Page 83 of Song of Her Siren

She stopped as if she’d struck an invisible wall. “I can’t do this without my mates.”

Grating laughter echoed from the other end of the tunnel, burrowing into my bones like the echo of an axe striking stone. It took me a moment to realize it was Drae’s demon chained to the back wall opposite us.

His evil glare centered on Shiri. “You call yourselves white witches. Kyan was far stronger and smarter than either of you.”

Ash howled and rattled his chains. “Shut the fuck up!” he called to Drae’s demon.

The demon only laughed harder.

Goddess, Drae had no control over the parasite inside him, and I feared there was nothing left of my sister’s mate.

Shiri let out a strangled cry and ran from the dungeon.

The girls sniffled, smearing their tears on my skirt.

I gave Helian and Cassandra a helpless look. “What now?”

Cassandra clutched the book of spells in her hands as Helian ushered her out of the cell, her worried gaze darting from us to that demon in Drae’s body. “Now we pray to the goddess,” Cassandra answered, “that Shiri doesn’t succumb to her depression before we can stop these demons.”

Chapter Thirteen

Damas

Resurrected demon inhabiting

King Fachnan’s corpse

Damas paced the floorof what was once the atrium gardens, now carpeted with overgrown grass and blood, while dragging his rotting leg behind him. He was angry with Gordin for deceiving him and even angrier with himself for believing it. His body still reeked of decay after taking the useless potion Gordin had given him. The potion had been nothing more than the blood of a virgin. Perhaps the potion had worked on the Mistress, for she was a Lamashtu, and that species of demon subsisted on blood, but Damas needed more. Much more. Before long, he would unravel like a frayed stocking. His wyvern wasn’t recovering, either. He smelled like week-old fish that had sat too long in the sun. Damas wasn’t sure how much more of the stench he could take before he set the wyvern’s carcass aflame.

Perhaps the flames would scare away the demonlings. The spiders were still in the castle, having stripped Damas of his throne room after building a webbed nest there. They had already eaten every creature in the city and now were sucking dry the roots of the once magnificent tree growing in the center of the castle. The tree’s blackened branches sagged, sadly dragging the ground like a dragon with snapped wings. The tree would fall in a matter of days, bringing the castle with it. Damas secretly hoped it would crush every last demonling in the process.

He continued pacing while staring out of the gaping holes in the glass ceiling, hoping Gordin returned soon with food. He was famished. When he took a bite of a rotten apple, he cried out as two teeth fell out, disintegrating before hitting the ground.

He gave a start at the sound of ruffling wings, then snarled when Gordin appeared before him. Curse that ugly demon and his teleporting abilities. He still couldn’t get over the appearance of the Mistress’s general. One side of his face looked like a melted ball of wax. He had no hair on that side and a hole where an ear should’ve been. But the other side of his face looked like a typical Ravini male, dark features and hair and those black, feathered wings. Damas had always been jealous of feathered wings, a beautiful contrast to the batlike sails in his Nephilim form, thicker than a dragon’s wings with more protruding veins.

“Where have you been?” he snapped, motioning toward the wyvern who lay in the center of the floor, a moan rising up from the beast’s concaved chest. Shamadi deserved better. He’d been a fearless and wickedly cunning demon back in their old world.

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