City of Thorns by C.N. Crawford
Chapter 17
We reached our endpoint in the Beelzebub Ward, where we stopped for dinner at a riverside restaurant called Valac’s. The setting sun cast dazzling red and orange rays over the river just to our south.
Everything in the royal Beelzebub Ward, where envy ruled, looked as though it were gilded. Sandstone streets, trees that bloomed with yellow flowers, women in metallic dresses, cheekbones highlighted with gold dust. The setting sun washing it all in amber.
Orion had left me on my own to get dinner. He’d said something about wanting to speak to the king before my arrival. And with him still footing the bill, I ordered crab legs with butter and garlic mashed potatoes, along with the most expensive red wine on the menu. I wondered which kind of wine Mortana had used to drown the queen, and frankly, it seemed like a real waste.
The task that lay ahead of me tonight made my stomach churn: charm a king and convince him I was a succubus. Fail, and my best friend would be murdered. And I’d die in a literal fire.
I let out a long breath, scanning the scene around me. From here, I could see the bridge that crossed the Acheron River—the Bridge of Harrowing, according to the map. On the other side of the river, shadows pooled in the darkening woods. A warm breeze rushed from the south, carrying with it the mossy scent of the wild forests.
Nowhere had I seen the star I was looking for, and I desperately wanted to ask about it. I couldn’t just bring it up cold, though. Not when Orion himself was a suspect.
In the City of Thorns, I was like an undercover cop.
I’d once watched an old Keanu Reeves movie called Point Break where he played a cop infiltrating a gang of surfer bank robbers. He blended in, got to know their culture, and waited for information to come to him. He didn’t just start interrogating the other surfers. Only when he got them to trust him did they reveal their secrets.
As I sipped my wine, staring out at the Acheron, I mulled over the horrible but real possibility that Orion was the killer. What if he’d known exactly who I was when he found me in Cirque de la Mer? What if he’d dragged me here under false pretenses to spy on me after killing my mom four years ago?
But the theory didn’t really hold up. Why would he spy on me? He had lethal magic at his fingertips and zero empathy. He could torture answers out of me if he felt like it.
My heart kicked up a notch as I realized that Lydia, the tattooed woman, was sitting at the table across from me. Her lip curled as she stared back at me, and my blood turned to ice.
I couldn’t let her actually see that I looked nervous, though, so I kept my expression bland and gazed at the flowing river.
“Mortana?” Orion’s deep voice pulled me from my musings, and I turned to see him. In the sunset, his beautiful face was bathed in rosy hues. “It’s time to get ready for your meeting with the king. And I’m afraid tonight might be a more difficult than I’d imagined.”
My stomach sank.
* * *
Orionand I approached the outer gates of the Tower of Baal, arm in arm. The palace looked ancient, the outer wall carved with arrow slits. A sandstone path led to an arched gateway. From here, I could just about see the former king’s head impaled on the outer gates above the first entryway. My blood turned cold as my heels echoed off the stone.
In the past hour, we’d taken a cab back to Orion’s house in the Luciferian Ward, and I’d readied myself. I’d picked out a gorgeous dress—long black lace with a slit up the thigh and a neckline so plunging that a bra wasn’t an option. I never wore stuff like this, but Mortana did. And you know what? Mortana looked fucking hot.
While I’d been fixing my hair, Orion had dropped the bomb. There was so much controversy about the return of the succubus, I wouldn’t be meeting the king alone. In fact, I’d be meeting a whole council of demons, and they would decide my fate. The whole Infernal Quorum would be in attendance—a duke or duchess from each of the city’s wards.
Including Lydia.
And if any of them sensed I was an imposter, I’d be thrown into a pit of fire right there in the Tower of Baal.
As we drew closer to the outermost gate, I considered why the king would need the input of a quorum. He had the ultimate power here. But my guess? He wanted to be able to blame other people if Mortana turned out to be a royal disaster. After all, it was their decision, too, right?
Powerful people—even when they had total control—were great at blaming others.
My heels clacked over the stones, and I tried not to dwell on the flames. It was just that of all the methods of execution, that was the one that really scared the shit out of me. But I was doing this for Mom, and now for Shai, so no matter what happened, I had to get it right.
When we got closer, I could see that the old king’s head looked remarkably well preserved, with a full head of black hair and his skin still smooth. But his eyes were closed, and his facial muscles looked slack. Torches fixed to the walls cast wavering light over the sandstone walls, and the dancing shadows almost made King Nergal’s head look like it was moving, the dead lips gibbering. I let out a long, slow breath.
With my arm looped through Orion’s, I leaned in to whisper, “Is this normal for demons? The severed head?”
He looked at me with confusion. “Of course not.”
