Darklands (Deadtown #4)

Lord Arawn squinted at them through the smoke.

“They’re making their way to the border,” he said.

“Which border?”

“With Uffern. They’re trying to get back to Hell.” He turned to me, his eyes mirroring the dark flames that still burned along his sword. “You are a stranger in my realm. Who are you?”

“My name is—”

An explosion rocked the platform, knocking both of us to its floor. Fire rained down from the sky. I threw up my right arm to protect my face; red-hot pain seared my forearm. I brushed at the spot, but there was nothing there.

Nothing but the place where I’d been marked by a Hellion.

A roar, primal and vicious, shook the city. I looked up. A massive demon, fifty feet tall, shot up from the cauldron of transformation. Its blue skin, the color of moldering bruise, flickered with hellflame. More flames shot from its eyes. A building on the edge of the square burst into flame.

It was Difethwr. Pryce hadn’t created a new shadow demon. He’d resurrected the Destroyer.

Fear sliced through me with a blade of flaming ice. Difethwr. My worst enemy. Chief demon of Hell. My father’s murderer. Destruction personified. I’d killed this Hellion once. But the Destroyer I’d killed had been nothing—a baby, a toy—compared to the nightmare that now rose from the cauldron.

Pryce dangled from the Hellion’s chest as though he’d been glued there. His head and limbs hung limply. Was he dead? Difethwr raised its arms. Pryce’s head snapped up, eyes open, and his arms moved skyward in the same gesture. His expression was pure terror. Pryce had been right; without more human spirit in him, he couldn’t control the Destroyer. Without my spirit, he was the weaker half of his new demi-demon whole.

Difethwr roared again, torching another building. With Pryce drooping from its chest like a rag doll, the Hellion jumped from the cauldron and bolted through the south gate. Explosions and flaming buildings marked its path.

I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. But the Destroyer was back.

I had to stop the demon before it completely ravaged the Darklands. Before it found its way to the Ordinary. If Difethwr entered my world, I had no doubt my vision of destruction—flames, death, ashes everywhere—would come true.

My foot was on the ladder when a hand fell heavily on my shoulder, fingers clamping hard enough to bruise. I turned to see Lord Arawn scowling at me. His sword no longer burned, but the same dark flames still flickered in his eyes.

“You will speak to me in my palace.” His words were not a request.

AS FOUR ARMED GUARDS MARCHED ME THROUGH THE TUNNEL to Arawn’s palace, I wondered whether our destination would be an interrogation room or a cell. It was neither. Instead, they left me in a small, well-furnished sitting room deep inside the palace. A fire—one with normal, yellow-and-orange flames—burned in a stone fireplace. Crossed swords were mounted over the mantel. Tapestries hung on the walls, and a mahogany bookcase held leather-bound volumes. Ornately carved wooden chairs, with brocaded cushions on their seats, were positioned around the room.

Guards stood outside the door—I’d pulled it open to look—but they’d let me keep my knife and Rhudda’s arrow (I’d picked up the pieces before I left the platform). Not that a broken arrow was much of a threat, but the guards didn’t seem bothered by my weapons. Until someone demonstrated otherwise, I’d consider myself Arawn’s guest. A guest with a knife at the ready.

I paced, feeling restless and irritated. My demon mark was hot and sore, like a hornet’s sting. I was wasting time, waiting in this cozy room while the Destroyer was out there torching the Darklands. My best chance for killing the Hellion was now, when it was newly resurrected, disoriented, and unsure of itself. But I couldn’t kill it without decent weapons. And that was one of the reasons I needed to talk to Arawn.

I plopped down in a chair and lay the broken arrow on the floor. Where was Arawn? If he didn’t show up soon, I’d leave. I’d kill any guards who tried to stop me. I’d smash down the door and—

Deep breaths, Vicky. For ten years, the Destroyer’s rage had burned in me through the mark I bore. I’d fought to control it then. I wouldn’t let it control me now.

Anyway, I didn’t have long to wait. The door opened, and Arawn strode into the room. His face was still streaked with blood, grime, and soot, although his robes had cleaned themselves, their pure, pale lavender practically glowing. His sword was sheathed at his side.

“Don’t bother offering me anything to eat or drink,” I said, before he could speak. “I’m not interested.” My chances for leaving the realm weren’t looking good, thanks to the broken arrow lying beside my chair. But until I knew for sure that I was stuck here, I’d resist any and all offers of Darklands-style hospitality.

