The Duke’s Demon by Iris Foxglove

Chapter 9

Sebastien was in the library, going over a ledger and glancing occasionally at the clock while Sariel, curious about the book and what it meant to owe money and pay for expenses, flared his wings and clicked softly, asking for more and more explanations of things he didn’t know.

And then, Sebastien took out the book that had all the architectural plans for the Abbey that he remembered his father showing him, once, when he was very young...probably for Etienne, who kept saying it was built on some kind of graveyard, convinced that was why the Abbey was haunted.

His father had insisted there was nothing on the Abbey grounds but forest, before the building was erected there. But he didn’t know why it was called the Abbey, either, when there’d never been a monastic order that used the property in the whole of recorded history. Etienne fancied there was a secret society that used the Abbey for nefarious purposes, and it would seem, Sebastien mused, that he was more right than he knew.

Sariel liked the maps and the blueprints, and when he couldn’t find the right words to tell Sebastien what he wanted to say, he showed Sebastien instead; flashes of impressions, being called from some vast darkness that was somehow alive, disparate essences coalescing all at once into something sentient. His memories were of men speaking a language Sebastien didn’t recognize, using symbols and words like shackles and instruments of torture to keep the thing that had become Sariel locked up, imprisoned. One of his memories that he showed Sebastien was flying over something that looked like the winter sea, but he could not recall where he came from, at first.

I was formless, and too many parts of me to see as one, Sariel said, which did not make sense to Sebastien but perhaps it would, in time.

“You’re much more of a distinct being now than you were before,” Sebastien said, the fire cackling in the hearth, wondering if Devon planned on returning with Duchess before nightfall. “We felt tangled, you and I, and now it feels as if we have somehow unknotted ourselves.”

You feel more things, now. So do I. Sariel sighed. When Beloved returns, I wish to take him to the room. So that I may come forth.

“Yes, all right,” Sebastien said, indulgent, with a slight smile. “I think he must know by now, he’s not meant for the knife.” That reminded him of something. “Do you want someone for the knife, my demon? You’ve not asked.”

I feed off different things, now, Sariel said, and curled up. If Sebastien slitted his eyes half-closed, he could almost see the demon, tucked in around himself like a cat, sleepy and content. If the call is answered by things that need to be slain, we will slay them.

“Sariel, do you think perhaps one day you would be able to come forth, outside of the room?”

I do not know, Host. I will not know until you do.

“And are you content to be where you are, my demon?” Sebastien asked.

Yes. I am content, my Host.

“Good,” Sebastien said, warmly. “Why was it me, do you think, that heard you? My brother saw specters. My mother, so they said, could scry in black glass or tea leaves. What was I?”

Lonely, the demon said, and Sebastien supposed that made sense. As a child he’d always been less outgoing than his brother, watchful and quiet, given to his own thoughts.

“Did I die when you came to me, when I was young and hurt?”

Almost. The soul was there, I took some of it but did not swallow.

“Why not?” He’d seen Sariel do it before. Felt him take the souls of those who screamed for them.

I was as you were. Lonely.

“What happens when I die?” Sebastien asked, for he did not know what would become of his creature, his clever demon.

I do not know. Demons can be banished or broken into the parts that make us whole, sometimes. Then we return to the dark. I would not have you die, Host. Not because I fear the dark that made me. Because I would be again as you were. Lonely.

“Well, that may be a bit outside of your ability to control, Sariel. Go to Devon, then, if something should happen to me. Yes?”

Sariel didn’t answer, and Sebastien pushed the book away and stood, stretching. He noticed the stiffness of his muscles after sitting, now, yet another sign that as his demon grew into his own selfhood, and Sebastien into his personhood like a cloak left waiting on a hanger to be worn.

Time to find Devon, then. It was getting dark, and decidedly cold outside as the days shortened. Almost his birthday, the Longest Night, and it would be nice to spend it with Devon and Sariel. They would show him the lights in the sky over the sea.

The second Sebastien stepped into the hall, it exploded into chaos.

The front door was thrown open, and Duchess came bounding in, yapping and skidding on her overlarge paws. She was growling, and followed by two dirty children who were both talking at once.

