Demon Ridden Ch. 02: Pride

CW: worldbuilding

Chapter 2: Pride

I couldn't decide which was more painful to look at--the corpses of the men I'd just killed in a fit of blind rage, or the demonic claws and skin my left hand had just sprouted. I couldn't stay here any longer. I had to get out.

Normally I'd have paused at least long enough to loot the bodies. Don't look at me like that--it's not like they needed material goods anymore. It wasn't as if I'd... well, I had killed them, I guess, but it had mostly been self-defense. If I told myself that often enough I might even start to believe it.

Today, though, I couldn't stand the thought of lingering on the battlefield. Even the time it took to find my bow was painful. I kept hearing the last man beg for mercy, feeling that awful surge of wrath...

No. No, this wasn't helping anything. I didn't need to dwell on what I'd done, I needed a doctor. Or a priest. Or a doctor-priest. A magician-doctor-priest. Someone to tell me what the hell was going on, and how to break whatever curse had been placed on me.n

That meant money, though, and no small amount. Probably more than I had left, which meant that I still had to find this gods-damned cow, first.

Thankfully, my attackers hadn't bothered to hide their trail beyond the point where they'd staged their ambush. They had a little camp about a quarter-mile down the ravine. Simone's bull was tied to a stubby tree just outside the ring of tents, along with a pair of weary-looking horses.

Jackpot--even old nags like these were worth a pretty penny. And it meant I wouldn't have to walk all the way back.

I'd have said something about my luck starting to turn, but every time I caught a glimpse of my transformed arm I remembered that nothing could be farther from the truth.

#

Simone dvaLena had indeed been grateful for the safe return of her bull, and utterly horrified at the idea that her quest had turned into some sort of attempt on my life. She admitted to having a few dealings with Jake dvOlivia, but couldn't imagine how shipments of salt beef had turned into an assassination. She went on and on at such length that it started to make me suspicious. Especially with the eyes she kept making at me the whole time.

And honestly, if I wasn't so worried by my arm it might have worked--my body was still ridiculously on edge. It wasn't my usual reaction to danger, but my nipples were hard enough to cut glass, and every time she batted her eyelashes, my breath would catch in my throat and I'd have to force my mind away from inappropriate thoughts.

I finally made a lame excuse and left. Fled, really, before I found a way to make this whole mess even worth. Maybe Simone was part of Jake's schemes and maybe she wasn't, and maybe said schemes were connected to my arm and maybe they weren't, but sleeping with her was a complication I did not want.

No matter how much my body protested otherwise.

I wasn't ambushed again on the way back to town, and eventually managed to return to my room at the Devil Ray Inn two hundred gold richer. Two hundred and sixty gold, actually, counting what I'd gotten for the horses. Two hundred and ninety seven, if you included my previous savings.

I didn't know if it would be enough to pay for the kind of help I needed, but it would have to do. Somehow it didn't feel like a good idea to put things off while I saved up a bit more.

I left my weapons and armor in my room, keeping only the daggers in my boots and at the small of my back. I almost left those too, but decided against it at the last moment. I didn't want to be armed if I went berserk again, but I wanted to be robbed even less.

It was full dark by the time I slipped back out of the inn, and the streets were rapidly emptying. It took me less than an hour to reach my destination.

#

"There are as many ways to live as there are waves on the sea" was the unofficial motto of the Free Cities, but it might as well apply to the practice of magic as well. It was a part of life in every corner of the six seas, but different peoples wielded it in very different ways.

Here in the lands around the Maelsea, we were taught that the world was governed by the three hundred and seventy-seven Dominions--the formless spirits of everyday objects and concepts. Those lucky enough to be Trusted by such an entity could do virtually anything they set their mind to, provided it in some way fell under the purview of their Dominion.

To the south, in the war-torn lands of Casac and Pastela, priests could chain the spirits of the dead to the bodies of the living. So augmented, a Warborn could claw their way through a brick wall, take a crossbow bolt to the face without blinking, and hurl heavy objects without so much as a touch.

To the west, the lush forests of Korenth have been known to give rise to men and women who were blessed with the strength and majesty of the great dragon they worshipped. Sometimes this meant claws and scales, sometimes wings, and sometimes deadly venom or hypnotic eyes.