Besides, I was so hungry and thirsty by now, I was almost afraid I’d say yes.

Arawn stared at me for a long moment. He wasn’t a handsome man, but power radiated from him the way light radiates from the sun. His power, though, was dark. Death power. His craggy face, all sharp angles partially softened by a well-trimmed black beard, seemed half-veiled by shadow. His eyes burned darkly under thick black brows.

The lord of the Darklands inclined his head. “As you prefer. Although personally, I could use some wine to steady my nerves.” He motioned to a servant, who scurried from the room and then reappeared almost immediately, carrying a golden tray with a crystal decanter and one goblet. The servant filled the goblet with deep ruby wine and handed it to Arawn. The king took a sip, closed his eyes, and drained the glass. His Adam’s apple bobbed. When the servant had refilled the goblet and withdrawn, Arawn spoke.

“As I recall, you were on the point of telling me your name.”

“Victory Vaughn. But I answer to Vicky.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re Evan Vaughn’s daughter?”

I nodded, swallowing the lump that sprang to my throat.

“Your father ran from my court trying to avoid his fate. That was foolish of him. One day, like it or not, his name will appear in my book.”

“What book?”

“The Register of the Cauldrons. When a shade comes to Resurrection Square for a return, magic records his or her name in the current volume. That’s why I was delayed. I was consulting the court archivist about what happened. An entire volume filled itself with names—ugly, demonic names—for the cauldron of transformation. Your name appeared but, the archivist tells me, it was soon erased, presumably when you climbed out. And there were two others—”

“Pryce Maddox and Difethwr.”

Arawn nodded. “So tell me, Victory-Vaughn-who-answers-to-Vicky, why did disaster strike my realm today?”

“Pryce was the one who left the cauldron on your doorstep at the Devil’s Coffin.”

“Laden with hidden demons.”

I nodded. “He’s a demi-demon.”

A thunderstorm of anger swept across Arawn’s face. “How can that be? A demi-demon would never gain admittance to my realm. His garments were gray. He entered as any other shade whose time in the Ordinary has ended.”

I explained how I’d killed Pryce’s shadow demon and how Myrddin had brought his son back. “Without his shadow demon, Pryce was the same as any human. Do you remember a sudden influx of human spirits into the Black?”

“Spirits that didn’t pass through to here or the Beyond but returned to the Ordinary? Yes, I do.”

“They were victims of a plague, a disease that made them dead for three days and then brought them back to life. Pryce purposely infected himself with it.”

“So he could enter my realm with the guarantee of a quick return to the Ordinary.” Arawn stroked his beard. The gesture reminded me of Dad. “You say Pryce carries the spirit of Myrddin Wyllt. The wizard must have guided him out of the Black and across the Darklands to Tywyll.” His gaze snapped to me. “And you. How did you come to be here, Victory? From your refusal of refreshment, I take it you don’t intend to stay.”

“No. I made a deal with Mallt-y-Nos.”

“Ah.” He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. Firelight glinted off an onyx ring. “The Night Hag does not enter into any deal, as you call it, without being certain that she’ll benefit. Preferably while doing harm to the other. Let me guess. She requires you to smuggle something out of the Darklands before she’ll allow you back into the Ordinary.”

“Yes, she wants—”

“It doesn’t matter what she wants. She could ask for…” He looked around the room, then gestured at the fireplace. “She could ask for a speck of dust from my hearth, and the prohibition would be the same. Those who enter may bring nothing in, and those who leave may take nothing out. It’s been my principal rule ever since Arthur raided the Darklands and stole my cauldron.” Arawn chuckled, but his face remained hard. “It cost him, though. It did cost him. Many of his men became my subjects. Your world has a poem about it, I believe. Do you know the refrain, ‘except for seven, none returned’?”

I nodded, my mouth even drier than before.

The satisfaction faded from Arawn’s expression, and he sighed. “I thought I was getting it back—the cauldron, I mean. But obviously I got more than I expected. Many souls have been lost. My city is in ruins. And all because Pryce smuggled in something that doesn’t belong here.”

“The hidden demons.”

Arawn nodded. “Nothing comes in; nothing goes out. It’s a good rule, as you must agree after today’s events. So you’ll understand, I trust, why I cannot allow you to break it for the sake of a foolish bargain.”

“What if I can do something for you—would you make an exception then?”

Arawn looked me up and down. Not with a leer, but as one warrior sizes up another. “And what service are you offering?”

“I can kill the Destroyer.”