City of Thorns (The Demon Queen Trials #1)(72)

And all around me, people danced in their best clothes, faces beaming with happiness. The Bibliotek band was playing on the stage, a trumpeter blaring a solo.

I turned back to the entry, hoping that they’d given up.

But, no. My stomach sank. Three of them had barged in, eyes trained on me.

I needed to find my friend Zahra—fast.





Count Saklas





I turned the corner onto a dark, crowded lane where music and shouts rose from the pubs. My sword—Asmodai—hung at my waist. Forged from stars, it was one of the few things that brought me pleasure.

For a moment, I peered in the window of a pub called the Green Garland. Men and women crowded around tables, drinking, singing. Steam clouded the window.

After a thousand years on earth, I’d still never learned to enjoy the things mankind did.

Compared to an angel’s senses, mortals’ were dull. They perceived only a fraction of the light, heard only the loudest of noises. Their lives were so short, a few beats of a moth’s wings. And for some reason, they liked to spend their short time dulling their unremarkable senses even further. It seemed they reveled in madness, in stupidity.

I thought the knowledge angels had bestowed upon them was wasted.

Though they were drunk, my presence seemed to unnerve them anyway. They shifted away from the windows, and they drank even deeper from their pints. Maybe it made sense. Maybe that was how they coped with mortality—trying to forget it existed.

With me nearby, they drank more. Even if they didn’t know who I was, they felt the Venom of God in their presence.

I turned away from the window. Emptiness hollowed out my chest. It had been a long time since I’d felt a real thrill. Even war no longer delighted me. In the last battle, the mortals had used poisons and great arcs of fire to murder each other in droves. Injured soldiers had crawled through mud and bone and blood. That was what mortals had done with the secrets the angels taught them.

The horror of it all had broken the soldiers’ minds. Not a fun madness like they got from drinking in pubs. No, it was a sort of madness that made them scream in the night, made their hands shake and cheeks pale.

I turned the corner onto Parchment Row, where yellow lights illuminated window panes in black buildings.

A young woman lingered in the mouth of an alleyway, and she watched me carefully as I approached. She wore a dingy black dress, and blond hair framed her heart-shaped face.

“Half a crown,” she said, hopefully. “Make your dreams come true.”

Now there was an interesting idea, because I certainly intended to make my dreams come true. But if she had any idea what really played out in my dreams, I had a feeling her mind would break, too.

I ignored her, walking past.

But her hand jutted out, and she grabbed my arm. Slowly, I turned to look at her, leveling the full force of my divine gaze on her. Her smile faded, and she started to tremble.

A moment of dread before her fear faded, then her features started to soften, pupils dilating. Her heart raced faster, cheeks growing pink.

Among mortals, I was known as both a destroyer and a seducer.

It’s just that I never wanted to act on the seduction. Not only did I not possess the desire, but seducing a mortal woman would make me, for a time, mortal. The name Seducer, in my opinion, was completely misplaced.

“Half a crown,” she said again, breathlessly. “Or less. You smell nice.”

Then she dropped her grip on me, and stepped back into the alley, facing the wall.

Slowly, she lifted her skirt, all the way to her waist, exposing her bare body beneath, the naked curves of her hips, her legs. Thrusting her bottom backward, she looked at me hopefully over her shoulder, her pale eyes wide.

“Put that away.” I started walking again.

My gaze set on my intended destination: Alfred’s Rare Books. I pushed through the door into a narrow, cluttered space.

Stacks of books crowded every surface—tables, desks, bookshelves. All haphazardly arranged. Candlelight danced back and forth over the warped wood floors, the dusty shelves of books.

At the back of the shop, a dark-haired man sat next to a guttering taper, a pen in his hand. He surveyed me through a thick set of spectacles.

“Alfred?” I said.

His hands shook. “Count Saklas. Welcome.”

I pulled out a pouch of gold. “You have the Mysterium Liber for me?”

His eyes shifted around the room, which set me on edge. My hand twitched at Asmodai’s hilt.

I stared at Alfred. “The book. Where is it?”

Gripping the pen, his hand was trembling so much he unconsciously scribbled jagged lines all over his ledger. It wasn’t unusual for people to react to me with terror. It was the natural way of things. The strange part was that his attention was not on me.

Something was off.

I was drawing my sword just as the first bullet hit. Another, and another slammed me from behind, knocking me forward into Alfred’s desk.

But the bullets passed through me, and already my immortal body was healing. I whirled, sword drawn. The gunfire fell silent as they realized the mistake they’d made.

Five men: all sleek hair and black shirts. They stood behind me, guns drawn.

“For Albia!” one of them shouted, but I heard the terror in his voice.

A dark smile curled my lips. Now these men, without question, deserved to die.