Page 6 of The Holly King's Sacrifice

Inside is an ordinary cabin, though it's been decked out with strange accessories. The bed is at the very center of the room, a pile of furs looking awfully inviting on top of it. A few glowing orbs of light float around the room like wisps, while a fire crackles in an ashen old fireplace beside the bed.

And there are more skulls here—at least a dozen from various animals and even some that I don’t recognize. I gasp and tuck my face against the Holly King’s chest, somehow finding solace in the monster that brought me here.

He doesn’t give me respite for long, though. The Holly King tosses me on top of the furs, turning to stalk away from me as he removes the bandolier from his chest. I hear a sickening crack, and my eyes follow his movements as he pulls off his skeletal face and places it on the wall. I can’t see what’s underneath—I’m terrified, wondering if it’s just a single, gaping maw like the kids back in Manistique always said…

Then he turns.

And I’m surprised, to say the least.

Because underneath that skull is a relatively human face—and a handsome one, at that.

The Holly King is younger than I expected, with just a few crinkled lines around the corners of his eyes. He has a close-cropped, dark beard, braided down the middle in an intricate pattern. His hair is loose around his shoulders, and his eyes are the same glowing silver that I saw under what I now realize is a mask. He has swirling tattoos etched into his shoulders, leafy branches creeping over his collar bone.

That’s where the human elements end. Because there are weird parts, too—like the rough-looking, scaled spines on his shoulders, his scarlet skin, and the antlers rising from his forehead.

Those weren’t part of the mask.

They gleam with sharp, violent promise in the firelight, every point enough to draw blood if he put them to that use. He narrows his eyes at me as I look him over, and then his gaze travels down my body…and I realize he’s examining me, too.

And I’m still very much naked. In the Holly King’s bed.

I curl up into a tight ball, covering myself as much as possible. He lifts his chin and observes me like a scholar, cocking his head to the side.

“You were not just cold; you are ashamed of your body,” he says. “Why?”

“Because you’re making me stay naked,” I say, my voice muffled against my knees. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Is it not warm by the fire?”

“It isn’t about that,” I say.

He narrows his eyes. “Then explain, woman.”

I’ve always been told demons would know all about human shame and sin, but he seems completely oblivious. I blush hot red, but he keeps staring at me, like he’ll figure me out by gazing at me alone.

“We’re supposed to wear clothes around other people,” I mutter.

It’s only then that I realize he’s wearing barely anything—just a glorified fur loin cloth, I guess, along with some leather boots. I watch him as he paces across the room, scraping his hand back through his dark hair, between his antlers.

He turns and tosses me a bundle of clothing, and my heart stops when I realize what it is.

A slip dress just like the one I was wearing when my own people threw me into the dark forest.

My eyes go wide and I hold it to my chest, staring at the Holly King.

“Does this belong to the girl on the pyre?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He narrows his eyes and cocks his head, silver irises burning a hole in my racing heart. He stews on the question for a minute, every second of which makes me more certain I’m about to be killed, cooked, and eaten.

Isn’t that what demons do? They prey on the innocent, and devour us.

“The creature on that pyre was not like you, woman,” he says.

I want to ask what he means, but I don’t dare say another word when he seems to be getting more and more frustrated. Instead, I quickly slide the slip dress over my head—not nearly as covered as I would like, but enough that I don’t have to huddle into a ball to hide from him.

He grunts in approval and turns his back to me, going to the fire and picking up a jug. It gives me a better look at the tattoo on his back: a tree with hundreds of branches, looking more like it was engraved into his skin than painted.

“You should drink,” he says, handing me the jug. It’s warm on my palms—not uncomfortably so, but enough that I worry it might burn me at first. I quickly realize it feels good, though, settling in and holding it in both hands.

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