The Demon’s Queen (A Deal With A Demon)

I thought waking up in Azazel’s bed alone was the worst feeling. I was wrong. Waking up next to him is. The hangover doesn’t help—my head is filled with throbbing razor blades—but it’s the steady sound of his breathing that has me fighting not to scramble away.

Maybe it would have been less horrible if he were touching me, if I could explain away my reaction as anything other than emotional. Instead, he’s a perfectly polite distance away, stretched out on his stomach, his face tucked against the bend of his arm. What little I can see of his expression is perfectly relaxed.

He looks like an entirely different person.

The temptation to reach out and run my hand over his muscular back is nearly overwhelming. That way lies danger, and I want to pretend I’m too wary to fall into the trap of caring for him, but yesterday more than proves me a liar.

It would be so easy to simply . . . give in. To let his presence seduce me as thoroughly as his touch has. To let him protect me, cage me, set me up in this new life so far from my normal one. To be whisked away by him choosing me. That’s how magnetic he is, how much I still want him despite my anger.

“You’re staring,” he says without opening his eyes.

The urge to bolt from the bed rises, but I can’t quite work up the energy. I roll onto my side and pull his soft comforter up to my chin. The move reminds me that I’m still wearing the dress from last night, which is absolutely absurd. Azazel has had his mouth all over every inch of me, but he apparently drew the line at changing my clothing while I was drunk and passing out. I don’t want that realization to make me like him more. I truly don’t.

“Why?”

He cracks open one eye. “Why what?”

“Why has Brosh decided that killing me is the answer? If he doesn’t like how things are going in the territory, why not try to take it for himself?” Asking the question is dangerous. I’m already buckling for him without understanding his motives. I still want to know.

He’s quiet for long enough that I think he won’t answer. Finally, Azazel sighs. “For the same reason I haven’t killed him—even if I could find him. He’s my cousin. No matter how much he hates me, if he kills me in cold blood, he’ll turn the majority of our family—and we have extensive numbers in very powerful positions—against him. He’s not confident he can take me in a duel, so instead he’s going after you to hurt me.”

I blink. Of all the explanations, family didn’t even occur to me. “But what is so bad about what you’re doing that he wants to hurt you so desperately? Your people seem happy enough.”

“It comes down to power. The result of the people of this realm mingling with humans a long time again was children who possessed significantly more magic than their nonhuman parents. My realm is one of magic. It’s in every breath you inhale, the food you eat, the ground beneath your feet. But the strength of each territory, drawn into place so long ago that no one remembers how our ancestors did it, comes directly from the strength of the leader. The more magic the territory leader has, the more their people benefit.”

What he’s saying sounds like something out of a storybook, but I’m long past the point of disbelief. “I’m following you so far.”

“When the realms split, that intermingling stopped. The only people who could jump to your realm were bargainers, and even then, only the most powerful could do it regularly. As generations passed, the magic in the other territories in this realm has faltered. It’s not gone, but it’s significantly decreased . . . while the bargainer territory has remained strong.”

Easy enough to draw conclusions from there. “So you’ve been the most powerful for a long time.” My mind jumps ahead, considering how he just handed over four human women to the leaders of other territories. “Why would you threaten your power like that?”

“Because I’m tired.” He exhales heavily. “Apologies, that’s a pat answer. The more complicated one is that war only benefits a small number of people—at the cost of far too many lives. We’ve been at a tentative peace since I took over, but resources aren’t as plentiful as they used to be. The other leaders are strong in their own ways, but they need an avenue forward to help their people. By helping them help their territories, I pave the way to long-lasting peace.”

I snort. “Or you do until one of them—or their descendants—gets power hungry and starts the whole process again.”

He sighs again. “Yes. Though I don’t think that’s a risk with the current leadership. Sol—the dragon—is honorable enough to make my teeth ache. The kraken, Thane, is still grieving the loss of his husband, but he will do what’s right for his people. Bram . . .” His gaze goes distant. “Well, I’m worried about Bram, but there’s little enough I can do in the meantime. And Rusalka is probably the best leader in this realm. They’ll take care of their territory—and Belladonna too.”

Belladonna. The woman at dinner last night. I have to admit that she seemed happy. Genuinely happy. It boggles my mind a bit, but then, Rusalka didn’t spend years lying to her about their identity.