“M’lord!” the boy—the one who worked in the stables and called his horse after his sister —exclaimed, and then cursed as a girl Sebastien had never seen before hit him upside the head.

“It’s Your Grace, haven’t you got any manners?” With that, she turned and bobbed a curtsey before yelling at him, “they got him! Your musician!”

“The men, they came and. They…we fought, but Andre, he—there was mud, and the peaches—and—”

“They said he was, they called him something, a name that I didn’t know—”

“They were mean,” the girl wailed. “And we tried to save him but—”

“He sent us here to get you, I think, m’lord, um, Your Grace.”

Duchess barked, then came and sat at Sebastien’s feet. Her bright hellfire eyes seemed to be looking behind him. She barked again.

Sariel woke like a storm, shrieking, wings flaring and startling Sebastien so much he actually stumbled back a bit from surprise.

Beloved. The iron touches him.

It took Sebastien a moment to realize that the children had stopped talking entirely and were staring at him. He was sure he knew why—Sariel was pushing at him, trying to come forth, slotting neatly into the front of him like Sebastien was merely a mask to be worn. It came with the same odd detachment with which he’d viewed the world before Devon, and it was difficult to remind Sariel that children were oftentimes too frightened by dukes turning half-demonic in front of their eyes to answer any questions.

But Sariel wasn’t asking the children—he was asking the hound.

“Ratchet,” Sebastien’s voice said, in Sariel’s flat intonation.

“Oh, lordy,” the girl whispered. “It is true.” She put a hand on her heart. “The demon duke is in love with a traitor noble musician, it’s just like a fairytale.”

How did she know Devon was a—

He saw it, in seconds. Devon, taken by the guards who must have heard of the Duke d'Hiver’s strange new houseguest...or turned in by his brother, who might have been captured on his flight from Staria. Either way, Duchess was telling Sariel in whatever way demons communicated to each other, and Sebastien saw it all, and with his remoteness from his own awareness he could appreciate that fear tasted very different, when it was one’s own.

“We will track him. You, small ones. You are ours, go to the lady with the baby inside that is not out yet, and tell her to make you clean again.”

“Um,” Andre said. “Clara, you mean?”

Yes, Sebastien thought, at Sariel.

Sariel made his head nod, and then jerked Sebastien’s arm as he pointed at the girl.

“We know you,” Sariel said, which was news to Sebastien, who was certain they did not. “The dark called to you.”

“I, um, found her stea—I mean, in the, um, village, so I...looked after her, but she was kind of sick, so—”

“I ran away to come here,” the girl interrupted.

Tell Clara she’s to be a housemaid, Sebastien thought at Sariel.

“Tell the one with the baby inside you are to live here now,” is how Sariel translated that, which was well enough, Sebastien supposed.

The children ran off, and Sariel said, “What is a traitor, what is a king? I do not know the words and what they mean, but Beloved’s fear is sharp.”

It means he will be hanged like his father, if we do not find him. Perhaps you should fall back, my demon.

“You are afraid,” Sariel said, and how odd to hear it spoken so, in the empty hallway, in something close to Sebastien’s own voice. “Fear makes you crawl. We do not have time for crawling.”

You are saying my fear is as strong as it was the night you found me? Well, perhaps that was what love did, when you let yourself feel it. I was a child, my demon. I am a man grown, and I will not crawl. We will find Devon and bring him home. Return to me, and call the horse. Set the hound on her way.

Sariel seemed apprehensive to allow Sebastien control again, but Sebastien reminded him that he would need to come forth when they found the men who’d taken Devon and hurt him, and Sariel withdrew back and let Sebastien’s awareness come back to the forefront.

And with it, the fear that felt so intriguing when it was buffered by the demon...did not feel nearly as interesting, now. It made his heart race, his stomach twist, and Sebastien barely remembered to grab his coat and gloves as he left the Abbey by the front door to find his hellspawn horse waiting on the yard.

We know the taste of Beloved’s fear, Sariel said. We will find him.

“We will,” Sebastien vowed, and put his heels to spur the horse into a canter.

The moon rose high as Sebastien headed out, and the clouds came to cover it, snow falling soft as other hounds ran alongside them, bright red eyes burning in the dark.

The Wild Hunt rode toward Chastain.

