ELEVEN
Lila had just finished gathering the last of the webs when the first spider crawled in from a hole in the roof.
Early. It wasn’t dawn yet.
The size of a punch bowl, the arachnid had red and silver splotches across its bulbous body and long bushy legs. Yes, demon, I do fear spiders.
Seeming to focus all of its eyes on her, the spider skittered along the ceiling, then paused. It’s waiting for me to fail.
She’d read about the mystical labors in hell; was she now immersed in one?
Keeping the new threat in sight—and inwardly screaming—she continued her chore. Focus, Lila. But she was even more unnerved than before because she’d heard a roar from somewhere across the castle.
Abyssian’s roar. It had to have been. And for some reason, it’d sounded . . . sexual.
Despite her overstimulation, she shuddered to think of the demon as a sexual being. He was too big, too violent, and apparently he lost all control in the throes, roaring like a beast.
So much for insta-love toward his long-lost mate. While torturing Lila, he was screwing someone else—probably some lusty, big-boned demoness with claws and ponderous breasts. Had that roar scared the female?
Or delighted her?
Lila supposed Abyssian’s body as a whole wasn’t unattractive. But she still couldn’t comprehend why females would pursue him.
The subject was forgotten when another spider crawled in to join the first. Then another. And another, until a dozen had gathered. Did they plan to wrap her in their silk at dawn?
Focus. Time moved at a sluggish pace here. She could finish before daybreak if she kept her eye on the ball—
They began scuttling back and forth. It took her a few panicked moments to realize they were creating new webs. “No, no, no!” She would have to outrace them, then somehow harvest the additional webs!
The faster she spun, the faster they did—until they’d cloaked nearly every chamber entrance.
She was failing. Already, blood dripped from her fingers and sweat from her skin. Her head pounded. Each time she coughed on ash, the tower seemed to spin. That devil had told her she would sicken from the vine burns.
A hazy light grew outside. Dawn? She wasn’t through! Would those creatures attack as one—
Abyssian appeared. Or two of him did. Her vision had turned double.
“You barely finished in time.”
I . . . did? She glanced up. The spiders and the new cobwebs receded into the walls, only the wheel and thread remaining.
“You’ve earned your breakfast.” He conjured a tray of food, setting it on the edge of the broken-down fountain. “To merit a respite, you’ll complete another task.” With a wave of his hand, he produced a broom and a mop.
Or as she liked to call them, the beginning of my arsenal.
“Clean each of these rooms by nightfall,” he ordered. “Or the spiders will return.” He vanished.
Prick! She cursed him in multiple languages.
The king intended these tools to be a part of her punishment? Mistake, demon. I’ll repurpose them to strike back in some way.
She would finish this chore; then during her respite, she’d plot.
A desperate need for energy made her investigate the food. Demon food. The contents of one bowl were merrily swimming around. Nausea churned.
She’d have to get through the day on nothing but sheer will. Knotting her hair atop her head, she squared her shoulders, then started sweeping.
Cleaning this place appealed to her fey sense of order. Not that she’d ever tell him that.
In several rooms, she found stone bed frames, but no mattresses. Statuary of obscenely erect demons, fauns, and vampires had fallen throughout the tower. Most had lost their focal point—carved stone dicks littered the floors. She piled them up in the corners of a few chambers.
Words had been etched into the tower walls from top to bottom. Demonish.
In her quest to read ever more about this dimension, she’d taught herself the language.
No longer could she deny the obvious: a past-life history with Abyssian would explain her unusual interest in Pandemonia. More evidence that she was a reincarnate. . . .
She made out some of the archaic spellings, raising her brows as comprehension took hold. This tower had been some kind of sex den, and each room had been devoted to a particular act or position.
Though intrigued, she needed to concentrate on her task. Using her fey super speed, she cleaned until sweat drenched her body, pausing only when coughing spasms seized her. Barefooted, she couldn’t avoid stepping on the fire vines. With each hour she grew weaker.
Right now, I hate that Valkyrie almost as much as Abyssian.
By the time Lila had finished with the broom, blood stained the handle from ruptured blisters. Dust and ash coated her skin and hair.
In one of the forty chambers, a grate covered the floor with a drain beneath, and a warm cascade poured through a pipe in the roof.
Water for mopping. How fortunate for her.
Lila promised herself that she would soak her sore body under that stream when finished.
