10

When confronted by death for the second time, the prospect of dying is not nearly as frightening. But, thought Sam, as she considered her alternatives, she was that much less likely to accept her fate without a fight.

Her sword was gone, her ankle throbbed and Braeden had turned out to be a liar and a traitor. Despite herself, she had liked him--the way his left cheek dimpled when he smiled self-mockingly, the way his alien eyes followed her when he thought she wasn’t looking. She could have been friends with that Braeden.

But now, as she tugged her last source of hope free from her boot, she would kill him with his own knife, or die trying.

A throaty laugh left the lips of the creature that was Braeden, a guttural sound with undercurrents of violence. He walked closer, and closer still. The four demons surrounding Sam bowed out of the way, as if clearing a path for their king. Twin silver lines cut through the ruby jewels of his eyes, a reflection of the single blade she held in front of him.

Before she could react, he gripped the knife hard, blood leaking out between his clawed fingers. “I believe this is mine.” He wrenched the blade from her hands.

Weaponless, Sam had nothing but her fists and one healthy foot to defend her. She wondered morbidly at her impending death--whether he would slice through the arteries in her neck or if he would cut her into bits and feast on her for breakfast. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Here.” Something cold and metal touched her hands. Her eyes fluttered open. Her sword! Braeden smiled, revealing jagged teeth. “Thought you’d prefer to use this.”

***

There wasn’t much in life that caused Braeden fear. Why would he be afraid of monsters when he was one himself? He’d been told he was evil since he left his mother’s womb, and after a time, he’d started to believe it true. His childhood had been marked by long nights he couldn’t remember, and he’d wake to find his lips and teeth smeared with blood. There wasn't much to fear when he was his own nightmare.

His master had taught him to harness the demon within him, until all that remained were his cursed eyes and the blood seal that wrapped around his arm like a vise. When his master had branded the lion-like tattoo into his skin, Braeden had wanted to howl at the pain. But such was the price of control.

Braeden soon learned that like any other seal, his could be breached. His demon had been bound with blood, and it could be freed just the same. He had only to cut into his own flesh, and blood and demon would seep out. His master had warned him that his blood was a potent weapon to be used only sparingly; like a drug, the power flowing through his veins was addicting.

It wasn’t addiction that scared Braeden, though, but the loss of his humanity. The more of his blood he spilled, the less of his humanity remained. And when only the tiniest shred of his human conscience was left, that was when he could connect with the demons. Not in any meaningful way--demons lacked the rational thought patterns underpinning true communication. But they recognized Braeden as one of them, and leader among them, no less. These creatures that were so often agents of chaos bowed to him as though he were the alpha among wolves. Now that frightened him.

Braeden could count on one hand the number of times he’d intentionally reached such a state. Oh, he’d used his blood often enough--shaping his blood into weapons like he’d demonstrated to Paladin Lyons was a particular favorite trick. But tonight he’d taken a blade directly to his heart, and now he bordered on the point of no return.

He struggled not to lose himself to the mob mentality of the demons. Demons were capable of but two emotions--hunger and fear--and connected to them like this, their hunger for death and destruction near overwhelmed his senses.

As he breathed in their madness, a remnant of rationality tugged at the back of his mind. Even as their thirst for violence infected him, Braeden was aware of a strangeness about their bloodlust, a focus and sense of purpose at odds with their anarchic natures. The demons thought as one, driven towards a single target. Sam.

Why Sam? Hundreds of men lay sleeping throughout the castle keep, yet they only craved one prey.

The desire to rip into Sam’s skin felt like a compulsion, as if their survival were dependent upon tasting the trainee’s blood. Fear laced through their hunger, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep them obedient for much longer. He was having enough trouble controlling his own urges.

Braeden pushed through the fog in his mind. Fifteen demons remained, the hardiest of their kind. Preventing the demons from attacking en masse required his full concentration, and he would have to release his hold on them in order to fight. Enhanced as he was, he could kill them, but not before a few stragglers tore into Sam. There was only one solution--Braeden needed to get rid of him.

Sam leaned awkwardly on the sword Braeden had returned to him. “Why aren’t the demons attacking?”

He ignored the question. “You need to leave.”

“I can’t leave you and Tristan to fend for yourselves,” Sam protested.

“You’re injured,” Braeden said. “And we need more help than you can give. Warn the Paladins, and tell them to meet us here.” When Sam didn’t move, Braeden shouted, “Go!” Sam ground his jaw but obeyed, hobbling towards the spiral staircase at the rear of the lobby.

Once Sam was gone, Braeden let his grasp on the demons slip. Their obedience snapped as the last of the blood drained from his eyes and swollen muscles. Then he did the only thing he could as the demons converged on him: he ran.

His feet felt leaden as they pounded against tile, his body sluggish. He heard the demons on his heels but didn’t dare turn around until he reached the main courtyard. Just as he stepped onto grass, a barbed tail pierced the back of his leg and latched on, causing him to stumble. He ripped the stinger from his flesh and then threw a knife straight into the demon’s mouth parts. Pulling it by its tail to arm’s length, he finished the job, hewing through its carapace.

Moments later, an out-of-breath Paladin Lyons joined him in the courtyard. “Good gods, man, you run fast.”

Braeden’s lips twitched at the remark, but his humor was short-lived. “I’m down to my last knife.”

“Can’t you make a new one with your blood again?” the Paladin asked. “You’re already bleeding.”

Braeden shook his head. “I can’t, not yet.”

“I suggest you refrain from throwing your knife, then,” the Paladin said unhelpfully.

Braeden turned his attention to the closest demon, a humanoid creature cloaked in a black shroud. He struck at the creature’s side, cursing as it vanished into thin air. It reappeared above his head, slashing clawed toes down his cheek.

Paladin Lyons, meanwhile, engaged with a heavily armored behemoth. When his sword collided with its plated chest, the blade shattered. “Well, that’s never happened before,” he said, staring at the jagged metal stump.

Braeden rolled his eyes skyward and threw his last knife into the unprotected skin at the underside of the behemoth’s throat. The demon roared, clawing at its neck.

“I suppose I should thank you,” said the Paladin, watching the behemoth struggle. “But you really ought not to have thrown your last knife.”

Now they both were without weapons. “We’re doomed,” Braeden agreed.

Just as he was about to give up hope, two feathered arrows pierced into the behemoth’s soft flesh, forming a neat cluster with his knife. Blood gurgled from the demon’s mouth.

A tall man with white-blond hair threw his axe with such force that it sliced through two creatures’ necks at once. Braeden recognized the man as Paladin Sveinsson, one of the primary trainers. Behind him stood dozens of men, armed to the teeth.

Sam had come through. The cavalry had arrived.

Without his knives, Braeden could do nothing but watch as the fighting continued. After some prompting from Paladin Sveinsson, a nervous looking trainee scurried over and guillotined the demon with his axe.

He snorted. Paladin Sveinsson had turned the battle into a training lesson.

The Paladins made short shrift of the demons. “Thank you,” said Braeden loudly when the last demon had been slaughtered. His gratitude was met with silence.

“You!” one of the trainees who fought with knives, like him, spat out. “You brought these creatures here.”

Braeden gaped at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“We know it was you,” the trainee accused. “Paladin Shen is dead.”