The reminder sits heavy in my chest. I sit up. “So your cousin wants to keep the power isolated with the bargainers instead of sharing it.”

“To put it simply, yes.”

Damn Azazel for making me respect his ideals, even if they’ve resulted in endangering me. His people aren’t my people—no one in this realm is—but I’m not so coldhearted as to say they don’t matter. It doesn’t make what I’ve lost easier to bear, though. It just makes me understand him a little bit more.

I sit up. “Why me? Why go through this intricate song and dance for so long?”

Another long silence. This time I wait. I need to know the answer.

“There was a moment in your life,” he finally says. “Less than six months before you met Pope.”

I frown. “What about it?” I don’t like thinking about how dark the place I occupied during that time was, how hard it was, how low I got before Pope walked into my life and changed everything.

“Part of having bargainers’ magic is being drawn to the humans most susceptible to making deals. I was going to approach you then, but you met Pope before I decided the best avenue to meet you.” He doesn’t look at me. “Becoming your client was supposed to be my in. But that first night . . .”

I remember. I don’t want to, but I do. Azazel wasn’t my first client, but he was the first one that made me forget myself, at least a little. He made me feel seen and valued in a way that I needed desperately. He walked into that room filled with other professionals, took one look at me, and chose me. And then he kept coming back for me—and only me—through the years. It felt special. It made me feel special. “What about that night?”

He carefully rolls onto his side and looks up at me. “You were figuring it out. You didn’t need a bargain. You had it handled.”

Okay, that’s not where I thought that was going. “So you just decided to lurk in my life and wait for me to hit rock bottom again?”

“No.” He sits up. “Absolutely fucking not. I enjoyed spending time with you. I . . . didn’t want to stop.”

I don’t know how to feel about everything he’s told me. Maybe he’s not a complete monster, hunting me across the years, but he’s been selfish. He’s lied to me. He put me in danger and didn’t bother to find another solution before he used that danger to trick me into doing what he wanted all along—making a deal with him.

For all that . . .

I carefully climb out of the soft massive bed. “I’m going back to my room.”

“Eve.”

I don’t want to look at him. I’m hanging by a thread here, and I can’t begin to explain what happens if that thread snaps. “Yes?”

“I know it doesn’t change anything, but I’m sorry. Truly.”

The worst part is that I believe him. If his enemies hadn’t decided to target me, maybe I would have spent the rest of my years as an escort enjoying the nights with him as a client. I don’t know. I can’t think.

But even as I open my mouth to tell him that this changes nothing, that I still hate him . . . I can’t quite manage the words. They feel too much like a lie, and as angry as I still am, I can’t meet his honesty this morning with lies meant to hurt him. I don’t know where that leaves us. I don’t know much of anything at all right now.

I say nothing as I walk to the door and step through it. Directly into my room. I blink, some of my confusion melting away in awe of the castle. “I didn’t know you could do that,” I say softly. “That’s really cool.”

My doorknob rattles, and I raise my brows. It’s never done that before; maybe it’s Azazel chasing me down, but I don’t think so. I cautiously open the door, and my jaw drops at the sight of a garden. It’s not the same as the space I broke down in yesterday. This one is massive, with large trees stretching so high, I can almost believe I’m truly outside. “It’s so beautiful.”

When I walked out of Azazel’s room, I fully intended to head straight for the shower and maybe have a good cry over how conflicted I feel. Instead, I find myself stepping into this garden and breathing deeply.

Only to pause when I catch the scent of coffee.

I feel a little silly following my nose like some kind of cartoon character. The path winds through the trees and flowers and plants, a practical paradise, to a small courtyard with a table and a single chair in it. On the table is a covered plate, still steaming in the cool morning air, and a carafe of what appears to be coffee.

I look around, but no one appears. “Is this for me?” The trees rustle around me as if in affirmation. I smile. “Thank you.”

As I pull out the chair, I almost expect someone to approach and tell me that I’m stealing their breakfast, but the courtyard stays as quiet and soothing as it was the moment I arrived.

The first sip of coffee is divine. I haven’t been hungover like this in a very long time. I like wine and the occasional whisky, but the older I get, the less it’s worth overindulging. The hangovers seem to get longer and longer, while the drunk shenanigans become significantly less cute.

