“I hate Hothgar,” muttered Viking. “The last time he showed me any affection was our claiming ceremony. But it isn’t a woman’s place to complain to a husband. At least, not to his face.”
“All demons want to dominate humans,” said Goth Princess. She turned to Ursula. “You’re basically human. I mean, you’re a mortal demon. You have no powers here in the Shadow Realm.”
Ursula paused, mid-spoonful. “What, now?”
“We know you’re here to be someone’s whore.” Talons poked a finger in her face. “Is it Bael? Are you his consolation prize for the loss of his wings and his manor?”
Ursula cringed. “Can we go back to when you were ignoring me?”
Goth Princess narrowed her eyes. “What depraved things has he been making you do in that ruined manor of his?” She licked her fangs. “He is quite gorgeous, so I’m not sure that I’d mind if I were you.”
Talons licked the soup off one of her curled claws. “He is reputed to be an amazing lover, you know. Not like Hogarth. Long ago, he was worshipped as a god in his home country. It could be worse for you.”
Ursula frowned, and she glanced at Bael on the dais, sitting silently by the other lords. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. He’s a perfect gentleman.”
Viking snorted. “You’re an idiot. They don’t exist.”
Talons raised her champagne flute, smiling. “Demon males view all women as their property and playthings. And when it comes to weak little human women, that goes double. You’re here as a harlot, my dear. We all know that.”
Ursula could feel her face heating from anger. Just as she was about to indulge in a tirade, Hothgar banged his gavel from the dais.
“It is time to begin the Selection of the Champions. We will start with the most junior lords.” He turned to the lord furthest from him, a cloaked man with milky-white skin and eyes like black pearls.
Hothgar raised his gavel. “Lord Vepar. you may nominate your five.”
Vepar stood and spoke in a firm voice. “I nominate Inth from my legion.”
A lanky demon in a full suit of silver armor entered from a side entrance, gripping a long spear. He strode into the empty space in the center of the hall, then bowed deeply toward the dais.
“Inth of the Vepar Legion. May Nyxobas grant you the grace of a shadow and the strength of a warrior.”
As Inth finished bowing, inky tendrils of magic lifted from his body, curling toward Nyxobas.
“What is that?” asked Ursula.
“His immortality,” said Talons. “It’s not much of a fight to the death if no one can die.”
“He’ll get it back if he wins,” said the Viking. “Except, he won’t win.”
His voice booming through the hall, Lord Vepar nominated the rest of his champions—all enormous men, shielded in silver armor.
Without seeing them fight, she couldn’t quite gauge their prowess. Somehow, none of them seemed quite as formidable as Bael, but you couldn’t always tell just by looking at someone. Some skinny men were just psychotic enough to put up a terrifying fight. In London, she’d once seen a slender Millwall F.C. fan bite the ear off a man in a Chelsea Football Club shirt.
Hothgar called upon one lord after another to nominate their five, and Ursula stared at the stream of muscled champions filling the center of the hall with a growing sense of dread. Bael must kill all of them. He must cut through each warrior, and he’s not even at full strength.
Her panic only worsened as Hothgar called on the senior champions, whose warriors grew in stature. One—a near giant—sent trembles over the floor as he walked.
When Hothgar reached Bileth—the Demon-Bull— he paused for just a moment. “Lord Bileth. Are you prepared to nominate a champion?”
“I am,” said Bileth, his deep voice filling the room. “I nominate my son, Sallos.”
An enormous beast of a demon strode into the center of the room. Like his father, his white skin had an almost bluish tinge. He wore only a white fur kilt about his waist, revealing a muscled torso. In one hand, he gripped a massive axe. Ursula’s stomach flipped. His weapon was as least five feet long, with a head of blue steel. She’d never seen Bael wield a weapon like that.
“Congratulations, Sallos. May Nyxobas—”
A door slammed open at the other end of the hall, cutting off Hothgar. Completely dressed in gray cloth, a stranger strode through the hall. A scarf covered most of his face, apart from a thin slit for his eyes. The entire hall stared.
“What is this interruption?” Hothgar bellowed.
He strode into the center of the hall, taking his place among the champions. “I wish to compete in the tournament.” His scarf slightly muffled his voice, but his words were clear nonetheless.