The Duke’s Demon by Iris Foxglove

 

Chapter 1

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. Even the cleverest of them were predictable, following their instincts even to their own detriment, creatures of habit to the end.

Sometimes people were different. Rarely, but sometimes. And not this one.

The man he was hunting was injured, yes, but it wasn’t even the trail of blood or muddled boot prints 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 Mislian whore would be there. But Laurent de Rue was some other kind of Mislian, possessed of a different magic. No demon tethered to him, like Sebastien’s.

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 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 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 in his mind, hissing softly, telling him where to go to find their prey.

The prey in question was crouched in some of the underbrush that hadn’t yet been trimmed back, and he was doing a rather poor job at concealing himself.

“You should know that they’re searching for you,” Sebastien said, crouching down, poking at him with the end of his cane. “You’re making it very easy to be found.”

Devon de Chastain, whose father would likely be hanged as a traitor before noon tomorrow, was crouched feral and snarling behind the barren branches of the bushes. His face was bloody, his eyes were wild, and he bared his teeth at Sebastien in a snarl. “Do you think I care?”

Those who are coming for you, they want to watch you die. They’ll get their wish, if they catch you.” Sebastien prodded at him with the end of his cane, fascinated at the way he hissed like a cornered beast and swatted at him.

“At least I killed him first,” Devon muttered. “At least I know that bastard de Rue 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, once again in favor with the King. Perhaps he would save that for later, when some of the anger in Devon had dimmed and needed to be relit like a hearth gone cold. “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 blinked, trying to look around him as if there was someone else there. “Who’s we? You’re alone.”

Sebastien held the cane out, pushed the end through the bushes. “Oh, no, I am never alone. 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. 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?”

“I’m afraid that would be naught but wasted effort. I’ll be gone before they arrive, and no one would be inclined to believe you, anyway. 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. It must have hurt him as the brambles pulled and scratched, and the dash of pain was a lovely little spice added along with the rest.

“Now,” Sebastien said, brusquely. “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,” Devon hissed at him, ignoring the proffered coat.

“Wonderful, as 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, I assure you.”

“They say things about you,” Devon said, shrugging into the coat. “That you’re insane. That you’ve gone mad up there in your frozen country, in the north.”

“Do they?” Sebastien scanned the tree line and moved 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 in pure pleasure.

“The devil you don’t know,” he said, and held out his hand. “It shall remain to be seen, which is better.”

* * *

Anyone who lived close enoughto the d'Hiver estate knew tales of the mad duke.

Devon had practically grown up on them. His brother, Marius—probably fleeing for Diabolos, now, where he’d be treated like the fucking prince he always wanted to be—told Devon stories when they were still young, curled up in the tent they used to string up in the hall between their bedrooms.

They say the Duke d'Hiver was caught dragging a deer into his manor. They say he drinks the blood of the villagers below the Abbey, which is why they’ve never hunted him down. They say his eyes are fire and his hands are cold as ice.

Devon had shivered deliciously, then, in the dark, safe halls of his family home. But that was when the only monsters in Devon’s life were wild, fanciful creatures like d'Hiver, not beasts with a crown, or fathers and brothers who craved one so badly they’d leave Devon in the dirt.

When Devon took Sebastien d'Hiver’s hand, it was warm against the chill of the midwinter night.

Marius had been wrong, of course. He’d been wrong about everything. Wrong about Prince Adrien—he’s nothing like his father, old chap, I promise you—who cast Devon off to moon after Sabre de Valois. Wrong about Sabre—he’ll be easy enough for Father to maneuver. Wrong about their father. He loves you, but it’s. Hard. He tries, Dev, you just have to. Have to be good, you have to learn how to be good—

Wrong about Devon.

You’ll be a prince when this is over.

Except he hadn’t, and now Devon had blood in his mouth and a tight, pulsing knot of fury in his chest that wound and twisted with every thump of the horse's hooves. He leaned in the saddle, and thought of Sabre standing over him, looking down at him, like he was useless, helpless, not even worth the fight.

Devon was many things. Difficult. Hard. Broken, pieces of himself rattling about in his chest like loose clockwork. But he wasn’t helpless. He was in control, always in control, tight as the reins of a horse. No one had ever—no one would force him to do anything. Not to obey a mad king who killed his own wife. Not to forgive Adrien, who wouldn’t even look at him. Not even to die.

He didn’t have a weapon, anymore. But d'Hiver would, and all Devon would have to do is dig into the dark, tangled pit he’d called upon when he aimed the gun at Sabre’s back, and he would, he would kill the fucking horse, too, whatever it was behind the eyes, and he would leave for Diabolos.

