Demon Demon Burning Bright, Whisperings book four (27 page)

A few seconds to untie the small metal
toggle from my hoodie. I pushed it inside the big lock and used a
pick to work it down. The mechanism would jam when Cicero tried to
open the door. If we managed to escape without detection, the Seer
would not know Gryphon was gone till he got inside the cell. It
bought us a little time.

“How do you know Lawrence is in danger?”
Chris asked as we crept through the outer door and he shut it.

“Cicero told me his plans for Lawrence and
delighted in the telling. At times, I think he keeps me alive only
to torment me.”

“How long has he held you?”

“He took me the day after Lawrence’s
birth.”

I glanced up at the tall demon lord. “I
thought you left before Lindy knew she was pregnant.”

He grabbed my wrist. “You speak of Coralinda
as if you knew her.”

Eyeing him angrily, I wrenched my wrist from
his grasp. “She came to me after she died. Lawrence was missing;
she wanted me to find him and find him I did. If it wasn’t for me
and Royal, Lawrence would be dead, not High Lord of
Bel-Athaer.”

He dipped his head. “If so, you have my
gratitude.”

If so? Chris opened his mouth. I slit my
eyes and shook my head. I didn’t care if Gryphon disbelieved me and
arguing was not worth my breath. Chris got the message. He glared
at Gryphon but said nothing.

Gryphon shook his head slightly. “I held
Lawrence in my arms. We were happy, Coralinda and I. I was born and
raised in Cincinnati. I knew who I was; I had no interest in the
High House. I anticipated an uneventful life with my small family.
But the Seer. . . .

“The Seers have risen above themselves, they
crave the power of a Lord. Of them all, none is more vicious and
merciless than Cicero. He hungers for the High House and thus
dominion over Bel-Athaer. He wanted to place someone he could
manipulate on the Seat, but they must be a legitimate claimant. Who
better than a true High Lord by right and blood, a young boy easily
misled? But Lawrence is not a malleable child, he refuses to obey
the Seer and therefore is his antagonist, not his ally. Now I am
free, I will not let him die by Cicero’s hand.”

He cast a look at Chris. “You are fortunate
as I to escape him. What he does to his captives, how he uses them
. . . it sickens me.”

The old blood in Chris’ cell still stuck in
the deep grooves of my soles. “That room is a torture chamber.”

“Indeed. His captives endure unspeakable
torment.”

“Why does he do it?”

“For their secrets. If they die before
speaking, he questions their spirits.”

I stopped walking. “You’re mistaken.”

“He had me watch one such execution, the
torture and the death. Then he appeared to question the corpse. He
told me I should expect the same one day in the future.”

My feet were rooted to the floor.

Until Dun Falmor, I saw only one Gelpha
shade. Unlike the shades of humans, who seem to take their own
sweet time materializing, Maud rose at the moment of death and
lingered briefly. A violent death did not keep her here, nor that
her executioner still lived. I thought those rules applied to all
Gelpha shades, but the shades in Dun Falmor were still there some
time after they died or we’d have seen evidence of the massacre.
But, if like Maud, all rose seconds after they died. . . .

Like Maud, Cicero’s victims rose immediately
after being tortured and killed. Unlike Maud, they did not
immediately pass over. I imagined them, confused, no doubt still
terrified, reliving the last terrible moments of their life, their
defenses down. Cicero batters them with questions. They reply.

Dun Falmor. When the villagers didn’t give
Cicero what he wanted, he had them killed and questioned their
shades.

My shoulder hit the wall. I leaned into it,
head turned to press my brow to the cool rock as the truth hammered
me. My kind Uncle found me when I was three. He watched me, but
didn’t think I was what he needed, so left me in ignorance. Until I
did something to make him believe I have what it takes to be a
Seer.

I killed, and he thought I did so without
compunction.

“Tiff.” Chris grasped my shoulder and shook
it. “I’m sure hearing your own flesh and blood is despicable is a
blow, but we
must
keep moving.”

The power of the Seers. They didn’t predict
the future, or see events outside their sphere of influence. They
killed people for their secrets. “I swear I didn’t know.”

Another shake. “We’ll talk about it
later.”

I pushed away from the wall. My lips felt
numb. “Yes, you’re right, let’s get out of here.”