For now, she rolled her head on her neck, then got back to it. The poison from the fire vines and a lack of sleep were making her delirious, but dusk was slow to come.
When she stumbled into the last room, the light of day had just begun fading. She pushed past the pain in her muscles, her feet, her bloodied palms, and toiled.
Then . . .
Done! She surveyed the drying floors with a sense of triumph. Set to rights, check, check.
She limped to the bathing chamber, lurching under the water. Ignoring the blisters in her palms, she scrubbed her body and hair, washing her underwear as well as she could. Then she merely soaked.
Her lids grew so heavy. Maybe she should close her eyes . . . just for a second. . . .
Her eyes shot open. She’d dozed off standing up!
Wringing her hair out, she headed to the central courtyard. She drew up short.
Somehow she’d missed a room. Thank gods, she had some spare time. Dashing for the broom and mop, she cleaned. But then she found another dirty room.
Was she going crazy? How could she not have seen those?
She squinted. No, not going crazy; this was a freaking trap. The demon king had set her up to fail.
The second time she’d been set up in as many days.
There was no way to FITFO; the logical solution and orderly completion her fey mind craved had been denied.
How dare he! He would return soon, shouting and threatening. Yet he’d never even given her the chance to succeed.
He was treating her like a . . . plaything.
She heard a voice booming from the valley below. She headed outside to the terrace railing and gazed down. Speak of the devil. Abyssian stood atop a monolith of stone, addressing his legions.
Her immortal senses were definitely coming online. Even from this distance, she could make out differences among the demons. Some had wings, others had hooves. The shape and color of their horns varied. All were shirtless and armed.
Shirtless must be a thing here.
The lava river illuminated Abyssian’s features. His forbidding face and horns. That fathomless gaze. The glinting of his white fangs and teeth.
The skin glyphs across his broad chest burned just as brightly as the river. At his side, he wore that large battle-ax. His intimidating wings stretched wide. Each one had a curving claw atop the largest joint and at the bottom of the outermost one.
King Abyssian Infernas emanated pure power.
Saetth wanted her to spy? Her report: We’re about to get our asses kicked. Seek terms.
From what she could make out, Abyssian was banishing all the demons back to “their punishments.” With each moment, he became more aggressive, his voice rising and his muscles tensing. Even the landscape grew more unsettled.
Tornadoes of ash swirled in the valley. The lava river swelled, consuming more rock.
Again, the brutal king was spinning out of control. So what would happen when he returned to this tower and found her chore incomplete? Even if he had no imminent plans to kill her, he could accidentally harm her.
Unless she struck first. Maybe she’d actually been sent here to assassinate a Møriør.
How delicious an idea.
Her gaze darted. He would laugh if she brandished a sharpened broom handle. Stone debris abounded, but she wouldn’t be able to hurl it hard enough.
She crossed to her pile of spun thread. The stuff seemed as strong as Titanian steel. She could use the lines against the demon—but how?
A spring trap? She’d studied them enough in her survival books. The mechanics were similar to a trebuchet. But how to create a trigger and a counterweight?
The answer came to her, and she grinned evilly.
Her fingers flew as she began to knot the thread, creating a net. On the other end of the line would be a snare.
She could picture the trap so clearly. The mop handle would serve as a manual trigger; a net full of obscene statuary would provide the counterweight.
Once she’d lured Abyssian into place, she would snap the handle, loosing the weight, which would then tighten the snare around his ankle.
The end result: Abyssian plummeting toward the lava river, tethered to a net filled with stone penises.
The promise of this visual gave her a shot of energy. She set up her trigger and snare, then she loaded the net with dicks until the trigger threatened to snap.
Once she’d concealed the snare with ash, she glanced from her trap down at Abyssian. This wouldn’t be enough. He’d need to be too dazed/injured to trace away when her contraption yanked his demonic ass off the terrace.
So a trap and a weapon for herself. A sneak weapon.
Her gaze lit on the spinning wheel, on the spindle. Shame it wasn’t cursed to put him to sleep—
Wait . . . Abyssian had provided her a source of poison. She could coat the spindle and stab him.
All she had to do was overcome a lifelong phobia.
With grim determination, she collected the broom. When fear threatened to undermine her, she told herself: You can be a plaything to a hateful demon for the rest of your life or you can be a badass slayer of Møriør. Choose.
Resolved, she headed toward one of the spider holes to begin her grisly new task. . . .