Detharu, a demon whose species Lore had never determined, mainly because he appeared different to everyone who saw him, smiled. At least, the upturn of his black, crusted lips was the closest thing to a smile Lore had ever seen from the guy. Whatever it was, it didn’t do anything to quell the unease churning in Lore’s gut, an unease that was even more crushing than usual.
“You make a good point. But not good enough.” Shifting in his throne constructed of the bones of several demon species and at least one human, Detharu gestured with his steel-gauntleted fist.
Two of his sentries, huge Ramreel demons with curled horns and an unholy love of machetes, peeled away from the jagged stone walls. Their small, piggish eyes glowed with murderous anticipation as they came at Lore from both sides.
Four more Ramreels watched from their positions at the chamber entrance, drool dripping from their snouts as though Pavlov had rung the dinner bell. And in the shadows behind Detharu, another male stood, the expression on his face unreadable, but Lore sensed a certain… anticipation. Weird. Lore had seen the dude before, hanging out with his insane brother, Roag, and Byzamoth, an equally insane fallen angel who had tried to start Armageddon.
But both nutcases were gone now, and there was no point in wondering why the demon was there, because at the moment, the biggest mystery facing him was whether he was keeping his head.
Lore rolled his shoulders, doing his best impression of a guy who wasn’t at all worried that his next breath might be the last. “Look, Deth, no need to get your knickers in a twist. I’ll make it up to you—”
“You gave someone life so I would spend two sunsets in agony!”
Only Deth would think that Kynan’s resurrection was all about him. “Yeah, but—”
“We’re assassins, you imbecile! We don’t give life! You make me a laughingstock.” Detharu came to his feet with a snarl, the fire from the huge hearth in the center of the room casting flickering shadows into the valleys between his ribs—which were on the outside of his body. “Worse, you and Zaw failed to kill the Seminus demons as you were contracted to do!”
Lore clenched his hands into fists at his sides to keep from doing something stupid, like strangle his boss. “I can get you the money.”
That was a big, fat lie. There was no way in Hades he could come up with the twenty million he would have gotten from the executor of Roag’s estate upon proof of Wraith, Eidolon, and Shade’s deaths. Half of that, maybe, but not the full amount.
“But you can’t get back the respect I lost in the eyes of the Assassins’ Guild,” Deth roared.
“There has to be a way.”
“There is.” Detharu sank back down as if his display of temper never happened. “Your head on a pike, displayed in the Guild hall.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t work for me.” Lore shoved his gloved hand through his hair, but that didn’t massage the tension out of his skull. “Cut me some slack, will ya? They were my brothers.”
Fortunately, Lore had failed to kill them. After the attempt and consequent revelations of blood ties, Lore had only stuck around his brothers long enough to get a little history of the Seminus breed and see what happened with Wraith’s female, and then he’d gotten out of the demon hospital as if it was burning down.
Hadn’t seen or spoken with his brothers since, though Eidolon’s constant text messages had been as irritating as claws on a chalkboard.
“Family?” Detharu leaned forward in his seat. “Then why did you agree to kill them?”
“I didn’t know they were my brothers at the time the job was offered.” No, that little secret had been as twisted as Roag.
The chair creaked as Detharu sat back and rubbed his pointed chin. “I have siblings. I killed two of them. Liked doing it.”
This wasn’t looking good. “No doubt they deserved it.” Yep, Lore could kiss ass with the best of them.
Detharu shrugged. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and the occasional drip of Ramreel drool. Lore eyed the exit, hastily piecing together an escape plan. He could take out the demon closest to him, snag his machete, and then hope to God he could mow down the others before Detharu caught up to him. If he made it to the outer chamber, Detharu’s other slave-assassins would help him escape.
Not that he’d be free for long. The slave-bond, the hand imprint burned into the flesh above his heart, would eventually compel him to return here or face unimaginable suffering as the bond first seared his skin, and then worked its way to his muscles and organs. You either returned to the den, or you cooked to death. Slowly.
Finally, Detharu shook his head. “I won’t execute you for not killing your brothers.”
“Big of you,” Lore muttered.
A serrated growl rumbled in Deth’s skeletal chest. “What did you say?”
“I said thank you.” Lore scowled at the Ramreels. “You heard him. Beat it. No murder for you today.” The Ramreel minions acted more as guards than executioners, but they pretty much did whatever Deth wanted them to do, and the bloodier the task, the happier they were.
Detharu’s glowing orange eyes narrowed. “There is a price, of course.”
“Naturally.”