I wished Cicero had left me alone to my
life. He brought me here because he thought I was like him: cold,
callous, merciless. Sourness rose in my throat.

We came to the cells, and the captives stood
at the bars, hands grasping them, faces pressed to them so hard
there would be welts. What did Cicero want with
them
?

Their voices ran the length of the corridor.
“My Lord, my Lord,” they sang as we stood at the first cell.

“We can’t leave them here, but breaking them
loose one at a time will take hours,” I murmured.

Gryphon raised his voice, which didn’t worry
me as Cicero couldn’t hear us in the depths of the mountain even if
he were awake. “I wish nothing more than to return you to your
homes and families, but time is short. I must quit this place
before the Seer wakens and summons his people. But I will return
with an army to free you.”

“And from which pocket will you pull that?”
Chris asked. He’d definitely gotten over his awe of Gryphon.

“I will ask my son. We can hie to Bon Moragh
and back before morning if we leave now.”

Yeah, they could, using demon speed.

“Surely you’ll take the Seat?” Chris
asked.

“No.” Gryphon shook his head so his long
dark-chestnut hair thrashed his shoulders. “Lawrence is High Lord.
I hope he will accept my guidance and friendship, but I do not want
the Seat.”

“Hm,” Chris hummed. “Are you up for the
challenge? Boys his age are precocious as it is, and you’ll pop in
with, ‘Hello, I’m your dad and I want to be your best friend.’ May
not go down too well, my Lord.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I spat vehemently. I
glared at Gryphon. “If you stay with Lawrence, you be his father,
not his friend, his father.”

Chris’ brows arched. I scowled and walked
away.

Gryphon said a few more words to his people,
but I heard them as a murmur. I was unexpectedly, abruptly furious.
I met plenty of kids in foster care whose parents decided to be
best friends instead of parents, letting their kids do what they
wanted even when it wasn’t good for them; looking the other way,
making excuses. Kids need rules, structure, balance and a whole lot
of love and understanding.

Gryphon had the opportunity to be a father
and give Lawrence everything I never had. He’d damn well better not
throw it away.

I decided to leave the gate and door
unlocked in the unlikelihood we had to beat a hasty retreat. You
never know.

Knowing we approached the most dangerous leg
of our escape, we three exchanged meaningful looks, then crept
along.

I decided what to do. Meeting Gia’s deadline
was no longer an issue. I would go to the High House with Gryphon.
I wanted to see their faces when the hereditary High Lord walked
among them; although they’d never seen him before, they would know
him, as Chris had. I wanted to see the councilors’ awe. I wanted to
see them cowed by a ruler way more powerful than young
Lawrence.

“Chris, are you going home, or with
Gryphon?”

I caught the edge of his smile. “I’m going
to the High House. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I’m going with you.”

He dipped his chin in his neck. “
Not
a good idea, my love.”

I touched his arm. “You get to take me. I’ll
have to hang on to you, real tight,” I whispered.

“Now that is an offer I can’t refuse.” He
stopped, turned to me and opened his arms. “It will be my pleasure,
Sweetness.”

“Not here. Outside.”

We neared the last corridor. “No more
talking, okay? You and Gryphon head out. I’ll get my stuff and be
on your heels.”

I didn’t worry about their waking Cicero as
they passed his bedroom. Demons move silently, as if their feet are
winged.

And here we were. Chris blew a silent kiss
in my direction. I rolled my eyes and opened the door to my
room.

Inside, I grabbed my backpack off the couch
and put my lock picks and flashlight in there. I was about to stuff
my hoodie inside when I knew something was missing. I pulled my
stuff out; down vest, underwear, the mini-products, lock picks,
flashlight, the Ruger’s shoulder holster. I couldn’t find
Lawrence’s note. Maybe it fell out and got lost in the couch?

All the fat pillows left barely enough empty
space in which to sit. I picked one up and hugged it to my chest as
I moved the others, sliding my hand between and behind the seat
cushions. I felt the brittleness of paper and pulled out the
note.

Then I froze.

I brought the cushion to my face and inhaled
deeply, the scent of sandalwood and amber.