* * *

Devon cameto with the light of a fire flickering over the damp grass at his feet. His head throbbed like an enormous bruise, his side stung with pain every time he tried to draw breath, and his lip was numb and sore, bleeding sluggishly. The coarse bark of a tree tickled his back, and he lifted his wrists behind him to find they were still shackled, tied to the tree by a lead.

The clink of the shackles alerted one of the men by the fire. It was Matthias, the quiet one, who gestured to the others and got up, blocking the light. There were trees at his back, lines of them disappearing into the darkness.

“You don’t have much tolerance for pain, do you, friend?” Matthias asked. He crouched on his ankles in front of Devon, his face too shadowed to read.

“I doubt we’re friends,” Devon said. It came out slurred, and he winced as the cut on his lip split again. “Are we?”

“We could be,” Matthias said. “If you tell us what the king wants to know. If you don’t make a fuss on the way. The king might make your death a swift one, like your father’s.”

“Or he’ll send him to the pleasure houses,” said Jean. Devon tensed at the sound of his voice. “Like the Valois boy. The one who became a whore.”

“Oh, he doesn’t like that,” Matthias said, and Devon tried, too late, to mask the chill of horror that gave him. “Maybe a quick death, then.”

“Better than he deserves, trying to kill the prince,” muttered Louis.

“Probably,” Devon said. “We’re…why are we in the woods? Where are we?”

“Close to Chastain by now, I think,” Matthias said. He lifted Devon’s chin with a forefinger and thumb, and Devon flinched away. “Didn’t like that, either, huh?”

Devon tried to look up through the canopy of trees. It was already dark. That made no sense. Sebastien would have heard, by now. Sariel would have sensed him, his fear.

But perhaps one person’s fear was not enough.

“Shouldn’t be here,” Devon said, slowly, tilting his head back. “Not in the dark.”

Matthias glanced back at the others. “Your lot keep the game too thin in these parts for there to be any wolves,” he said.

Devon forced a laugh. It came out hollow. He made himself think of his father, the sound of his footsteps in the hall, and anger uncurled in the base of his stomach, putting a familiar sneer into his voice. “There are worse things in Chastain than wolves.”

“Like traitors,” Louis said. “Leave him, Matthias.”

“Stay in the light,” Devon said. He’d whispered it to himself often enough, as a boy, that it rang clear in the midwinter air. “Don’t let the fire die. It comes in the dark.”

“Sure,” Louis said, but Jean shifted uneasily, and Matthias stopped on his way back to the fire.

“We should bring him closer,” he said.

“Leave him.”

“You won’t be the first,” Devon said, and this time, the laughter came easily. “You know, it’s why Marius agreed to that plan. Why either of us agreed. To get away from this place. From what waits in the dark.”

“I’ll gag him,” Jean said, and looked up as a wind made the fire flicker.

“We live too close to the Abbey, really,” Devon said. “You’ve heard the stories. You know, you know they say there’s a demon there, that takes people by the soul, rips it out of them. Claims them.”

The guards round the fire tried to turn their backs to Devon, speaking softly to themselves.

“Do you want to know how it claimed me?” Devon asked.

“That’s it,” Jean said. He rose. He was unnaturally pale in the firelight, and his skin was clammy, his eyes too bright. “We’re gagging him the rest of the way. If he chokes, he chokes.”

“A mercy,” Devon said, and hissed as Jean struck him, a hard, heavy blow just beneath the eye. His vision went dark, just for a moment.

“Fucking country nobles and their superstitious bullshit,” Jean muttered, shoving a balled-up cloth in Devon’s mouth. It was hard to breathe through it—the folds were too loose, threatening to press up against the back of Devon’s throat—and he painfully breathed through his nose as Jean tied the ends of whatever it was behind his head. Devon met his gaze, and couldn’t help the small, vicious note of pleasure at the way Jean’s hand trembled when he tried to strike him again. It was enough to shift the cloth, though, and Devon coughed wetly, struggling not to choke.

“Put some goddamn wood on the fire,” Jean barked, and Matthias stood, scuffling in the dirt.

“There isn’t. It’s going down, I don’t have any more wood.”

“Then get some.”

Matthias took a step back. Devon watched him, glancing over Matthias’ shoulder as though waiting for something in the dark beyond.

