Demon Games [4] (21 page)

Moriel wiped at a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and when she looked back at Lucien her brilliant blue eyes bored into the vampire’s. ‘If that’s the case, I fear that none of us, in this realm or the human one, will ever be safe again. The sorceress is poison. She is the perfect cohort for Caliban, and the vampire knows this. Gwendolin was a powerful ally, but she was more scholarly – interested in the
art
of dark magic. Quite often for Gwendolin, the knowledge alone was enough, and Caliban was always frustrated by the miserly way she offered him her skills and assistance. But Helde is every bit as evil as your brother. She will happily destroy anything and everything to rise to power again.’ She waved her hand as if embarrassed to have been seen talking in such an impassioned way. ‘You know all this, Lucien.’

Lucien puffed out his cheeks and nodded. ‘Very well, we’ll rest,’ he said. ‘But before we return here tomorrow, I want to speak to Hag again.’

The Arel nodded. ‘Come,’ she said, beckoning the vampire closer to her. She wrapped her muscular arms around him and, unfurling her huge sable wings, leaped up into the air. Lucien hung from the battle-angel’s grasp and scanned the landscape one last time for any sign of his brother. But something told him that they were too late, and that the chance of capturing Caliban and Helde had slipped through their fingers.

Caliban stood at the bottom of the stairs that led up and out of the crypt. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Everything came to a perfect stop: all sound and movement ceased, and he tuned into the world outside his hiding place. He knew that this would further diminish him: already weak, he could ill afford the effort this skill required, but he had to be certain that his pursuers were no longer in the area.

They were gone.

He slumped down on to his knees, trying to gather himself for what lay ahead. When he turned to glance at the creature climbing out of the stone sarcophagus, he was taken aback by what he saw. Helde seemed more robust than he would have dared to imagine. She appeared to have physically
solidified
since feeding on him, so that now only the occasional creepy-crawly plopped to the floor before being swept up again.

The sorceress turned to stare back at the vampire, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. She pulled herself up to her full height, one hand brushing at the front of her leg, as if straightening a skirt that was not there. She glanced down at herself before looking up again, her chin thrust forward, eyes meeting the vampire’s own.

‘Am I still beautiful?’ she asked.

The question was almost too much for Caliban, and he laughed out loud, the harsh and terrible sound echoing round the stone space.

‘Did I say something funny?’ the sorceress asked once the laughter had died away. Her voice had a harder edge to it this time, and the vampire narrowed his eyes at her, considering his response before answering.

‘No, Helde. You did not say anything funny. But I find the subject of your query a little odd at this precise moment in time. I was not laughing at you, merely at the unexpected nature of your question.’

She paused, then nodded, as if accepting his explanation. She took a step towards him. ‘So, am I still beautiful?’

Caliban knew that he had to be careful: Helde’s beauty had been almost as legendary as her cruelty and her skills as a sorceress. And the Queen of the Dead had basked in her good looks. It was said that she had had hundreds of lovers in both the human and demon realms, none of whom survived very long once she lost interest in them. He looked at the creature before him, taking in the curved lines of her body and the swell of her breasts.

She took in his gaze, standing still and allowing his eyes to roam over her.

Caliban turned his attention to her long, elegant neck and then to her face: high cheekbones; a strong but feminine jawline; full lips.

‘Yes, you are still beautiful,’ he said finally, and surprised himself when he realized that he spoke the truth.

She nodded again, her look searching his face for any trace of the humour he had shown moments before.

‘Thank you.’

She came over to him, taking his arm in her hand and helping him to his feet. She looked him up and down now, not quite in the same way as he had just done: her gaze was more calculating and determined.

‘We should leave this place,’ she said suddenly.

Helde stood at the bottom of the small staircase, looking up at the door that opened out on to the world beyond – a world that she had not set foot in for what felt like an eternity. Surrounding the door was the glamour that had been put in place to stop anyone ever finding this place: from the outside it would look like a great rocky outcrop, but to the sorceress’s eyes it looked like amateur, shoddy magic, and she was amazed that it had fooled anyone for as long as it had.