And in the cold and ancient Dirge Empire to the north, magic was a thing of music, all color and flash and grandiose, immediate effect. A skilled Maestro could summon lightning and open portals between distant places, heal the wounded and quiet the winds.

They were not popular around the Maelsea. The Dirge Empire had been gazing covetously at the Free Cities for decades, just waiting for an excuse to pounce, and anyone with the misfortune of looking like one of the pale northern race was greeted with suspicion at best and thrown stones at worst. When it came to Maestros, that hostility mixed with a healthy fear of their abilities into something explosively dangerous. Whether they were spies or refugees, Maestros in the Free Cities almost universally tried not to attract attention.

On the other hand, that just meant those brave enough to sell their services on the black market could command exorbitant prices. That kind of money could buy safety and privacy--and made the prospect of approaching a Maestro even more nerve-wracking. Even if she did owe you a favor.

#

I knocked respectfully on the door of a sturdy family-style home. It would have been unremarkable out in the country, but in the heart of the city, the three-story construction had to have been outrageously expensive. After a moment, the door was opened by an equally expensive butler in an equally expensive embroidered red brocade and hose.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" His words formed a question, but from his tone the answer was going to be "no" regardless of what I said. The sheer haughtiness made me want to punch him in the face. He wouldn't sound so fancy with his shiny shoes jammed down his throat, I could tell you that much.

"I need to speak with Dar'asa'ilv'yeri'moryrr'i'et'bur, urgently," I said urgently. "Please. I can pay, I promise."

"There is no-one by that name here," he sniffed. "This is the residence of lady Dar'asa'ilv'tano'moryrr'i'et'bur."

Ugh. Dirge names are awful. And his patronizing tone was not helping me control the urge to kick the shit out of him. I took a deep breath. Satisfying as it would be, it wouldn't get me any closer to the Maestro.

"Tell lady Dara that Sylvia dvAnya needs her help." I managed to keep my voice level, though I failed to keep by hands from twitching as though they were already wrapping around his throat. "And that she still owes me for that thing at the Court of Pearls."

"I will give her your message in the morning," the butler said stiffly. "Good night, lady dvAnya." The door swung shut with a final-sounding click.

"Well, fuck you too," I muttered to the closed door. I could all but see the smug asshole humming to himself as he walked away, the common rabble successfully turned back. "And fuck that."

#

Kicking down a door isn't as easy as it sounds. Everything about the way they're designed is to prevent someone from doing just that. It wasn't enough to just be strong; you had to know how to use your strength, and where best to place your foot.

It also helps to be pissed.

Wood splintered as the latch tore free and the door flew open. The butler jumped back with a yelp of surprise, and I lunged forward and gave him the punch I'd been dreaming of. Bone cracked under my knuckles, and he went down with broken nose and tear-filled eyes.

"Dara!" I shouted, stepping a little further into the richly-appointed hallway. "It's Sylvia dvAnya. I'm calling in my favor."

Fabric rustled, and a pale-skinned woman in her mid-fifties appeared in the doorway to my left. She was pleasantly plump, with a pug nose and shoulder-length black hair and a blue shawl wrapped around her shoulders against the night's chill. In a simple brown dress she looked more like somebody's mom than a deadly mage, but the eight inch wood flute she carried in her left hand was all the threat she needed.

"Was the favor breaking and entering?" She asked, wrinkling her nose. "Or was it assault? I don't think it covers both."

"Dara." I smiled, but from the way she tensed and lifted her flute slightly I figured I'd left a few too many teeth in there. I took another deep breath and tried to get a grip on myself. "It's good to see you again. Sorry about your servant."

"Are you?" She raised an eyebrow, and a sudden spike of fear cut through my anger as she raised her flute to her lips. A complex arpeggio swirled around me, and the front door shivered before swinging shut. The latch clicked shut as if it had never been damaged. "Is it truly good?"

"To see you again, yes," I nodded. She'd lowered her instrument a bit, but I still felt like I had a loaded crossbow pointed at my chest. "I suppose I'm not really sorry about hitting him."

The Maestro shook her head sadly, but I saw a bit of the tension leave her shoulders.