“I think. I think we should stay,” Matthias said.

“I just wanted to sit the fuck down for five minutes,” Louis said, and got up. “Wait here.”

He marched off into the dark, and Matthias stood there, waiting, looking around him like a deer in the sights of a bow.

After a few minutes, when Louis didn’t return, Matthias and Jean slowly looked to Devon.

“What is it,” Matthias whispered.

“Shut up,” Jean hissed.

“No.” Matthias was breathing too hard. “What is it. What’s out there?”

“Nothing, I told you. Louis is taking his time. Shit.” Jean sucked his hand as a flurry of sparks rose from the fire, and Matthias strode over to Devon, ripping the gag out of his mouth.

“What is it?” he asked, terror making his voice go tight.

“My lover,” Devon said, as the last of the fire went out. “And the demon who claimed us.”

* * *

Chastain land wasn’tthat far from Sebastien’s territory, a few hours ride at most. They had a head start, but Sebastien had a pack of hellhounds and a demonic horse, and they made up time so quickly he wondered if Mari-Llwyd had sprouted wings.

It wasn’t just Devon’s fear they were tracking, though Duchess and the other hounds seemed to be following the scent just fine. There were others with Devon, and Sariel said they are afraid of what comes for them in the night, here, which led Sebastien to believe that his Devon was telling tales about the monster that stalked in the woods.

Beloved rages, Sariel told him. I taste his anger. I share it.

Sariel went quiet after that, but in the back of his mind, Sebastien could hear the demon making a sound that Sebastien couldn’t quite identify, and it wasn’t until the hounds began to slow and spread out that he understood what it was—Sariel was humming the song Devon wrote for him, though humming was perhaps not the right word for it, entirely; it was singing in the way bells sang, if they were slightly broken, and if there were many of them all lined up in a row.

It was lovely, discordant though it may be. Devon would be pleased, Sebastien thought. Few musicians could produce an authentic demonic choir accompaniment.

Finally they came across a camp, and the fear was a thick heavy pulse in Sebastien’s blood as he thought about Devon hanging from the branches, executed by order of the King. But Sariel said, he breathes and his scent is blooded but true, which must mean he was still alive and yet, somehow, that did little to ease Sebastien’s fear.

The hounds spread out to circle the small camp, and Sebastien dismounted the horse. “Sariel. I need you to come forth enough to make me appear unnatural, but not entirely demonic, do you understand? I must remain in control of myself, my words—these are men who know nothing of demons, and who might kill Devon as soon as speak to me. But they know about nobles and the power we wield, and it is imperative you let me speak to them as one.”

Sariel did not like that, Sebastien could tell. The demon wanted to come forth as much as it could, to terrify and frighten, to make these men who hurt his Beloved hurt in turn. But if their decades together living almost as one being had taught his demon anything, it was that he could trust Sebastien, and so he did.

“You kept me safe when I came to you as a child. I’ve kept you safe within myself since the day I opened my arms to you. Let us keep Beloved safe, as we’ve promised. Remember, my demon. We are the thing to fear, in the dark.”

Sariel pushed forward, enough so that Sebastien felt the sharp edge of his fear blunt a bit, but he still saw the world through his own gaze and felt something of the night’s chill on his face. He could even scent the smoke from the campfire that had recently died, and hear the murmur of voices as they carried through the thicket of trees. Good. His senses were magnified, not eclipsed.

Thank you, my demon. You are the most clever of all.

The branches and dead leaves crunched beneath his boots as he walked, hair perfectly in order, and Sariel’s presence leeched the tell-tale, human signs of exposure to the elements that the weather would normally cause; so that when Sebastien stepped into the circle of the camp, he looked as if he’d appeared there from the warmth of his drawing room mere seconds before.

The fire in the center was nothing but embers, dying with every second, turning cold.

“Gentlemen,” Sebastien said, voice haughty. “It is illegal to hunt on a lord’s property without his permission. I do not recall being asked for mine.”

“We ain’t on your property,” said one of the men.

Duchess, who was being restrained by another hound from rushing toward her person, must have told Sariel that one has Beloved’s blood on his hands and enjoyed tasting his fear, because Sariel’s rage was so bright in that moment that Sebastien rather thought he could burn the forest down with it, if he wished.

