, I leaned in to whisper, “Is this normal for demons? The severed head?”

He looked at me with confusion. “Of course not.”

Thank God. So they weren’t all sociopaths.

Then he added, “There would be no reason for other demons to keep a severed head above their gate. It’s only because he was the former king. It’s a reminder to the world that King Nergal was defeated by someone stronger, and that Cambriel is the rightful king. Vae Victis, remember?”

“The severed head doesn’t bother people who live here?” I whispered. “It’s a bit macabre.”

He shrugged. “He wasn’t very popular.”

I found myself staring at Orion, trying to read him. His face showed absolutely nothing, and the head clearly didn’t faze him. I wondered if all demons lacked empathy.

In mortal terms, someone with no empathy was called a psychopath. From what I understood, psychopaths had reduced activity in their amygdala, the part of the brain that created anxiety. So psychopaths didn’t feel fear as deeply as the rest of us, or any emotions, really. That meant they sometimes went to disturbing lengths to feel things. If they grew up middle class, they could chase a high buying and selling stocks, or go into politics. If they grew up around violence, maybe they’d cut off their dad’s head and stick it on a gate.

We crossed through into a stone courtyard, and I realized there was yet another gated wall before we got to the tower. The king had a lot of protection. “Orion,” I whispered, “do you ever feel fear?”

He frowned. “What would I be afraid of? I could kill nearly anyone.”

Oh, dear. “Do you ever feel bad for someone? I’m just trying to understand what kind of people think the decapitated head is a good idea.”

His lips curled with a taunting smile. “If you want to understand what kind of people think it’s a good idea, you can read your own history. It’s where we borrowed the custom from. Mortals were doing the exact same thing when we closed the city gates in the 1600s. The heads of defeated enemies jutted out of Boston Common in the 1670s.” He shrugged. “Demon culture simply moves more slowly.”

Well, I’ll be damned.

He had a good point. Demons and mortals alike were fairly terrible at times.

At the other side of the courtyard, two hulking, muscular demons stood guard before a door carved with a sigil. It almost looked like an insect with long legs, and it must be the symbol of Beelzebub.

The guards’ ivory horns curled from their heads, the color matching their pale, waxy skin. They glared at us and clutched their spears. Silvery magic curled off their bodies, and a low growl rumbled over the stones beneath our feet. The sound rose to a sort of deep, morose song that filled the air.

A shudder crawled up my nape at how unfamiliar this was. But I managed to keep my sexy, catlike walk going. My hips swayed. It was the weirdest thing, as I’d never met Mortana. I hardly knew a thing about her. And yet, I felt like I had an intuitive sense of how she thought. Her confidence, her disdain for others, her ability to control a situation. She was like my ruthless shadow-self coming to the surface. My id. She was the primal part of the brain, unburdened by self-consciousness or anxiety. The id was all desire and aggression, and maybe it was kind of fun letting it come to the surface.

When we got to the door, the two guards shifted out of the way. Now, the gates opened into a field of wildflowers in gorgeous fiery hues—amber, pumpkin, cherry red. A stone path carved through the field, leading to a gilded tower of concentric circular floors, which narrowed at the top. Closer to the tower, a red carpet had been laid out for our arrival.

It was the most grandiose thing I’d ever seen, and clearly, it had been built to intimidate. Around the tower, demons milled about in gorgeous ballgowns and suits. It looked like a Met Gala, with outrageous gowns of crystals and metallic colors. There were red dresses with long trains that trailed over the grass, men in pinstripe suits or velvet with enormous sashes. I could have transposed the scene to New York but for the fact that half the attendants had horns.

Tonight was apparently quite the event. Everyone wanted to be here, possibly to watch a succubus roast in a fire.

I stole a glance at Orion, taking care to maintain my placid expression. His silver hair gleamed in the moonlight, and when he turned to look at me, I felt an unwelcome fluttering in my heart. The thing was, I was starting to feel safe with him, like he was my protector. And that was absolutely stupid, considering he was one of my suspects.

And as we drew nearer to the red carpet, I felt all the demons’ eyes on me. The crowd started to close in. My heart was fluttering hard, my stomach twisting. I did my best to look bored, even if I was anything but.

In my black gown, I was wearing one of the simplest dresses here, but I thought it made sense. Mortana was a badass bitch with the confidence to show herself off. She wouldn’t rely on the clothes to do it. Why give all the attention to the designer when it could be on her?

Did I feel her confidence? Fuck, no. But I’d be doing my best to fake it.

The demons stared at us as we climbed up the steps to the tower itself. Two more guards stood at the top of the stairs, and they pulled open the doors.

The first thing I noticed was the pit of fire, flames dancing above it like a portal to hell.

And that’s where I’d find myself tonight if I wasn’t able to master my fear.