Page 42 of Bargain with the Demon King
"Better than thinking."
"Is it?"
"Thinking leads to remembering Chad's ass pumping into someone who actually fits in his hands. Counting leads to numbers. I prefer numbers."
The air around him crackles, a low hum of ozone that wasn't there a second ago. "Perhaps we should visit him again," he says, his voice a low grind of stone on stone. "Let you count how many pieces I tear him into."
"Pass. One viewing of Chad's enthusiasm for other women was enough." I follow him to the courtyard where Shadowsteeds wait. Their unnatural stillness makes the bones in my ankles ache, a deep, resonant wrongness that travels up from the ground. "Besides, you'd make it quick. Chad deserves to live a long life knowing exactly what he is."
"Which is?"
"Forgettable."
The word sits between us, small and sharp.
He helps me mount the Shadowsteed, and I catalog the contact despite myself—his hands spanning my waist completely, the controlled strength that lifts me without effort, the heat that bleeds through fabric. His thumb drags across my ribs as he withdraws. I don't know if it's deliberate. Don't want to know.
"Can you ride?"
"I can sit on a horse-shaped thing while it moves. Same as I can sit anywhere else while existing."
"Your enthusiasm overwhelms."
"Funny. Chad said the same about my optimism. Right before explaining how exhausting positivity becomes."
We ride in silence through the canyon paths. The landscape blurs past—those too-green fields, the lakes that reflect nothing real, the mountains that fold into themselves. My body moves with the mount's rhythm automatically, muscle memory from when I cared about staying balanced.
"Three hundred and forty-two." I announce after twenty minutes.
"What?"
"Steps. Your demon horses take precisely identical steps. Even their breathing follows patterns—in for four, out for four. Everything here is rehearsed. Calculated. Even the wildlife."
"Does that disturb you?"
"It's honest. Better than Chad pretending spontaneity while calculating which lies would keep me convenient."
The settlement appears between one thought and the next, carved into a natural hollow in the canyon wall. Wood and stone buildings that should look wrong here but don't. Gardens with vegetables growing in crystal-flecked soil. Smoke rising from chimneys. Laundry on lines, moving in wind that shouldn't exist.
Humans. Not servants or pets or soul-bound prisoners. Families.
"What is this?" My voice scrapes out raw.
"Humans who stayed after their contracts ended." Azzaron dismounts in a single, unbroken motion, landing without a sound, as if gravity is merely a suggestion he chooses to obey. His hands find my waist again, lifting me down. This time his fingers press harder than necessary into my hips. "About sixty families now."
"They chose to stay? Here? In Hell?"
"Hell is relative." He watches me process the impossible. "Some had nothing to return to. Others found opportunities here they'd never have in the mortal realm. A few fell in love with demons."
"Love." The word burns my throat. "Right. Because that works out so well."
"Better than loving mortals, apparently."
The accuracy makes me want to scratch his eyes out. Or laugh. The distinction blurs these days.
A woman carries water from a well, humming. Children chase each other with wooden swords, shouting about slaying demons. Two old men argue outside what might be a tavern. A couple tends their garden, the man making his pregnant wife laugh.
"They're thriving." Not a question. An indictment.
