The Traitor’s Mercy by Iris Foxglove
The Duke’s Demon (Starian Cycle #2)
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Enjoy a preview of The Duke’s Demon, book two in the Starian Cycle!
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It wasn’t very difficult, hunting people in the snow. Especially when they were bleeding.
Sebastien d’Hiver was not a man who hunted for pleasure, simply because animals were very little sport at all. Even the cleverest of them were predictable, following their instincts even to their own detriment, creatures of habit to the end.
He’d thought people might be different, and sometimes, they were. Not always, though. And not this time, either.
The man he was hunting was injured, yes, but it wasn’t even the trail of blood or muddled bootprints that made him easy to track. It was the rage, so hot that it burned bright like a beacon to the thing that lived in Sebastien, that urged him in soft whispers to go, my host, find that one and feed.
It was unusual enough that he’d come here, to this fete with the nobles who spent so much time arranging new and boring ways to fuck someone. Sebastien did not share their same desires, but he did not begrudge them, either; he’d only come out of interest, once he’d heard the former whore would be there, the Mislian. But that one had no notion of who he was, and when he’d learned it, it turned out he was some other kind of Mislian, possessed of a different magic. No demon tethered to him, like the others.
If there had been, Sebastien would have taken him. Hunted him for the thrill of it, perhaps, then bound him in chains and carried him back north to the Abbey. No one would have looked for him, there.
Just as no one would look for this one, the noble with wrath pouring unchecked from him, leaving a trail easier to follow than the bright drops of blood on the snow.
Sebastien tapped his cane on the ground, thinking. The demon wanted him to pin the noble down, siphon his rage, cut him slowly into pieces and sup on his fear, his pain. But those were easy things to find, really. Everyone screamed under the knife, but it took a special soul to harbor so much anger that Sebastien took notice of it.
He was being hunted for something having to do with the one who came under the lash, earlier, in the room with the fire. Sebastien had been drawn there, thinking it was the man blindfolded to the post who was angry, but no. It was the man in the corner, with the too-bright eyes and cold smile, and his thoughts were so easy to read that Sebastien didn’t know how they went unnoticed. There were others in the room who could use magic, his demon told him so. The prince, who saw the future in water. The Mislian, whose magic was older than Staria itself and trapped under a fog of someone’s making. Even the king, who was shut off to it, had something there. Or maybe he was just mad. It wasn’t always easy to tell.
The particulars didn’t much matter to Sebastien. The d’Hiver estate, called the Abbey for reasons long lost to history, was far enough removed from Duciel that most people forgot he existed. Technically he was the third highest-ranking noble in the kingdom, but that didn’t matter a bit to Sebastien. It was likely why the king merely let him be—he wanted no part of any of it, the court or the politicking or the games that were never very interesting. It made his demon restless, and it was harder to satisfy its particular desires when someone paid too much attention to you. The small village around the Abbey knew better. Sebastien was pleased about that.
The snow was falling faster now, and there was some commotion—he could hear a horse’s hooves, shouts, the rustle of people who realized the game was up and something else had taken its place. Sebastien tilted his head, and the demon clicked soft in his mind, hissing soft, telling him where to go to find their prey.
Not that he needed the guidance, per se. The prey in question was crouched in some of the underbrush that hadn’t yet fallen to the ground, and he was doing a rather poor job at concealing himself.
“Here, there,” Sebastien said, crouching down, poking at him with the end of his cane. “They’re searching for you. You’re making it very easy.”
Devon Chastain, whose father would, likely, be hanged as a traitor before noon tomorrow, was crouched feral and snarling behind the bushes. His face was bloody, his eyes were wild, and he bared his teeth at Sebastien in something close to a snarl. “Do you think I care that you’re a duke?”
“Not particularly, no,” said Sebastien, who didn’t particularly care that he was one, himself. He was never supposed to be. Etienne had been meant for it, but he was long dead, buried in the ground near Sebastien’s home.
“At least I killed him,” Devon muttered. “Before I die, at least I know that bastard watched his whore lover die and couldn’t save him.”
Sebastien shivered slightly, enjoying the rush of rage that trickled out of this exhausted, hunted young noble like wine. He wondered if he should tell him that de Valois was alive and well, his status returned. Perhaps he would save that for later, when some of the anger in him had dimmed. “Yes, well done, are you going to stay there, then? Your wounds aren’t fatal.”
“How the fuck do you know?”
Sebastien smiled at him. “We know death when we see it, boy. Now come out of there before we do it for you.”
Devon Chastain blinked at him and asked the one question that no one ever should, when Sebastien spoke in tandem with his demon. “Who’s we? I only see you, here.”
Sebastien held the cane out, pushed the end through the bushes. “Come out and I’ll show you,” he said. “Stay there, and I’m afraid they’ll find you.”
“Isn’t that—what are you offering, then?” Devon reached out, curled his gloved fingers around the cane. “Safety?”
“No,” Sebastien said, and laughed. “Nothing of the kind. But it will spare you the noose, and I think you are wise enough to take a chance when it’s offered, are you not? Any sensible person would, I should think. Do decide soon, won’t you? They’re on their way. We haven’t got long.”
“And if I. Turn you in, tell them you offered aid to a traitor—“
“Ah, no, I’m afraid that won’t work. I’ll be gone before they arrive, and any number of people will claim to have seen me. And no one will be inclined to take the word of a traitor, the king is rather in a poor mood. Well? We’ve no more time, make your choice.” Ah, but the spike of fear amidst the rage was an added delight, wasn’t it? This one, he would have to treat carefully. A fine meal not to be wasted.
Devon snarled and held onto the cane, and Sebastien rose smoothly to his feet and pulled, hard enough to bring Devon out of the underbrush and ensure he was scratched up a bit more—why not throw a dash of pain in there, to spice it up even more?
“Now,” Sebastien said, brusquely, beginning to walk. “We shall find my horse, and be on our way.” He took off his coat and presented it to Devon. “Put that on.”
“I don’t need your fucking pity,” the angry noble hissed at him, ignoring the proffered coat.
“Wonderful, I have none to give you. But my horse will not take you on his back if you do not have the scent of me, so it would be best if you listened and did as I said. Otherwise, you’re free to suffer as much as you like, around me.”
“They say things about you,” Devon said, shrugging into the coat. “That you’re…insane.”
“Oh, no,” Sebastien said, scanning the treeline and moving toward the horse that waited, needing no summons other than Sebastien’s silent wish that it appear. “It is nothing so mundane as that, my angry little fox. You’ll learn the truth soon enough.”
“You’re bringing me back to them,” Devon hissed, beginning to pull away. “There’s no—” he stopped, as Sebastien’s horse, a black stallion, came trotting out of the forest and stopped right in front of them.
Sebastien climbed up, patted the horse on its flank. “This is Mari Lwyd. I wouldn’t do that,” he admonished, when he noticed Devon staring at the horse’s eyes. “The less you look, the less it stays with you.”
“What the fuck are you,” Devon asked, and Sebastien tasted his fear in a long, slow inhale...and smiled.
“The devil you don’t know,” he said, and held out his hand. “It shall remain to be seen, which is better.”