Thank God. So they weren’t all sociopaths.
Then he added, “There would be no reason for other demons to keep a severed head above their gate. It’s only because he was the former king. It’s a reminder to the world that King Nergal was defeated by someone stronger, and that Cambriel is the rightful king. Vae Victis,remember?”
“The severed head doesn’t bother people who live here?” I whispered. “It’s a bit macabre.”
He shrugged. “He wasn’t very popular.”
I found myself staring at Orion, trying to read him. His face showed absolutely nothing, and the head clearly didn’t faze him. I wondered if all demons lacked empathy.
In mortal terms, someone with no empathy was called a psychopath. From what I understood, psychopaths had reduced activity in their amygdala, the part of the brain that created anxiety. So psychopaths didn’t feel fear as deeply as the rest of us, or any emotions, really. That meant they sometimes went to disturbing lengths to feel things. If they grew up middle class, they could chase a high buying and selling stocks, or go into politics. If they grew up around violence, maybe they’d cut off their dad’s head and stick it on a gate.
We crossed through into a stone courtyard, and I realized there was yet another gated wall before we got to the tower. The king had a lot of protection. “Orion,” I whispered, “do you ever feel fear?”
He frowned. “What would I be afraid of? I could kill nearly anyone.”
Oh, dear. “Do you ever feel bad for someone? I’m just trying to understand what kind of people think the decapitated head is a good idea.”
His lips curled with a taunting smile. “If you want to understand what kind of people think it’s a good idea, you can read your own history. It’s where we borrowed the custom from. Mortals were doing the exact same thing when we closed the city gates in the 1600s. The heads of defeated enemies jutted out of Boston Common in the 1670s.” He shrugged. “Demon culture simply moves more slowly.”
Well, I’ll be damned.
He had a good point. Demons and mortals alike were fairly terrible at times.
At the other side of the courtyard, two hulking, muscular demons stood guard before a door carved with a sigil. It almost looked like an insect with long legs, and it must be the symbol of Beelzebub.
The guards’ ivory horns curled from their heads, the color matching their pale, waxy skin. They glared at us and clutched their spears. Silvery magic curled off their bodies, and a low growl rumbled over the stones beneath our feet. The sound rose to a sort of deep, morose song that filled the air.
A shudder crawled up my nape at how unfamiliar this was. But I managed to keep my sexy, catlike walk going. My hips swayed. It was the weirdest thing, as I’d never met Mortana. I hardly knew a thing about her. And yet, I felt like I had an intuitive sense of how she thought. Her confidence, her disdain for others, her ability to control a situation. She was like my ruthless shadow-self coming to the surface. My id. She was the primal part of the brain, unburdened by self-consciousness or anxiety. The id was all desire and aggression, and maybe it was kind of fun letting it come to the surface.
When we got to the door, the two guards shifted out of the way. Now, the gates opened into a field of wildflowers in gorgeous fiery hues—amber, pumpkin, cherry red. A stone path carved through the field, leading to a gilded tower of concentric circular floors, which narrowed at the top. Closer to the tower, a red carpet had been laid out for our arrival.
It was the most grandiose thing I’d ever seen, and clearly, it had been built to intimidate. Around the tower, demons milled about in gorgeous ballgowns and suits. It looked like a Met Gala, with outrageous gowns of crystals and metallic colors. There were red dresses with long trains that trailed over the grass, men in pinstripe suits or velvet with enormous sashes. I could have transposed the scene to New York but for the fact that half the attendants had horns.
Tonight was apparently quite the event. Everyone wanted to be here, possibly to watch a succubus roast in a fire.
I stole a glance at Orion, taking care to maintain my placid expression. His silver hair gleamed in the moonlight, and when he turned to look at me, I felt an unwelcome fluttering in my heart. The thing was, I was starting to feel safe with him, like he was my protector. And that was absolutely stupid, considering he was one of my suspects.
And as we drew nearer to the red carpet, I felt all the demons’ eyes on me. The crowd started to close in. My heart was fluttering hard, my stomach twisting. I did my best to look bored, even if I was anything but.
In my black gown, I was wearing one of the simplest dresses here, but I thought it made sense. Mortana was a badass bitch with the confidence to show herself off. She wouldn’t rely on the clothes to do it. Why give all the attention to the designer when it could be on her?
Did I feel her confidence? Fuck, no. But I’d be doing my best to fake it.
The demons stared at us as we climbed up the steps to the tower itself. Two more guards stood at the top of the stairs, and they pulled open the doors.
The first thing I noticed was the pit of fire, flames dancing above it like a portal to hell.
And that’s where I’d find myself tonight if I wasn’t able to master my fear.