Page 29 of A Serenade To The Elf Queen
“Keep your guards up,” Aelfric says, training his eyes on the gargoyles and statues lining the walls. His ears twitch at the distant beat of hooves galloping towards us.
My body tenses at the incoming danger; a demon riding a black destrier. I fail to understand the need for the stallion when he himself can outrun the beast ten times the speed.
The demon presents himself under the guise of a human with sharp features and a strong jaw. His obsidian hair is tied to the back of his head in a rough braid. Dark tattoos run along the side of his temples down to the back of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his black clothes. He might have been handsome too if I was oblivious to what he had done to my friend. There’s no mistaking it. This is the demon who drove a dagger into Aelfric’s eye.
Ragnar.
A small price to pay for being able to run with my life,Aelfric had said. I don’t know how much of that was true.
“What business do the elves have with my liege?” the demon asks, tilting his head like a hawk.
“A hope for an alliance,” Tierra answers firmly. “We were told that the Demon Lord is a neutral party.”
The demon’s jaw twitches as he inhales a deep breath. “You have been told wrongly. We owe allegiance to the Eternal Ruler of the Seven Realms, Eirik Bloodhound.”
“But he is open to discussion, is he not?” Eamon says, crossing his arms. “I have a message from the Elders of Aelfheim themselves.”
The demon ignores the commissioner wholly.
“Go fetch your master, you mongrel—”
I raise a hand to silence the infuriated commissioner.
“This is a request for shelter and refuge from the cold winds. Surely you would not turn away a weary guest at your gates?” I ask the male softly.
He quirks an eyebrow. “Who am I speaking to?”
“Rhianelle Wiolant, Queen of Aelfheim,” I answer, lowering my hood to meet his gaze.
His stone-cold face shifts a little and the amber eyes soften.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” the demon bows his head. The overgrowth and roses covering the gate instantly slither away to grant us passage.
My heart stammers as I enter Balthazar’s lair. We walk past the night-blooming flowers and the well-tended garden. They are in such contrast to the charred, dark material covering the wall of the castle. My eyes lift to the Black Rose of Death banner snapping wildly atop the crenellations. That can’t be a good sign…
There have been many names to the realm where the demons come from. Humans call them Hel, Hell, Hella, or the underworld.
We simply call it the Hollow.
Perhaps the door to that place is somewhere here in this compound. None of my retinues dare stride too close to the towering demon guide. I fall into step beside the well-spoken male to dissuade their distrust.
“I’ve long admired your statues and paintings in the human world,” Ragnar says, guiding me through the double-door entrance. “You are as fair as they pictured, Your Highness.”
I feel a flush of warmth on my cheeks. “Those are my mother’s. I am Rhianelle the Second.”
I expected the interior to be grim, like the castle of horror it displayed outside, but Kheirall Balthazar’s home is rather cozy.
“Allow me to get you some refreshment,” Ragnar says, casting a glance over my weary envoy, leaving us in the main hall to rest. I try to read Aelfric’s reaction to the demon who hurt him. Instead of fear or a fiery wrath, my friend offers toaccompany the demon. I see the rare, sincere smile tugging his lips as if meeting a long-lost acquaintance.
Their good terms surprise me but now that Aelfric’s keen eye is no longer on my back, I take the chance to explore the place. Brilliant works of art from decades or centuries ago bedeck every corner of the castle. I meander down the massive stone hallways, marveling at the sculptures of warriors and brutal beasts carved into the dark castle stone itself. Some of these tapestries and crystal figurines precede my own existence. Everything is glistening and polished to perfection.
My eyes glance over a painting of the Nightwalker court on the high ceiling. Most of the vampires perished after their war with us.
Every manner of debauchery and horror of their empire is depicted in great detail. The artwork becomes more macabre the longer I walk down the passageway. I follow the paintings until they reach the end of the path to a silver ornate door. The illustration should continue in the next room. It’s unlocked and slightly open. I push the slab without thinking, the rug covering the floor muffles my footsteps as I enter.
I suck in a startled breath as I look at two people lying on a dark scarlet chaise. It’s not their wings, tail or horns that drive this nervous feeling in my gut. My eyes fall over the place they are joined as he pounds into her relentlessly.
Gods help me. I’ve interrupted a demon love-making session.
