Page 5 of Bound

Still, he couldn’t help but admire her annoying spirit. Most mortals he interacted with screamed at the sight of him. And she was clearly scared, evident by her trembling frame. But she kept meeting his eye, and her hand was steady around her chipped dagger.

He let his gaze travel over her once more: long ebony hair, surprisingly inky eyes. A dark cloak and skin almost as pale as him. Framed against his forest, she almost looked like she belonged there.

Then he noticed the blood in her cheeks. Heard her heartbeat fluttering in her flushed chest and tasted her salty sweat in the crisp evening air. Her cloak wasn’t black at all; it was a deep brown. She was pretty for a mortal. And she smelled good enough to eat.

If only she hadn’t bound him. Now, he had to complete his half of the deal.

If she still wants to do it after she learns what is needed,he reminded himself.

He adjusted his loincloth. He hadn’t straightened it in… several centuries, at least. Granted, he had been asleep for most of that time.

Something the mortal had said niggled at him.

“That name,” he said. “What did you call me?”

“The… Bygone?” The mortal frowned. “Is that not your name?”

Slate had never heard that word in the entirety of his long existence. Before he could answer, the portal pulsed. A Skullstalker stepped out of the flaming door. He had huge horns and spiked wings tucked into his back.

“Brother,” Wick greeted as the portal whirled in the dark tree behind him. “I thought you were sleeping through this century.”

Slate growled. “Something incredibly irritating woke me up.”

“Oh?” Wick’s fiery eyes landed on the witch. “Who is this?”

Slate ignored him. It hardly mattered, mortals died too quickly to bother learning their names.

“Paimon has not been answering his followers,” he said.

“Paimon? Huh.” Wick frowned, gaze dragging back to the mortal. “Slate, whoisthis? She smells like…”

He leaned in, sniffing her long, dark hair. The witch stiffened, her hand twitching around her bloody dagger.

“Back,” she said, her voice breaking. She cleared her throat. “Get back.”

Wick blinked, stepping back. “Why is this mortal bound to you, Slate? Is she a sacrifice?”

“They have not sacrificed anyone to me in centuries,” Slate said, annoyed. He quite missed the mortal sacrifices. He would untie them and let them try to escape first. He never got to chase the lost souls who ended up in his realm, so it was fun to finally give in to the hunt.

Slate pushed the fond memories away. “Have you heard from Paimon?”

Wick shook his head. “No. Out of all of us, I would have expectedyouto know.”

Slate hummed. It was a fair enough expectation, once. But things had changed. Nothing dramatic, obviously—they just drifted apart. Paimon was getting annoying, always intruding on his void and waking him up. Slate had been relieved when he stopped. Now he was thinking maybe he should have been worried.

“Have fun with your not-sacrifice,” Wick said.

“Go away, Wick.”

Wick shrugged and stepped back through the portal.

“Good to meet you,” Wick called as it closed behind him. “I hope he doesn’t eat you!”

“Thanks,” the mortal called back, sounding bewildered.

The portal sealed shut. The mortal gasped, reaching out like she was going to touch the bark it had closed on.

Slate considered. He knew all of Paimon’s hidden places. He could seek them out and avoid the ritual altogether. He doubted she would want to do it in the first place. Mortals were so small, after all. It would be difficult, maybe impossible, for them to mate.

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