Lifting the plate cover reveals exactly the type of breakfast I’m craving—fried eggs, hashbrowns, and crispy bacon. I stare down at it. “I didn’t think you had food like what I’m used to here.” Which isn’t to say the food I’ve eaten since arriving here is bad. Quite the contrary. It’s been delicious to the point where I resent it. But it’s not familiar in the way this plate is.

I almost ask if it’s a trick, but that seems unbearably rude. “Thank you.”

The rustling of the trees is my only response.

Over the next few days, Azazel keeps a careful distance. I only see him for meals, and even then, he’s distantly polite. Likely, he’s feeling guilty all over again, and while I should find that satisfying, the truth is that I’m damned tired of this one-sided fighting.

I still can’t bring myself to forgive him for trapping me here, though.

Despite my determination to do . . . something . . . I find myself returning to the garden the castle showed me, again and again. The castle provides any number of things in an attempt to keep me occupied. Books written in a language I don’t understand, because apparently the spell Azazel placed on me without my permission doesn’t extend to reading. A sketchbook and watercolors that I toy with, more out of boredom than any true artistic desire or ability. And, finally, a basket filled with skeined yarn in a variety of colors and weights, along with needles in a range of sizes.

And so I pick up knitting again. Pope bullied me into learning the skill few years back; he claimed it would be good for my mental health to keep my hands busy. They were right—they usually are—and it became an activity I gravitated toward again and again over the years. I don’t exactly set out to knit a sweater, but I start a pattern I’ve knit enough times that I mostly have it memorized. I’ve never had use for so many knitted garments, so I always donated the final pieces to a nearby women’s shelter. I don’t know what I’ll do with this sweater, but the familiarity of knitting it is comforting, especially when the castle somehow pipes through soft music to keep me company.

When I’m here, I can almost pretend that I’m free. It’s a bandage, and not even a good one at that, but it’s something. It soothes my anger.

At least until I look up one morning to realize I’m not alone. Azazel stands a respectful distance away, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s wearing his “work” clothing—a long tunic that’s split up the sides nearly to his hips, paired with pants and boots.

I freeze, suddenly feeling vulnerable and defensive. “What are you doing here?”

“I came looking for you.” He glances around as if he’s never seen this place before. “I haven’t been in this garden in years. I forgot it existed.”

“Or maybe the castle didn’t want to remind you.”

He smiles briefly. “There’s that as well.” Azazel clears his throat. “If you’re up for it, I thought we could get out of the castle for a little while?”

“The prisoner gets a furlough. How lovely.”

He opens his mouth, no doubt to tell me that I’m not a prisoner, before seeming to change his mind. “If you don’t want to leave, you’re more than welcome to say no.”

I glare, because he’s got me over a barrel and he knows it. No matter how lovely the garden, how eager the castle is to entertain me, it’s all still a cage. Getting a chance to leave it, even temporarily, isn’t something I’m going to pass on. I set my knitting aside, tucking it carefully back into the basket, and rise. “Where are we going?”

He’s cautious—I’ll give him that. He doesn’t smile or react at all, other than to motion for me to walk next to him. “Ramanu is gone for a time. Some of their responsibilities have been handed off to others, but I need to make an appearance at one of the local villages just outside the city.”

I fall into step next to Azazel, trying not to notice how he shortens his stride to match mine instead of making me chase him. “Where is Ramanu?” I haven’t seen them in a couple of days, but I just assumed they were making the rounds, checking on the humans with the other territory leaders.

“There’s a witch they’ve had their eye on—so to speak—for some time. She’s finally gotten around to summoning them, so they’ve gone to offer her a bargain.”

I swallow down an acid comment about the phrasing of them making a bargain instead of kidnapping their mark. If we start fighting, it will end in me storming off, and I’ll miss my chance to get out of the castle for a bit.

Azazel, of course, divines the direction of my thoughts. “I’m not proud of the way I lied to you, but don’t take that as a sign of how bargains are typically struck. If Ramanu’s witch agrees, it will be on her own terms and because she wants to.”

For the first time since coming here, I’m forced to wonder what I would have done if Azazel had come to me with honesty instead of lies. Would I have shut him down? Or would I have seriously considered his offer?

It bothers me that I don’t know the answer to that question.