“You will find it difficult,” d'Hiver said, and Devon twisted in the saddle. The cold wind stung the wounds on his face, and his nose was already swelling, sore and heavy with pain.

“The fuck do you know about difficult?” he asked. “The fuck do you think I’m planning?”

“It isn’t a plan,” d'Hiver said. “It’s a passion, which is different. A wounded fox, it will sometimes cower when you corner it, fawn. Other times, it will bite. That is what you are. A fox in a corner. You’ve been one for a long time, we think.”

We.Devon curled his fingers in the black mane of the stallion as it slowed at the slope of a hill, overlooking a snowy stretch of farmland. Beyond it, the Abbey rose high against the moonlit sky, an old stone structure towering over the village below.

It was supposed to be one of the oldest buildings in Staria. Older than the palace, even. It certainly looked it. There were stone archways instead of proper gates, empty of the high wooden doors they should have held, and the stables were inside the Abbey walls, like the layout of an old military fort.

There were no other horses in the stable, though. No footmen waiting for them to arrive. Devon slid off the horse as it slowed to a dull plodding walk, and unconsciously staggered back from it, breathing hard. There was something…wrong, with the way it moved its head, with the sounds it made.

“I’ll be on my way,” Devon said, “once I’ve seen to my face.”

“Then you will die,” said d'Hiver, getting down from his horse. Devon shivered, but he told himself it was the wind, not the matter-of-fact tone in the duke’s voice. “It will not be an interesting death. Hangings seldom are.”

“They’ll be hanging my father, I expect,” Devon said.

d'Hiver shrugged. “Perhaps.” When Devon said nothing, he turned his bloodless gaze to the door of the stables. “There are baths, inside. Food will be brought to you.”

Devon touched his face and winced, smearing blood over his cheek. d'Hiver looked at him, and his pale hair stirred slightly. “Is someone going to show me in?”

“I can take you,” d'Hiver said, which wasn’t right. None of this was. “Or you can go yourself, while I see to Mari Lwyd. Do not try to open the doors to the room on the second floor, the ones with no handles. It will not go well for you if you do.”

Devon thought of Marius, his feet propped up on the desk while they did maths. I heard he cut a woman’s heart open. Someone from the hills. A peasant girl.

“I have no interest in doors that don’t open,” Devon said. He turned on his heel, wincing at the biting wind on his face, and almost missed the duke’s soft, murmuring voice.

“I did not say they do not open.”

The wind picked up as Devon strode across the courtyard, whirling snow into great spirals and beating them against the walls and narrow windows. Devon always hated the snow. It used to be such a production at home, with his father readying hunts or pulling out storybooks, the doors flung open in all the rooms as light flooded the halls.

Then, at night, in the dark, when the wind howled and the snow piled high against the glass—

Devon wrenched open the front doors. There was no one there to greet him. Just a cold, dark hall, full of the same kind of old furniture every country noble passed down from their parents and great-grandparents, sprawling and claustrophobic all at once. There were patches on the walls, here and there, empty circles where something used to hang, and corridor after corridor of unlit rooms.

“Put on a fucking light somewhere,” Devon snarled, and climbed the stairs, stumbling a little on the damp stone. The baths were there, a modern addition with pipes running from a wall that looked not as old as the rest of the room, but the tubs themselves were raised, made of porcelain, with clawed feet that seemed hammered into the stone.

Devon stood there for a long moment, in the dark, staring at the tub.

He turned on the taps. The pipes rattled and groaned, but the water steamed in the tub, and Devon started stripping off his muddy clothes, letting them fall in a pile at his feet. One of the pipes made a sharp sound, and Devon jumped, seeing Sabre fall in the snow, a bullet in his back.

“It’s what he deserved,” he told the empty room.

He’d told himself the same, when Lady de Valois and her daughter dangled on the hangman’s rope. They were so sure of themselves, that family, so false, pretending to mourn their fool of a patriarch, to be a perfect family even as Sabre ran around, a cheery, hapless submissive due to inherit one of the most powerful houses in Staria like he didn’t even care.

And then he’d gone on to. To lay on his back and take pain like he loved it, like he was made for it. Whoring himself out like it wasn’t sick, depraved.

Devon brought a basin from a stone counter and filled it, then slowly, carefully started washing out the blood from his face.

He’d been ripped up badly enough from the fall from his horse that he was bound to have a few scars, but they weren’t as bad as he thought. They were smaller, like shooting stars falling over his eye and cheek on one side, his nose broken but painfully readjusted so he could breathe again. He wouldn’t look the same, not again, but he could use that to his advantage, at least long enough to escape.