I strode across the corridor holding my
Ruger. I seethed, so enraged I risked bursting a blood vessel.
Cicero lied to me. Royal was here. He sat on that couch, maybe
slept in that bed.

Uncle and I were finally going to have that
conversation and it would not be pleasant for one of us.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

Royal knew his eyes were open yet he saw
nothing. Had Orcus exacted revenge, blinding him as he may have
blinded Joshua?

He closed his eyes and tentatively rubbed
the lids. When he opened them again he saw a gray blur which slowly
resolved into vertical lines.

He was in a cage.

He sat on an unyielding surface and he was
naked.

He was cold. The instant he knew that, he
began to shake uncontrollably. He clasped his hands and squeezed,
but still he shook and his teeth chattered.

“Do not worry,” a voice said. “It is an
aftereffect of the narcotic. It will pass. Try to relax, Ryel.”

He turned his head with effort, managed to
say, “Darja?”

Bars on this side, too. And beyond them,
bathed in the same dim, amber light which barely illuminated his
cell, Darja squatted near the bars. Most of her long fading-salmon
hair had loosened from the elegant chignon and feathered over her
face and shoulders, leaving a small topknot which looked somewhat
ludicrous. She wore a short, gray sleeveless shift which exposed
her graceful neck and fell to her bare thighs. The low light
refracted off her hair, creating a glow which illuminated her
features.

At least she was more or less decently clad.
Royal wore a leather clout, nothing more.

He shuddered violently. “They drugged
me?”

“Relax, or your muscles will seize.”

He tried, drawing in deep breaths, imagining
his body loosening, starting at his toes, upward to his head.
Warmth gradually crept into his limbs. His teeth stopped
chattering. He could breathe properly again.

“How long?”

“Two days.”

He delved in his muzzy memory and recalled
coming partly awake several times; cool liquid sliding down his
throat before he sank into oblivion again.

Now his vision had cleared he saw the
totality of his predicament. Bars and a wall imprisoned him.

Darja came up from her squat and settled
down again next to the bars which separated them. “What did you do,
Ryel, to earn Orcus’ ire?”

Royal inched over there. “I was a fool.” He
leaned back on the wall, let his skull rest on it. “Lawrence. . .
.” He stopped - how much did Darja know? Could he trust her?

“Ah, Lawrence.”

He felt a weight on his chest. “Is he
well?”

Darja scooted back until she mirrored Royal,
seated with her back to the wall. “I hope so, Ryel.”

“Yet you fear not. What happened,
Darja?”

“It began innocuously. Lawrence took an
active part in Council meetings; he asked the right questions and
made insightful suggestions. We were encouraged by his perception.
All well and good, until the day he said no. He vetoed a
proposal.”

“It is his right.” Royal frowned. “This
proposal. . . .”

“Ah, therein lies the rub. Gareth presented
it, but it came from Cicero. He wanted us to increase the national
tax.”

Royal considered the ramifications of
increased taxes. Bel-Athaer was a feudal system, not a democracy.
Each House cared for its own in the areas of commerce, travel,
healthcare, and other necessities of modern life. It worked
remarkably well. And each House owed fealty to the High House,
which it provided with coin and manpower. In return, the High House
settled disputes, financially bolstered lesser Houses when times
were hard and stepped in during emergencies.

And times were hard. “Lawrence was
right.”

“Aye. The Houses would not stand for it,
specifically those in the south, which only now begin to recover
from the drought that took their crops last summer. Our tenuous
peace would not last.” Darja smiled. “But can you picture our
faces, Ryel? A Seer’s
proposals
are not queried, much less
vetoed. And here our young High Lord did exactly that.

“Gareth reminded Lawrence the proposal came
from Cicero, which made it more an order than a suggestion.
Lawrence said he did not care.”

She sighed deeply. “A month later, he did it
again. He came to me not long after, convinced some person meant
him harm. There were accidents and near-accidents. Lawrence’s filly
collapsed as he rode. An autopsy found oleander in its stomach, and
it was thought some well-meaning child fed the horse over the
paddock fence. The rail on his balcony had come away from the
foundation, but he saw it before he made the mistake of leaning on
it. He slipped when descending a stairwell and only his valet’s
quick thinking saved him from a nasty, perhaps deadly fall. We
found common cooking grease on the step.