‘You’ll need this,’ Caliban said, pulling out a small sickle-shaped stone. ‘It opens the door and disables the glamour. You can’t get in or out without it.’

Helde waved her hand at the vampire dismissively. She closed her eyes for a moment, her lips moving silently. And the glamour was gone, the door already swinging open at the top of the steps.

‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘We need to ensure that you are fed and that your strength is restored for what lies ahead.’ She took him by the arm and led him back up into the Netherworld.

Trey lay back on his pallet, staring up at the dark ceiling, and tried to rein in the panic that clawed at his insides. Up until now everything had happened so quickly that he really hadn’t had time to consider the plight he was in. But the Games began next morning and the prospect of going up against nether-creatures in hand-to-hand combat terrified him. He was glad that Tom and Lucien had made him spar so often when he’d been living in London with them – at least he wasn’t a complete novice when it came to fighting demons and their like – but this would not be like those sparring sessions; these fights would end only when one of the participants was dead.

He tried not to think about it, but, despite what Shentob said to the contrary, Trey knew that there was a good chance he would be killed during the Demon Games. And if that happened, Alexa might be stuck here forever, or at least for as long as it took Lucien to get to her. He sighed, silently wishing that his vampire guardian was here now to help get him out of this mess, but quickly rejected this sort of thinking: if Lucien knew anything about this situation, he would have been here in an instant. There was no telling where Lucien was, or how long he would be dealing with whatever had brought him to the Netherworld. Trey had to face up to the fact that he was in this on his own, and that Lucien wouldn’t be coming to his rescue.

He thought about everything he’d learned over the past few hours.

After the fighters had returned from their morning training sessions, Trey had retired to his cell while Shentob fixed their food. He’d watched again as the gladiators kicked and punched at the small demon as he moved among them. At one point, when the servant accidentally spilled a drink, a great muscular demon had leaped to its feet and threatened Shentob with a knife. Trey too had jumped up, and would have gone to his friend’s aid had Shentob not glanced in his direction and signalled with a small shake of his head that he was not to get involved. When the fighters left again for the afternoon and evening session, Trey came out and helped Shentob clear up the mess that they’d left behind, ignoring the demon’s insistence that he was not to do so.

‘You should not lower yourself to tasks such as these,’ the demon had said, waving with his hand for Trey to put down the plates he was carrying and return to his cell.

‘Why do they treat you like that?’ Trey asked, nodding towards the main door.

Shentob shrugged his shoulders and balanced another dirty dish on top of the precarious pile already in his hand. ‘They see Shentob as little more than dirt. Level-one djinn – that is what Shentob is. The lowest of the low.’

‘Who says? Who says that they are any better than you?’

The little demon shrugged again. ‘It’s just the way things work here. Always have and always will. Shentob knows his place.’

Trey let out a snort of derision. ‘If you ask me, you’re worth ten of any one of them.’

Shentob stood perfectly still. He frowned at Trey, his eyes exploring the teenager’s face. ‘Thank you, Trey Laporte. I think that might be the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to Shentob.’

Trey, embarrassed now, took his things into the kitchen.

When they’d cleared the place up, they sat down at the table together.

They sat in silence for a while, until a huge roar, followed by applause, interrupted their thoughts.

‘These Games are unusual,’ Shentob said.

‘That’s putting it mildly.’

The demon smiled at Trey and shook his head. ‘No more unusual than normal. Molok has decided that all of the bouts will be fought to arena rules. That means to the death.’ He sipped something from a cup before continuing. ‘Generally only the later fights are contested under these rules – there simply aren’t enough fighter demons in the Netherworld to have them wiping each other out for the sake of entertainment. But the popularity of the Games has waned recently, and Molok has decided that what is needed is more death. That is why there are so many fighters here at the moment. Molok has released many prisoners from his jails, promising them freedom if they fight. Most of the demons you saw yesterday when you fought Kronok will be killed in the first few rounds – cannon fodder. During those early fights the arena floor is filled with contestants; each pair will fight and the survivor will go through to the next round.
You
–’ he pointed a finger at Trey – ‘as the school’s champion, get a bye through to the quarter-finals.’