Finally, after fumbling around in the growing dark long enough for the bath to fill, Devon found a lamp. It provided scant light, lengthening the shadows and casting the tub in sharp relief, but it was enough. Just enough.

Devon was shivering as he lowered himself into the bath.

“Stop,” he whispered. His fingers slipped on the edge of the tub. “Stop it.”

He’d killed a man that night. Shot him in the back as he led his prince to the king, delivering him like he was worth anything, a submissive who barely managed to drag himself outside.

The look on Laurent de Rue’s face as Sabre fell—

The look on his father’s—

Do it fast, Devon,his father had said. Do it quiet.

Devon had never been good at quiet.

Never been good at any of it.

But he wasn’t supposed to be good. He was a dominant, he didn’t have to cede to anyone, even freakish, mad dukes who lived alone in a house where they said he killed all the people who had lived there before.

Devon grabbed the sides of the tub as he started to shake again.

It was no use. He stepped out, pulled the drain on the tub and reached for a towel on the stand next to it, but his hand just bumped into the wire.

He was shivering in truth by the time he found the towels under a drawer, and pulled on a thin black robe that did nothing to keep out the chill. He clutched it to his chest, and when he opened the door again, he nearly tripped over a wooden tray with cold cheeses and meat tossed on it in a haphazard jumble, thin slices of pale, milky bread falling over them. He looked down the empty hall, the darkness yawning like an open mouth, and dragged the tray into the bathroom.

He ate next to the lamp, slowly, quietly, so close to the fire that he could feel it stinging the cuts on his face.

All that work, and Sabre had won anyway.

Even if he killed him, Sabre was a martyr, now, a true, loyal friend to the prince. Someone willing to die for a boy, a weak, cowardly creature that wouldn’t answer Devon’s letters when he’d invited him to stay the week at the estate, who smiled blandly while even Sabre’s little sister looked at Devon askance. Pitying him.

Poor second son. Poor useless dominant, passed over for his pretty, beloved brother. The brother who could do no wrong, who their father loved, who slept easy in his enormous bedroom and never feared the dark.

“Ah,” said a voice, and Devon jumped, almost tipping over the light. Duke d'Hiver stood there, watching him, but there wasn’t any pity in his eyes. Just hunger, like a wolf stalking prey in the snow, like the tight, trembling tension in a bow before it was loosed.

“What do you want?” Devon asked. “Don’t lie and say you’re doing this for charity. I don’t inspire charity. And right now? I have nothing left to give.”

* * *

Sebastien studiedthis angry young noble. His demon was so pleased it was purring in eagerness, wanting to get closer, to feed. “I brought you here because you have something I want.”

Devon’s gold eyes narrowed. “You, a duke, need to bring fugitives home to fuck?”

Sebastien shook his head. “No. Not that. It’s not your body I want, it’s your anger. You have so much of it.” He moved closer, and Devon startled, scrambling back before he scowled and tilted his chin. He was afraid, Sebastien knew that, but fear was so common. Easy enough to find. This layered anger was cultivated over years.

“What,” Devon said, breathing too fast.

“When I was young, twelve, my family was slaughtered here. You’ve heard this, I’m sure. Everyone thinks it was me, a twelve-year-old desperate for the title. I wasn’t. I didn’t care about that, and I did not kill my family. But I was sulking about something, as children do, not getting my way, I cannot even remember what it was. When I saw what was happening, my mother screamed at me to run. Outside, I’m sure she meant, but I did not go outside. I ran upstairs, seeking to hide. And I saw the double doors open, and something told me to come inside. So I did. There was...a creature, in the dark, waiting. I made space for it when it came to me, and the men who killed my family came into that dark room and did not leave it. The thing that found a place inside of me took their souls, swallowed them down, and there was nothing left of the men they’d been.”

Devon stared at him. “You’re mad.”

Sebastien shrugged. “Perhaps. But it is real, my demon, whether or not you believe me. It fed off my fear, then it fed off my pure, innocent hatred, then it took those things from me and all I have to do in return is feed it when it is hungry.”

“You’re going to eat me,” Devon said, eyes too bright in his pale, bruised face. “Is that what you’re saying, you madman?”

“Feed off you,” Sebastien corrected. “It isn’t physical, it won’t harm you.” He paused. “At least, I do not think so. When what my demon wants is someone to scream under the knife, then, well, that’s different. But that was not what made me want to bring you here.”

“You want your demon to feed off the fact I am angry,” Devon said, slowly. “And you expect me to believe this.”

“I will show you,” Sebastien said, and felt the creature inside of him begin to come forth. “I would be interested to know what it feels like, for you.”