“You took something from d'Hiver land without permission. A hanging offense, for commoners.”

Devon was shackled to a tree, face bloody, and Sariel—who did not like his humans to be disheveled, ever—hissed, wings flaring in outrage as Beloved’s fear is not for them.

One of the hounds brayed in the dark.

Devon laughed, rough and bitter, and it turned into a cough. “I told you.”

“This man is lying to you, Your Grace,” one of the men said, rising to his feet and bowing. “He ain’t who he said he is. He’s Devon Chastain, and his father’s a traitor who was hanged so —”

“I do not recall giving you permission to speak to me,” Sebastien said, and the dominance in his voice made one of them swear softly and another go to his knees with a curse.

“Did you send hounds after us?” one of them asked, as two or three more of the hellhounds brayed and yipped, getting closer.

Sebastien did not answer that. He could not look at Devon overlong, lest his demon’s ire take over completely. “I am the Duke d'Hiver, and you’ve poached prey from my lands. This is one of the oldest laws in Staria. What manner of excuse do you think shall placate me?”

“We’ve been sent from the King,” the man left standing said. He bowed. “We meant no disrespect, Your Grace. But the man here. He is wanted by the king for a plot to kill his son, and he shot a noble in the back, and seeing as how you’re a noble you probably didn’t know that, so we didn’t want to bother you by showing up and asking after him.”

“Be very careful about lying to me,” Sebastien said. “You seem to have some sense about you, so I will say this once, and only once—this man is the house musician, and future consort, of the Duke d’Hiver. He is not of Chastain.”

“He belongs to the crown,” one of the men kneeling said.

“He belongs to us and we shall take him home,” Sebastien corrected, coldly.

I would have them all under the knife, my Host, Sariel hissed. Here, now, give them to me, let me feast on their screams, take their souls.

“And since you were so eager to hunt,” Sebastien murmured, walking forward and catching the one standing by the collar. “I shall show you what happens to prey who think themselves a predator. And I think we shall start with you, my garrulous fellow, and let the one who dared put his hands on my consort watch, so that he may know exactly the agony that awaits him when it is his turn to be flayed like a beast.”

There was a sound like rustling, as if one of the men kneeling was trying to get up and run. They stopped abruptly at the sound of braying. The hounds were there, circling, red hellfire eyes just barely visible in the shadows beyond the dying light of the fire.

“Like any good hunter, I brought my hounds. You may try and outrun them, if you like. They’re exceedingly well-trained. They’ll keep you alive for me to come find you and drag you back. There’s no escaping this, I’m afraid.”

“The king will just send more men,” the man before him said.

Sebastien was almost impressed. He’d die first, and perhaps less gruesomely than the rest. “Then I will have much to hunt this winter, won’t I.”

He grabbed at the man’s collar and turned to shove him against a tree, Sariel’s unnatural strength bleeding through so that the man could not escape. One of the others tried to run, but the rustle and snarling of the hounds told Sebastien he wouldn’t get far.

Tell them to keep him alive, my demon. I would have them aware of the pain they will suffer, when they scream for us, here.

Sariel shrieked, wings flared. Approving.

“Sebastien,” Devon said, softly, as Sebastien saw the horror flash over the face of the man he had pressed back against a tree.

“It’s true, oh, fuck me,” the man whispered. “You really are evil.”

“Is that what a deer says to the wolf that eviscerates it, do you think?” Sebastien asked, reaching in and finding his knife, the one that always came to him in the dark room when he needed it. “Let’s see.”

“Sebastien,” Devon said, again.

He finally looked over. “Ah. My flame. If you do not wish to see this, I will make this one quick and settle you before I see to the others.”

“A quick death, you promised me,” Devon said, and it took Sebastien a moment to realize he wasn’t speaking to him, but the man pinned against the tree. “Sebastien. He was only—doing his job. I am a traitor.”

“You are ours and that is the end of it. I know how you hate to be touched when they do not ask. I do not imagine that they did.”

“He didn’t, no, but.” Devon drew in a breath that sounded pained. “That one, Matthias. He didn’t. I—he’s a royal guard. I don’t want you to get in trouble with the king for me.”

