Blood Shadows (31 page)

Nachari watched as the male’s thin lips drew back in a sneer, and rotten, jagged teeth shone beneath the hollow spaces. Sharp, reptilian scales rose from the back of his spine, and his clawed feet hooked into the stony floor as he came forward with supreme confidence.

“Wizard!” the short demon called. “Where are you?” He spun around in all directions, instantly locking eyes with Nachari before smiling a putrid grin full of malicious intent. “Ah, there you are.” He held a medium-sized, ornate box in his tiny hands, the cover appearing heavy as if made of granite. “I come bearing gifts.”

Nachari stood up to his full height, not exactly afraid of the little weasel but definitely wary; after all, he wasn’t a fool. He knew where he was and what kind of souls surrounded him. “Gifts from whom?” he asked suspiciously.

The little demon snickered. “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.” He cackled like he had really said something funny.

Nachari stifled the urge to roll his eyes. Unfortunately, he recognized the high-pitched whistle in the demon’s voice now, the insidious and frankly downright irritating drone of his laughter; and he knew this character all too well. The demon had religiously attended each and every one of Nachari’s throne room torture sessions, usually taking a seat in the front row, if not shuffling to the floor right in front of the action, in order to get a closer look. If he could have sat on Nachari’s back while avoiding the lash, or submerged himself in the boiling water without feeling the pain, he would have. The troll was a sadist—which, of course, most demons were—but he took inordinate pleasure in watching every drop of blood spill, in savoring every cry wrenched from the suffering wizard’s throat. On more than one occasion, Nachari had wished he could break free from his bonds and snap the little bastard’s neck.

He turned his attention to the box in the demon’s scaly hands, now doubly concerned about the contents. “What’s in the box?” he asked pointedly.

The little demon slid forward one foot at a time as if trying to engage Nachari in a two-step, playfully rubbing his hand over the lid. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he hissed.

“Couldn’t be why I asked,” Nachari mumbled, his irritation growing.

The demon threw back his head and puffed out his chest, causing two rather pathetic wings to shoot forth from his back in a pitiful attempt at dominance—or at least what the little fool believed to be a show of dominance. To Nachari, it looked more like a wounded bat trying to scare off a velociraptor—not all that intimidating.

As wisps of smoke curled at the apex of the wings, plumes shooting out from the apparent attempt at rousing fire, Nachari whistled in mock appreciation and took an exaggerated step back. Holding both hands up in front of him, he pretended to be impressed. “Whoa, now—I’m just trying to ask a question. No need to get angry.” It took every ounce of self-restraint he had not to call down a fire-and-brimstone spell and show the irritating freak what real magic looked like.

The demon seemed pleased. “Just so you know who you’re dealing with,” he snarled.

Nachari shook his head graciously. “I can see that.” He waited while the demon strutted around in an oblong circle before pressing the issue once again. “So, here’s the thing: I assume you came here for a reason, and I’m just very curious to know what it is.”

The demon puffed out his chest again. “Are you afraid?”

Nachari bit his lower lip. “Trembling in my boots.”

“Perhaps I have a medieval torturing implement in the box, vampire—perhaps I’m here to put on my own show.”

Now that gave Nachari pause. Not so much because he feared a one-to-one standoff with the monster, but because it would create a lot of political problems for him and Noiro. He wasn’t feeling particularly inclined to submit to a one-to-one torture session at the moment, and especially not with a clearly inferior halfwit, although he had to give him some credit:
Implement
was a fairly impressive, three-syllable word. Just the same, now was not the time to antagonize Ademordna by sending one of his servants back in a dozen or more pieces, and as satisfying as it would be to finally vent his full rage on the little idiot, he had to play it smart.

Nachari waited silently, allowing the overblown demon to have his moment in the sun, as it were, while he contemplated the possible outcomes.

Finally, when it seemed like the little booger would never speak, the demon inclined his head in a gesture of condescension. “Very well, vampire,” he crooned, “today just might be your lucky day.”

Nachari suppressed a smile. “Thank you.” What else did the fool expect him to say?

