I expected the shove. Or a threat. Or a flash of that crimson light that promised pain. I didn't expect him to crowd me against the door, one hand slamming into the wood beside my head, the other grabbing my wrist again. His grip was like iron, the bones of my wrist grinding together under the pressure. He didn't push me, didn't threaten me directly. He just stood there, a wall of muscle and fury, his body a breath away from mine.
The door was solid wood behind my back, but he felt more solid, more real. He radiated a heat that had nothing to do with the fire downstairs, a deep, internal warmth that seeped through my borrowed tunic and into my skin. The warmth in my own chest, the one he'd so rudely 'awakened', responded, pulsing in a frantic, uneven rhythm that reminded me somehow of a frightened baby deer..
"You will learn to hold your tongue," he said, his voice a low murmur that was far more terrifying than a shout. "You will learn to think before you speak. You will learn that every word you utter has a consequence." His purple eyes were locked on mine, and for the first time, I saw something other than simple contempt in them. There was a cold, calculating intelligence there, and a simmering rage that was so deep and so old it was almost a part of him.
"Or what?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. I was proud of the fact that it didn't shake.
He leaned closer, his face inches from mine. I could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the individual strands of gold in his blonde hair, the way the light from the single candle in my room caught the sharp planes of his cheekbones. "Or I will teach you a lesson you will not forget."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. The promise in his eyes was enough. He released my wrist and pushed himself away from the door. He turned and walked to the window, looking out at the dark, stagnant swamp. His back was to me, but I could still feel the tension in the room, a thick, palpable thing that made it hard to breathe.
"Your guide," he said, his tone flat and businesslike, as if the last few seconds had never happened. "His loose tongue will attract attention. Unwanted attention. We are not here to be heroes. We are here to complete a task. The sooner the task is complete, the sooner I am free of this wretched collar, and the sooner I am free of you."
"What do you want from him? He's a puppy." I ask.
I'm not sure why he feels like a puppy to me, but it's what comes out.
"A naked rat. The two are of no consequence."
I was about to retort, but a muffled groan from the bed interrupted me. I turned. The lump under the blanket was shifting, squirming. Then, with a dramatic, theatrical flourish that was so Angus it almost hurt, the blanket was thrown back. He sat up, his pink hair a tangled mess, his face pale and sweaty.
"I... I don't feel so good," he whimpered, clutching his stomach. [I think the stew... is staging a rebellion... (x_x)]
The demon king let out a sigh of such profound, world-weary disgust that it seemed to suck all the warmth out of the room. He turned from the window and fixed his gaze on the ailing angel. "Of course. The celestial pest is poisoned by local fare. What a surprise."
Can...an angel be poisoned by human food?
Really?? I feel like that's a violation of some kind of divine rule. But then again, this is the same divine being who popped out of existence with a simple flick of a finger, so perhaps the rules are different here.
"Is he going to be okay?" I asked, taking a step toward the bed. I wasn't particularly worried, but it seemed like the right thing to say.
"No," the demon king said, his tone flat. "He will likely expire in a puddle of his own celestial fluids, staining the bedsheets and offending the innkeeper. It will be a pathetic, undignified end, fitting for a creature of his caliber."
He squeaked a protest. "I'm... not... going to... explode...!" Angus insisted, though it wasn't particularly convincing as he hugged a pillow to his chest, looking like he was about to be sick all over it. "I just... need a moment...!"
"And you will have it." The demon King started walking towards the door. The relief I felt lasted for only a moment, because he stopped with his hand on the door handle. "You." He turned, pinning me with a look that was both annoyed and appraising. "Accompany me. We will talk away from the misery of the pathetic, and their projectile vomiting."
"It's not... I'm not gonna!!" Angus's protest was drowned out by the decisive click of the door as the demon king opened it and stepped out into the hallway. He didn't wait for me, but the implication was clear. My brief, precious solitude was being revoked. By force. And a summons I couldn't ignore.
I gave Angus a sympathetic glance, which was wasted on the angel who was now curled into a fetal position on the bed, moaning softly about "mystery meat" and "betrayal." I followed the demon king out into the quiet hall, pulling the door closed behind me. The silence of the corridor was a stark contrast to the muffled noise from the tavern below.
He led me not toward the stairs, but to the end of the hall, where a narrow, rickety staircase spiraled up into darkness. He started up without a word, his bare feet making no sound on the worn wooden steps. I followed, my hand trailing along the rough wall for balance. The air grew colder as we climbed, carrying the scent of damp stone and something else, something clean and sharp, like rain.
The staircase opened onto a small, flat section of the tavern's roof. It wasn't a proper balcony, just a patch of weathered wooden planks enclosed by a low, crumbling parapet. The town of Brackenwallow spread out below us, a collection of glowing lights floating in a sea of blackness under a sky full of stars. The moon was a sliver of white, casting long, distorted shadows across the swamp.
The demon king stood at the edge of the roof, his back to me, looking out over the town. He was a silhouette against the night sky, a tall, imposing figure of muscle and disdain. The golden chain around his neck glinted in the faint light, a reminder of the bond that tethered us.
"You are deficient," he said, his voice a low murmur that carried on the still night air. He didn't turn around. "Your body is weak. Your mind is slow. Your magic is a joke."
"Did you take me out for a romantic night of insulting me?"
"Be silent. This is a lesson."
He turned. The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face, turning his skin to pale marble. He was a statue, perfect and terrifying and utterly alien. He took a step toward me, and I instinctively took a step back, my heels bumping against the low parapet. There was nowhere else to go.
"You won't. Intimidate me into taking it off."
"I am aware, wretch." He took another step, and I was pressed against the crumbling wall. He reached out, not to touch me, but to place a hand on the parapet on either side of my head, caging me in. "Your stupidity knows no bounds. I need not your assistance, but it will be irritating to destroy the pests of this world with your swooning, so you will build that pathetic flickering spark of stamina until I am satisfied."
"Your mixed messages are so romantic," I managed to say, the words a dry rasp. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird beating against its cage.
His expression of offense was ugly. "This is not an overture. Your perverse mind disgusts me without bounds." His fingers, on the wall beside my head, curled, gouging into the soft wood. "You will hold out your arm."
"No."
It was quiet. A single, defiant syllable. The most dangerous word I'd ever said in my life.
He studied me, his head tilted. Then he did the one thing I never would have predicted. He didn't threaten me further. He didn't raise his hand to strike. He took my arm. It wasn't a grab. His grip was firm, closing over my wrist and pulling my arm straight out between us. It wasn't painful, but it was absolute. There was no resisting it.
I know. I tried.
"Discern whether I will tolerate your resistance or not before you speak, worm." His other hand came up, palm hovering over my exposed forearm. The air between my skin and his palm began to shimmer, distorting like a heat haze on a summer road. The static charge returned, stronger this time, a crawling, prickling sensation that made the fine hairs on my arm stand on end.
The shimmering intensified, coalescing into a single, pinpoint of crimson light in the center of my forearm. It wasn't hot. It wasn't cold. It just was. A point of impossible color in the moonlight. Then, the light shot forward, a thin, almost invisible thread of energy connecting the point on my arm to the demon king's palm.