"I suppose I should have known better than to think you'd have matured at all in the last year. Come on in before you damage any more of my things, would you?"

I followed Dara back into the parlor and noticed two things. First, that there was even more gold and ivory decorating the place than I'd expected. Second, her skirt made her ass look great. I didn't remember her looking so good when I'd worked as her bodyguard, but... damn, I could watch that thing jiggle all--

"Sylvia?" She gave me an odd stare. "Were you just staring at my butt?"

"I, uh..." I swallowed, reddening. "I didn't, um..."

"You told me you were demisexual after that thing with Allison." Dara flopped down gracelessly in an overstuffed armchair, and gestured for me to settle on the couch next to it. "What's going on, girl?"

She always was more perceptive than she looked, I reminded myself. Well, this was why I'd come...

"I don't know," I said quietly, and pulled my sleeve back so she could see my altered hand in all its demonic glory. "I was kind of hoping you could tell me."

Dara did not speak for several long moments, letting her gaze slowly sweep its way up and down my arm. She didn't move to strike me dead--but she didn't put her flute away, either.

"What happened?" She asked at last. I took a deep breath and started with meeting Simone at her farm.

#

I was never much of a storyteller, and it didn't take me long to get through my tale. Dara waited patiently as I fumbled for words, holding her questions until the end.

"...then I realized something was wrong," I finished lamely. "With my hand, I mean. My arm."

"You said you broke it?" She asked, reaching for my hand. I let her twist my arm to and fro as she examined it, running a finger along the leathery skin. I couldn't feel it at all. "Are you certain?"

"If it wasn't broken it was damn close." I shook my head. "And now?"

"And now." She agreed. "The human body was never something I studied, but... let me see what I can learn."

I settled back as she raised her flute and began to play once more. The melody was softer this time, less frantic but no less complex. I would have sworn it was impossible to get so much sound out of a single instrument; there were counterpoints and harmonies that sounded like I was listening to an entire quartet. The music rose and fell as gently as the tide, occasionally raising goosebumps on my arm as it brushed against me.

I don't know how long Dara played. It could have been seconds, and it could have been hours--it was that kind of performance. But eventually she lowered her flute and looked solemn.

"You don't know," I said slowly, heart sinking.

"I don't know." She frowned and put a gentle hand on my demonic one. "You are cursed, certainly. I can feel something foul digging its way into your soul. But as to its nature?" She shook her head.

"Nothing?" I asked, my voice cracking mid-word.

"It's not a Maestro's magic." Perhaps realizing I couldn't feel her touch, she shifted her hand to my still-human one. "Our spells end when the music does, and whatever is afflicting you is still ongoing."

"Oh, good. Here I was worried it was something serious." I was aiming for light-hearted, but fell well short of the mark. It was the trembling that really undermined me, if I had to guess.

"I'm sorry." Dara sighed. "This is a poor way to repay a debt. The only thing I can think of that a Maestro could do to help would be to bend back time, and that's a subject I know nothing about."

"Storms." Feeling reluctant to break contact with her skin, I leaned my face down into my demonic hand, only to recoil as my claws scraped my cheek. "What do I do now?"

"I don't know. Perhaps find this man who arranged the ambush? That was when the curse first took hold, yes?"

"I think so, yeah." I looked up and saw the concern in the Maestro's eyes. Her warm, beautiful eyes, dark brown pits I could sink into forever... "I had been planning on catching the next boat to Phalang to avoid the whole thing, but..." A sigh. "It seems the winds have other ideas. I'm sorry to have bothered you so late, Dara."

"It's not a bother, Sly," she said gently, biting her lip. "I'm sorry I couldn't do more to help. I wish... never mind."

I paused. The part of my brain that was apparently horny all the time now had all kinds of helpful suggestions as to what she'd been about to say. Some sweet and romantic, others much cruder. It was a ridiculous idea; she was probably twice my age and had two husbands back in the Dirge Empire somewhere. And yet...

Before I could think about what I was doing, I stepped closer and kissed her.