With all the aplomb of a magician on stage, hoping to captivate a watchful audience, the demon waddled to the mattress, set the box down right in the center, and tapped the lid. And then he leaned over conspiratorially and whispered, “It’s a gift from a lady friend.”

Nachari held his breath.

“Noiro,” the demon added.

Nachari swallowed hard. How in the world had Noiro pulled this off—convinced the short demon to assist her with her plan, a plan that amounted to no less than treason against Lord Ademordna?

The demon laughed heartily then. “A snake from the northern territory.” He practically danced in place. “Noiro assures me that the reptile has been charmed—programmed to bite you again and again and again. To fill your miserable veins with excruciating poison as you sleep so your flesh will rot from the inside out, even when you aren’t being formally tortured.” He cackled like a lunatic, literally jumping up and down in place. If the Valley of Death and Shadows had a Land of Oz, this little freak would be headed down the yellow brick road in uncommon, idiotic style.

Ah, so that’s how Noiro pulled it off
, Nachari thought, by convincing the foolish monster that transporting the gift was actually an act of torture. Still, that didn’t address the primary concern regarding Ademordna—the Supreme Ruler of the Middle Kingdom would not be so easily fooled…or forgiving. “And the Supreme Lord?” Nachari asked. “He has given you permission to do this?”

The demon spun around angrily. He raised his chin high in defiance. “What makes you think I need permission, vampire! This is my realm—not yours.”

Yeah, yeah—if
ifs
and
buts
were candy and nuts what a Merry Christmas it’d be…

But they weren’t.

Nachari eyed him carefully.
Hmm.
No one—but no one—came near Ademordna’s pet vampire without Ademordna’s express consent, which meant that Noiro must have really gone out of her way to fool the little cretin.

“Besides,” the demon added defensively, “Noiro assures me that the orders to capture and bring the snake come straight from our lord himself. That I will win his favor by delivering the beast and announcing my part in the process at court this evening.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled missive. “A formal invitation to your own torture,” he explained, practically giddy. “Noiro felt it would be a fitting touch to invite you—as if you have a choice—in your ancient Romanian tongue.” He stared at the missive like it was a golden tablet, turning the calligraphic letters this way and that in an attempt to read the words—which he obviously couldn’t do. Perhaps the little fool was illiterate, or perhaps he just couldn’t speak Romanian. Either way, he had no idea what the missive actually said, and that gave Nachari a clear advantage.

“May I?” Nachari asked, holding out his hand.

The demon squealed with glee. “Yessss….yessss,” he hissed, ecstatic that Nachari was apparently going along with their diabolical plan to inflict more pain and suffering upon him. “Read it aloud, vampire. I want to hear you speak in your native tongue. It’s soooo ssssexy.”

Nachari raised an eyebrow, trying to shake off the ick factor, and then he stepped forward gingerly, hoping to appear more compliant than threatening. “As you wish,” he said, waiting for the demon to place the missive in his hand.

The demon moaned as the missive exchanged hands. “Read it. Read it. Read it.”

Nachari stared at him, incredulous. Did these things have mothers? Or fathers? Siblings, perhaps? If so, then there might actually be a handful of beings in hell who were suffering worse than he was: No doubt, spending eons with the likes of this idiot would be a fate worse than death. Turning the missive over, Nachari began to read aloud, his deep melodic voice filling the room with the splendor of his native words: “Ucide mesagerul sau infrunta-ti propriul decis.” He spoke each word slowly and deliberately, all the while fighting to suppress a growing smile. The missive translated into a very simple but direct statement:
Kill the messenger, or face your own demise.

It was a message to Nachari from Noiro.

The demoness had done the best she could to get the second talisman into Nachari’s hands, but she could not account for the messenger—that was Nachari’s problem. And if he let the little bastard go, their plan was over. Ademordna would find out, and they would both be—

Well, it was better not to think about that.

The problem at hand was more than enough of a challenge all by itself—how in the world did Nachari kill the messenger without alerting Ademordna? And what in the world did he do with the body?