“There is nothing we would not do, Beloved,” Sebastien and Sariel said, and Matthias’ eyes went wide again, face going white. “To keep you safe.”

“Then please, let him go.”

“I still have to tell the king, Lord Chastain,” Matthias said, to Devon.

“He is not Lord Chastain. I have told you, have I not, that he belongs to d'Hiver. Tell King Emile that, and I would expect he will understand why you could not bring Devon to him.”

“And he’ll come for you himself. Be reasonable, Your Grace. You’re a peer of the realm, you would risk the wrath of the king, risk the gallows yourself,for this—this traitor’s brat?”

“Yes,” Sebastien answered. “And you try our patience, arguing so, when our Beloved has asked us to show you mercy.”

Sebastien stepped back and let the man go. “Go, then. The hounds won’t stop you.”

Matthias glanced between Sebastien and Devon, then proved he did, in fact, have a sense of self-preservation stronger than his stance on traitors. He disappeared into the night, and Sariel shrieked an order to the hounds, who let him pass by safely.

Alone in the clearing, Sebastien quickly moved to Devon to untie him. “I would have killed them all for you. Even the king. You are ours.” He let Sariel come forth a bit more, so that his hands were talons enough to rip the ropes that tied Devon to the tree and pull the bits of the gag from around his neck. He tipped Devon’s face up and kissed him, tasted blood and growled, low and inhuman, into Devon’s mouth as Devon kissed him back.

“Maybe you should let them take me to Duciel, Sebastien.” Devon clung to him as Sebastien helped him stand. “I am a traitor. Maybe it’s only fair that I answer for what I did.”

“So say the laws of man, perhaps.” Sebastien slid his coat from his shoulders and draped it over Devon’s shivering frame. “But we are of hell, my flame, and we answer to no laws but our own.”

“I don’t want you to be hurt,” Devon whispered, trembling and bloody as he stood there in the softly-falling snow. “For once in my life, I want to do the right thing. Save someone instead of hurting them.”

“You did, Beloved.” Sebastien stroked his face, once, with his gloved fingers. “But you are ours. We will keep you safe, unlike those who should have done so, when you were small and defenseless. You will not worry about the king, or his men. You will be warm, and with us, and that is all you have to do. Remember? I told you when I brought you home with me, that I wanted all that you are, and I have not changed my mind.”

“But I don’t want to live if it means you are hunted,” Devon said, eyes wide. “I couldn’t—live with that.”

“My flame.” Sebastien tipped his chin up. “You are foolish, if you think even the king is a fiercer hunter than I. Now, do you wish to see what I will do to the man who touched you, who the hounds are bringing to me even now, or would you prefer not to see?”

“Please just let them go. All of them.” Devon sank to his knees there, in the mud and the snow, and bowed his head. “Please. I don’t want any more blood spilled on the snow. On my hands. Please. I just want to go home.”

The hounds dragged the two men back into the camp, near the banked fire.

“You will go back to your king. You will tell him the traitor Devon Chastain has been dealt with, taken by the Duke d'Hiver. And if my hounds catch your scent near my home, they will bring you to me, and you will see why they say I am a monster instead of a man.”

“Don’t beat up any more prisoners,” Devon added, from where he knelt at Sebastien’s side. “Especially when they don’t even fight.” After a moment, he added, “And tell Prince Adrien something, for me. Tell him that I’m glad none of it happened like my father wanted. And tell the king that my father was a monster, and I’m glad he hanged. I wish I could have seen it. Tell them that. Please.”

“My hounds shall accompany you to Duciel,” Sebastien said. “And make certain you do as we’ve said. Now go, as the duke’s mercy shall vanish with the dawn.”

“That was very dramatic,” Devon said, when the two men had taken off as ordered.

Before Sebastien could say anything, there was a yip, a scramble, and a tiny hellhound came flying from the dark and jumped—muddy paws and all—right at Devon.

“Oh,” Devon said, smiling. “I knew you’d tell them where I was. Good girl.”

“Come along,” Sebastien said, taking Devon’s hand in his. “We would have you home, now, where we may assure ourselves you are not harmed.”

Duchess yipped and ran circles around Devon’s feet, and in the distance, the hounds brayed in triumph at the close of a successful hunt.