Devon snarled, “What are you on about, there’s no such things as demons—” he stopped, and the color drained from his face, and then he screamed, and scrambled back, fell over the tray of food and landed hard on the tiled floor.

Sebastien’s voice was odd, tinny, and he knew what he looked like, had seen it in the mirror when the demon was roused. His eyes went black, round like circles, and his mouth changed, became something gaping and full of sharp teeth. “Fear is not what I want from you.”

“What the fuck is this,” Devon yelled, too loud, too afraid, the fear blunting the anger, and Sebastien felt the demon growl in frustration.

“If you do not give me the anger that I want, I will put you under the knife and make it last for hours. You will wish you had hanged.” He went on his knees, moving inexorably closer. “You are too afraid of me. It will lessen in time. Look at me. See the truth, and breathe.”

Devon was staring at him, the whites of his eyes too pronounced, his face waxen and ashy.

“Do not look away,” Sebastien murmured. “It comes through stronger, when it is curious. I think I’ve had wings, a time or two.”

Devon’s fear was too intense, and Sebastien decided before he took him to the octagon room and rendered him into something bloody and useless and swallowed his soul, to see if he could get it, again. That anger. “My demon does not lie. It wants your rage, but it will settle for your fear. Your rage will spare your life. Would you like to know what happened to the man you shot? I know. The man who loves him, the one who was once a whore. He’s Mislian, and the truth was locked away from him. I tasted his fury when you shot his beloved, and we moved toward him in the snow, in the dark. Then there was a brightness, like the sun, and the Mislian brought him back from death.”

“No,” Devon said, and ah, there, yes. Better.

Sebastien moved closer still, and was pleased when Devon didn’t shrink away or cower. “Yes. I felt the warmth and the thing inside me was repelled, bid me turn away from the light. But I knew what happened, my demon felt de Rue’s joy, his relief. Sabre did not fall to your bullet. He lives, and all your plans came to naught.”

“No, he was supposed to die,” Devon whispered, his hands fisting, and he was shaking, the fear was there, but the anger was eclipsing it, burning hotter. Good.

Sebastien leaned in, trapped him there against the wall. “Yes. You hate him, and you hate Sabre’s lover, you hate the king, you hate the prince. Your father, who will hang. Your brother, who left you to die alone. How much do you hate them, Devon? Let me feel it.”

“Fuck Laurent de Rue, fuck Sabre de Valois, fuck all of them and fuck you, too, you—you freak,” Devon sobbed, so angry it pulled tears from his eyes. “I hate you, I hate all of you.”

Sebastien, overcome, leaned in. “Now feel it, my flame. Burn with your rage, let it consume you.” Sebastien tilted Devon’s face up and stared down at him, his natural dominance threaded through his voice. “Close your eyes, now. Do as I say.”

Devon closed his eyes.

Sebastien pressed his mouth to Devon’s, and fell into the creature that rose up and pushed past him, shoved what was left of the human in him to the back of his awareness. Sebastien was lost in the pleasure the demon took in drinking down Devon’s rage, feasting on it hungrily.

Presently, he felt the knotted thing that was Devon’s soul rise up, and the demon wanted to gnaw it, tear it apart and swallow the pieces. But it liked the rage so much that Sebastien murmured softly at it, told it to wait, that this meal needn’t be finished so quickly. The demon hissed softly and then receded gently, like a tide pulling back.

Sebastien felt the demon press against the edges of him, then it curled up like a bat in its wings, content.

He sat back on his heels. Devon was glassy-eyed on the floor, breathing quick and light, and Sebastien noticed with some interest that Devon’s cock was hard.

“Well?” Sebastien asked, frowning. “You didn’t open your eyes, did you? I did tell you not to. It will be easier, the next time, if you didn’t see.”

Devon blinked and turned his head. He stared at Sebastien and said softly, “What did you do to me?”

“My demon fed on your anger. What did it feel like?”

“Like you…” Devon was still having a hard time breathing. “Tore something out of me.”

“Oh. I almost did. The demon always wants the soul, but you fed it well, my flame.” Sebastien reached out and put a gloved hand awkwardly on Devon’s shoulder. He patted it once. “And that is why you are here. Not pity. Not charity. If I ever knew those things, the demon took it when the soul it swallowed was mine. Now you should have something warm to wear. It gets quite cold here, at night.”

Devon turned away, curled up in a ball on the floor, a mess of bruises and pale skin and hurt and black silk, and started to sob.

It didn’t sound like he was crying from fear, or even anger. It sounded like he was sobbing in relief.