“What did it say? What did it say?” the swarthy demon asked, interrupting Nachari’s thoughts. He was practically chomping at the bit to know the meaning.

Nachari frowned and thought up an appropriate lie. “It said my torture will be endless now—there will be no escape day or night.”

A gleeful smile crossed the demon’s face, and he snickered with satisfaction. “Take the snake out of the box, now,” he commanded, trying to throw some bass into his voice. “I want to watch him strike you. I want to watch the full power of the northern territory seep into your blood and bring you to your knees…in agony.”

Oh, now this was the fellow Nachari knew and recognized from the throne room. Of course, he would want to watch. And cheer. And cackle like a hyena.

Very well.

Nachari walked slowly to the bed, his head hung low like he was dreading what was to come, as he carefully approached the heavy box. All the while, he gathered the errant energy of the Abyss to him with his words and his intention. With his Magick. As quickly as he could, he built a conflagration of kinetic energy in order to fuel the spell he would need to achieve his goal. His head rolled back on his shoulders as his body protested the vile energy that swirled like a dense, beguiling fog all around him, dipping and diving inside of him, stroking and claiming his soul.

Black as night, stealth and might;

be
swift; be
sure—embrace this fight.

My heart, my soul, my vengeance due;

I humbly call and yield to you.

Knowing that he could use the transformative venom of the snake to complete the spell—that he would
need
to use the venom in order to command the laws of physics in a place of such low, resistant density—Nachari gingerly lifted the lid from the box, scooped the hissing reptile up in one hand, and brought it to his face, meeting the serpent’s gaze, eye to eye.

Brother of darkness,

Serpent’s tongue…

Strike now; strike swiftly

Make
our venom one.

The snake uncoiled in his hand, wrapped its smooth, deadly body around Nachari’s arm, and slithered up his wrist to his forearm where it perched on his shoulder. With slow, delicious delight it dipped its head and unlocked its massive jaw, prepared to strike at the wizard’s jugular. And then, with slow, measured precision, it sank its twin fangs deep into Nachari’s vein and began to inject the poison of hell.

Nachari fought to relax his muscles, to still his heart, even as the obnoxious demon began to clap his hands in delight. He welcomed the poison and the pain, gave himself over to the transformative Magick—however black and repulsive.

And then his bones began to transform, to soften and break.

To change.

He gasped at the intensity of the pain even as he welcomed it with a compliant heart.

His spine twisted and popped; his skin grew thin and pliable; and his jaw expanded and released at the joints. As the blackness filled him from within, it began to transform him from without. Sleek, tawny fur coated his limbs and crowned his skull, until the fully matured body of a gigantic male panther at last emerged in his place.

Nachari spun around in the body of the panther, prowling in a tight, revolving circle. His pain gave way to unbridled power, and the snake slithered away to cower in the corner, a tight ball of fear and submission, even as the little cheering demon began to quake in his boots.

Nachari growled low in his throat, reveling in the sound—the vibration—the rapture of pure, unadulterated supremacy. He stretched his sinewy limbs with stealth and grace. He drew back his lips and snarled, meeting the trembling demon’s eyes with eyes the color of flames. The little monster tried to release his own pathetic wings and shoot fire from his mouth, but he was no match for the stealth and speed of the puma. In one ferocious leap, Nachari was upon him, wide jaws locking firmly around the demon’s neck, huge canines sinking deep into fetid flesh, a raspy tongue taking its first taste of rancid blood.

Nachari shook the demon furiously, giving into the cat’s need to play with its prey. He swiped large, lethal paws along the demon’s face and chest; he serrated the demon’s thighs and groin; and he toyed with him for several minutes, slowly…insidiously, before finally going in for the kill. With one powerful clamp of his jaws, he snapped the demon’s neck. No more laughing, clapping, or watching for this one.

As the broken, bloodied body of the demon fell to the floor in a pile of useless flesh and bone, Nachari sank back on his haunches. His jaw twitched several times as he surveyed the awful mess before him and steadied his resolve: There was only one way to insure that Ademordna never found the demon’s body—that Norio’s treachery remained undetected, and his plan to escape remained viable.