Page 44 of The Devil In Blue
And I enjoyed it. One swipe of my sword could cut a kelpher in half. One flick of my wrist could snap the neck of a roglyn. It was so easy to destroy. So easy to focus my anger on corrupted things.
And so fucking satisfying for all of two minutes before the revulsion set in.
“Seven,” a voice said. “A good hunt. Wonderful job, my king.”
Elanor. My raven. I had never created a familiar before her. I did not even know she’d be a raven. Or a woman. But she was a striking one and she was always so eager to aid in my hunts. To find the hundreds that had escaped the Labyrinth, I needed help, so I birthed her from my very blood to patrol the woods for me.
And she did her job so well. She had a nose for wicked souls and sniffed them out so quickly, always so keen to see me take them apart.
But now my day was done.
“Fly ahead,” I ordered. “Draw me a bath. I need to wash this stink away.”
“Of course. A bath is well deserved. I will make you one of my elixirs, too. For your nerves.”
Elanor took on her raven form in a blink and disappeared toward the palace.
Alone, I was able to think. Every time I destroyed a soul, the high lasted for mere moments. It was a high that came and went and was followed by guilt and sickness. But part of me always thought it was worth it.
The thrill of the kill made me want more. Every day I wanted more and I let more souls escape the Labyrinth, eager to shower in their screams, their blood, and their fear. If they would not punish themselves, then I would. Happily.
And if I went too far, the realms would balance it all. Perhaps the realms would find a way to destroy me and a new king would take my place. One that was too much of a coward to do what I was doing. But until then, I was going to do my part. They could call me anything they wanted after I was gone, but I was going to wash the Glyn in the blood of those who did not deserve release.
Sticky with the remnants of my most recent hunt, I strolled toward the palace. I was lost in stirred-up hate and bitterness when something caught my eye just outside the big arch leading into my Labyrinth. Another escaped soul to cut to pieces, I presumed. I squeezed the hilt of my sword, excitement shooting through my veins.
But I paused when I realized I was not looking at a monster. There was no dark aura hanging over her head like a storm cloud. No guilt. No horrors lingering like parasites on her soul. No stench of evil.
Odd. All souls were haunted by something, even if they didn’t know what it was.
She was lost, but she wasn’t acting lost. If she had wandered out of my Labyrinth, then I should have been cutting her in two. But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to.
She was tall, slender, and naked with pale blonde hair like spun silver and gold in tight ringlets and waves. She had eyes like burnt umber and a face that leeched the cold right out of my heart. When she saw me, I could hear her blood rush. Whether it was fear or excitement, I didn’t know, but it made mine mimic the rhythm.
I was covered in gore and she did not flinch away. Even the blade clutched tightly in my hand did not make her run.
“What is this place?” she asked me.
Her voice was melodic and sweet, vacant of whatever life she led before she ended up in the Glyn. She was new. Bright. Innocent. A clean slate.
“This is the Glyn,” I said.
Her smile flattened at the sound of my voice and she blinked her beautiful eyes at me. Her long hair covered her small breasts, though she didn’t seem worried about her lack of clothes. Why would she have been? Once free from the Labyrinth, most souls were stripped of almost everything they were in life. The memories belonged to the misty maze.
Although, that fact did not deter me from slaughtering all the other escapees.
This woman barely even knew what modesty was and it was a beautiful thing.
In her delicate fingers, she held something. A pink flower, which was still attached to a thin twig of the plant she’d plucked it from. The twig was covered in thorns and had pierced her skin in multiple places. Blood trickled down her hand and wrist and a bit was on her thigh where she likely rubbed against the bush to take her pretty flower.
“Sweetbriar,” I muttered.
She smiled and looked down at her flower, touching the soft petals with bloody fingers. When the red smeared across the flower, her brows knitted and she opened her hand to see the stains across her palm. I took a breath, smelling the metallic tang of her blood mixed with the sweet floral aroma, and slowly walked toward her.
“You’re bleeding,” I said.
“I didn’t…” she said, still puzzled. “I didn’t feel it. When we bleed, there should be pain, right?”
Slowly, I reached out and I took the flower from her hands, watching her rub the blood over her fingers as if she’d never seen it before.