‘A bye?’

‘You don’t have to fight until the later stages. You’ll be fresher, but you’ll be up against nether-creatures that have managed to kill everything else that stood between them and the right to fight you. They’ll be fight sharp; you won’t.’

‘So I have to fight twice before meeting Abaddon in the final?’

‘Yes.’

‘
If
Abaddon makes it through. I’m assuming he has to fight from the quarter-final stage too?’

Shentob looked at him. ‘
He’ll
make it to the final. He’d make it to the final even if he had to fight every single contestant to get there.’ He winked at Trey with his one eye. ‘Just like you would, Trey Laporte.’

The teenager shook his head. ‘I’m not so sure.’

‘Ah, but Shentob is. Old Shentob knows what you are capable of, even if you yourself are not.’

‘All of the fights are to the death?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what if I don’t kill my opponents?’ Trey thought back to that fight with Kronok, and how he’d managed to render his adversary incapable of fighting without having to resort to killing him.

‘You’ll be shot by one of archers,’ Shentob said, sucking at his teeth. He shrugged his skinny shoulders. ‘You don’t have any choice. The Games are very clear on the rules before they start. Molok has promoted this event by saying that the sands of the fighting squares will run black with blood. The crowd will demand it. These Games are a way for the demon lord to show he has lost none of his ruthlessness. If you don’t kill, you will be killed.’

Trey silently took this in. ‘I’m scared, Shentob,’ he said eventually.

‘Good. Then you will survive.’

Despite the dread that Trey felt at what faced him the following day, he couldn’t help but smile at Shentob’s answer. It was so much like something that Tom would have said. Trey was not prepared for the great wave of emotion that thinking of the Irishman suddenly unleashed within him – frustrations and feelings that he’d kept tightly bottled up inside him since arriving in the Netherworld. He might never see his friend again. He might never get back to the human realm or see Lucien again. For the first time Trey allowed himself to consider the magnitude of the terrible mess he was in, and in doing so came face to face with his own fear of dying at the Games, dying at the hands of some terrible creature that would show him no mercy.

There was only one thing that he had left to cling to: the knowledge that, should he succeed, Alexa would be freed from this terrible place and be allowed to return home.

He tried not to cry, but he suddenly felt like what he was: a frightened fifteen-year-old boy.

‘Shentob believes in you, Trey Laporte,’ the demon said, as if reading the boy’s mind. ‘You are so much like your father. You will be a great warrior tomorrow, and you will find a way to defeat Abaddon.’

Trey tried to raise a smile, but it would not come.

‘Thank you, Shentob. You are a good friend.’ He stood up, patting the demon servant’s shoulder. ‘I think I would like to be alone now.’ He crossed the dining area to his room, closing the door and locking it behind him. There was nothing to do but wait now: wait for the morning, for the beginning of the Games.

On the morning of the Games the Ashnon returned.

Alexa and Philippa had woken to the sound of the guards bringing their breakfast. As soon as their jailers had gone, they removed the food from the hollow area beneath the hatch in the floor, looking across at each other almost at the same time and pulling identical faces at the prospect of trying to eat what had been delivered to them.

‘Are you both well?’ the Ashnon said as the girls sat down. They looked up, and the demon showed itself, adopting its translucent form. It stared at them unblinkingly through those expressionless eyes – a dull, metallic, unearthly gaze.

‘As well as can be expected,’ Alexa answered. ‘When you consider that we are locked in the dungeon of a demon lord who has ordered one of us to be beaten, while using the other one as human bait so that he can kill their friend. Yes, I’d say that we were holding up pretty damned well.’

‘Good,’ the demon said, nodding. ‘That is good.’

‘I was being sarcastic.’

‘Oh, were you? I’m sorry, but in this form I do not have the capacity to interpret such things. Sarcasm is a particularly difficult form of expression for me to recognize.’ The Ashnon paused, as if considering something. ‘Does that mean that either or both of you are
not
well?’