Ve'Rah Daa (The Ephemeral: Book 3)

Chapter 23

The villagers turned to stare at me, and I wanted to sink beneath the soil into the boiling water that ran below the surface.

A message for Ikelos, huh?

This can't be good.

I approached the demon lying belly-down on the gravel. His hands were bound to the rope that anchored him to the steed's saddle, and his long nails were sharp, chipped, and discolored with disease. He'd lost all his hair, and his pale scalp was the tint of milk, his skin webbed in inky veins and flaking off in unsightly patches.

His labored breaths shook his entire body, and I pitied the soul he'd taken hostage. Losing your willpower to another entity was traumatic enough, but to be condemned to a state of rot and malnourishment at the same time? That was pure torture.

I crouched beside the Pan to inspect his face, and he turned his head to peek at me.

"Ik...el...os," he whispered through blackened gums and rotting teeth. His voice, no more than an airy hiss, sounded like the hot mineral water pouring out of the showers—like he was nothing but a steam engine, a husk stripped of a distinct human tone or accent.

"You have a message for me?" I prompted, refusing to expose the empathy churning in my heart. The demon species had used it against me one too many times. I had to appear hardened, not merciful. Especially before an audience.

Eager to hear the rest of the conversation, and perhaps a little worried I'd cause a scene, Will limped over to stand behind me. His right hand fell to the hilt of his sword, his thumb rubbing the pummel like a rabbit's foot, while his left hand held tight to the crutch under his arm—not because it carried his entire body weight, but because he planned to use it as a second weapon, if need be.

The demon rolled himself onto his side to face us, pulling his confined hands down to his naval. His body had deteriorated to bones and tissue, and he looked starved—of nutritious food or vital human memories and experiences, I couldn't be sure. 

"Your time is dwindling...Alex Kingsley," he breathed, and I instantly knew the words didn't belong to him, but to his imperious master across the Gorge. "My army...it's nearly ready. And your precious brother...he leads the war effort." His white eyes flicked to my pulsing jaw muscle, and a grin split his peeling lips. "He's become my finest general...all thanks to you..."

Don't let the splinters get to you, Al, I thought, blinking away the rage. Don't reward him for his efforts.

"Regulas," I greeted calmly, seeing the Rheans exchange startled looks in my periphery. The king had sent this demon here to channel his own personalized memorandum—like a messenger pigeon from hell. And something told me the deranged man wasn't seeking a truce. "What do you want?"

"I have come to tell you...that time is running out for your people," his pale eyes drifted past me to the refugees gathered around the pavilion, "your people, and all the traitors in this mountain."

Laughlin and Reese, both standing close enough to hear the threat, grew still—their eyes wide with alarm, their shoulders taut with consternation.

Apparently, they didn't believe me when I'd warned them of the king's omniscience, and now we faced the grim reminder that no place was sacrosanct under his rule, not even Havard's secret mountain bunker. In fact, I suspected Regulas already knew of the Order's hiding place, and for the time being, he'd simply written them off as a non-threat.

Of course, that could all change if Eagan proved to be the last living mage.

The demon prisoner tilted his head to address Laughlin. "Lay down your arms...and I will not harm your village. As Rhean blood...you'll be left to live as you so desire..."