Demus: The Prince And The Milkman

Prologue

Deftly avoiding the guards' posts, Logan turned sharp corners and navigated through the twisting corridors without thinking about it.

Finally, the two were in one of the last hallways, the Portrait Gallery. Logan hated this one; the old paintings always looked like they were staring at you. He let his gaze drop to the floor, completely avoiding the one that he despised the most: the antique painting of the three-year-old Lacey Llenshire with her porcelain doll. He swallowed thickly; the polished stone underfoot suddenly becoming very interesting to him.

The small girl was milk-pale, almost as pale as the doll she was holding, and the toy had been carved from pure ivory. Her eyes were glazed over and a washed-out shade of creamy blue, as if her attention was really elsewhere, but her doll's eyes were fixed outside. They seemed to follow everyone who looked at them, but Logan wasn't able to tell what colour they were: the paint on the doll and girl had cracked a long time ago, giving both of them the impression of being cracked themselves.

Logan shuddered unconsciously, lost in thought. He was about to step out of the Portrait Gallery when Emile suddenly grabbed his arm, his hand clenching alertly on Logan's upper arm. The taller boy turned around, blinking at his brother, but Emile just nodded at the main entrance to the Gallery.

Confused, Logan turned towards the entrance and nearly hissed out a curse. He clapped a hand over his mouth just in time, but his eyes were still wide, staring at the curled snake sentry that was draped over the bannister, curled into dully shining coils. He whipped his head in Emile's direction, confusion painting itself over his features. "I'm certain that wasn't there before," he hissed, his voice an almost silent whisper. "Was it just assigned here?"

Emile shook his head to tell Logan that he didn't know. He took his hand off of Logan's arm and stepped forward, shaking the hood of his cloak off his head. "I'll get it out of our way," he whispered back, his voice rough. Emile didn't speak often, even when the two brothers weren't trying to escape.

When he looked back at Logan, the other boy could see that Emile's eyes were glowing with an electric rose-gold, the colour of his magic oozing out of the mage. He started to move forward again, but Logan stopped him, shaking his head.

"Wait. Do not kill it, Emile. In case you have forgotten, all of the sentries are connected psychologically to Tanith, who will immediately tell Lady Fyre that one of the sentries has been disposed of." His own voice was urgent but soft, careful not to awaken the snoozing sentry. Tanith was the Lady of the Guard, and one of the most terrifying people that Logan knew.

She was from the Kingdom of Topsaz, where, long ago, a strange curse had settled on the population, intertwining their bloodlines with mythical creatures. Tanith had the glowing eyes of a basilisk, coloured a bright silver like molten metal. Dark grey scales patterned up and down her arms and neck, and her forked tongue made everything she said sound like a low, purring hiss.

At the thought of alerting Tanith, a conflicted expression crossed Emile's face. He eventually nodded, stepping back so that the sentry couldn't sense him. His eyes faded, the rose-gold glow settling back and dissipating as Logan watched.

"What do you suggest instead, Lo?" Emile asked, worry crisscrossing through his tone. "We have to do something, otherwise it'll sense us and that will alert Tanith, too." He frowned, and Logan could see a rare expression flicker across Emile: doubt. Doubt that the plan wasn't going to work.

Well, if the plan wouldn't work on its own, Logan would make it work. There was too much work that he had put into it for it to fail now. New determination flooding across him, he stepped closer to the sentry, allowing his own magic to pool into his eyes. He knew they were glowing with a neon indigo colour, looking eerily like a black light.