Fireworks went off in my head. Her lips were soft and warm and tasted faintly of peppermint. She wasn't even responding, and it was already the best kiss I'd had in years. Maybe ever; it felt like there was a current running from my mouth straight to my sex, even the slightest movements resulting in flashes of pleasure and--

A sharp whistle cut the air, an unseen force shoved me backwards with the strength of a giant. I stumbled for a moment and nearly fell. What was... how dare she? She thought she could just... just play with me like this? Me? I'd show her. My demonic hand darted to grasp the hilt of a dagger, and I tensed. It was all I could do not to lunge across the hallway and throw her to the ground and...

I'd like to say that I squashed the sudden rush of violence, but to tell the truth I barely managed to control myself. If Dara had been glaring at me, or shrinking away, or really doing anything but giving me a look of genuine concern, I don't think I could have stopped myself. At which point the Maestro would strike me dead.

"By the Dominions... Dara, I'm so sorry." I managed to choke the words out around the lump of alien anger in my throat. "I don't know what came over me, I just..."

"It's the curse." The older woman sighed and raised a hand in apology--though I noted that she'd grabbed her flute again with the other. "Your arm isn't the only thing that's being changed."

The inexplicable arousal. The flashes of murderous anger. I flinched. Was my mind being affected already?

"Find the one who did this quickly," the Maestro advised, frowning. "I couldn't understand much about this curse, but it's far from done with you."

#

I was in an introspective mood as I walked back to my inn. Thoughts of the ambush, the curse, Jake's grudge, and even my demon-nightmares chased each other through my head, never quite finding firm enough purchase to reach my conscious mind. What was happening to me? How? Why?

The night was well underway and the first floor of the inn was crowded with patrons, but the storm of voices did nothing to break through the clouds in my head. Neither did the three bowls of stew I scarfed my way through, or the five mugs of beer I washed them down with. It wasn't until I heard the name "Kyslin" that the outside world registered again.

Who the hell was talking about Kyslin?

A few tables away, a young man in fine silvery mail was standing with one foot propped up on his chair, telling his story to a small audience of drunkards. He was tall and broad-shouldered, square-jawed and blue-eyed, and generally looked like the kind of hero little girls imagined when they heard the word "adventurer." I'd dismissed him as a poser the moment I'd seen him, but I was sure I'd heard him say the name "Kyslin" a moment ago. I twisted so I had a better angle.

"...as vile a fiend as ever sailed the seas," he was declaiming, arms moving in great sweeping gestures as he spoke. "He left a trail not of rumor but of corpses. He thought to scare me off, but the sight of his victims only hardened my resolve." He clenched a fist. "After the third body, I swore that Bloody George would meet his end at my hands."

Sorry, buddy. I rolled my eyes and took a big sip of my sixth drink. I got him first.

"After many long, bloody weeks, I finally cornered the fiend in the town of Kyslin," the poser continued. "He took service with a merchant who had no cause for suspicion, for his murderous appetites were matched only by his gift for deception. In vain I argued with his master; to no avail I presented my evidence and holy writ. For the man's heart was near as black as his creature's, and Bloody George had wasted no time worming his way into his foul affections."

No. I narrowed my eyes. He wasn't seriously trying to take credit for my work, was he?

"At last, I had no choice." The man contrived to look tragic, a single teardrop tracing its way down his cheek. "For though I loved the law, I loved justice more. When his master would not surrender him, I sought out Bloody George on my own. For six hours did we duel through the streets of Kyslin. I nearly caught him a dozen times, but he proved to be as skilled a swordsman as any I've met."

What? The little snot. How dare he? I found myself gripping the edge of my table so hard my knuckles went white, and the claws on my left hand were dug into the battered oak surface. Bloody George had never held a sword in his life. The only reason it took me so long to catch him was the need to keep him from knifing random people to slow me down.

"Knowing himself outmatched, the fiend fled back to his master's home. But it is the nature of evil to be selfish, and the man he'd once served had shut his gates and barred his windows. In vain, did Bloody George plead for shelter, for aid--his former master was deaf to pleas and threats alike." The poser dropped back to the ground in order to lean across the table, voice seeming to drop without actually becoming quieter.

"But the merchant's judgement of actions was as flawed as his judgement of men. Enraged at his betrayal, Bloody George forced his way into the man's home. Blood and oil flowed freely that night, and the fiend merely laughed as flames began to consume the grand manor and all within."