The Demon's Half

Chapter 38

Nine days left.

The Varnoks came at dawn and took us.
Up. Up. Up. A winding staircase.
My legs ached, my wrists raw from the chains, but I didn't fight. Their presence alone was enough to paralyze me. It was always their eyes that made my stomach churn. Once, I'd made the mistake of looking into them. So I kept my head down, and tried not to throw up from the perfume-soaked air.

The castle was a maze. Every hallway looked like a history museum for psychopaths. Tapestries of gods and winged monsters, murder turned into art. I tried to count the turns, mark the doors, do something useful. But it was huge and there was too much. At some point, I was sure the castle was rearranging itself just to mess with my head.

By the time we reached the theater, one thing was certain. We were in the west wing. And if hell had an opera house, it'd look exactly like this.
Circular, enormous, open to the sky, like they wanted the moon to watch. The place was filled with spirits, going through walls, tables, us. Each more haunting than the last.

Rows of women surrounded us, packed into the rising seats. Their gowns glittered, their murmurs a swarm of bees, buzzing with excitement. On a raised platform, sat the Veil Queens. Each one with a demon behind them.
Every queen was dressed in the same purple gown. I instantly recognized one of them, at the far right. Camille, the witch who was flirting with Oz. Her gaze was glued on me and when I saw her, she grinned. I turned to Alilla. She looked wrecked. Eyes swollen, skin pale, her body hunched in. She wasn't glowing like the rest of them. She was a song forced into silence. And behind her, Daniel. Silent and empty.

My heart skipped a beat, because I felt him before I saw him. That slow-burning, soul-crushing presence that always hit me first. I looked up. Above us, on the highest balcony, sat two thrones made of bones and gold. And on one of them, lounging like he hadn't burned my entire world down, was Ozias Dravenkov.
Not Alexander.
Not the man who whispered madness into my veins, who made promises he never intended to keep. This was Ozias Dravenkov in all his terrible glory. This was The Devil.

And beside him, the woman who claimed to be a goddess. Ornella's gown looked like a second skin. The black lace overlay wove across her chest in delicate vines. Her skirt swelled like a storm cloud, layer after layer of black and blood. At her throat, a choker embroidered with tiny red roses. She looked like the final breath of a dying curse.

And Oz— he was divine ruin.
Velvet, midnight-dark and viciously tailored, hugged his body like it had been sewn straight onto his skin. Crimson thread traced ancient symbols along his high collar, probably runes. Silver epaulets sat on his shoulders like sharpened wings.
And beneath it all, a blood-red silk shirt stretched across his chest, struggling to contain what I knew lurked underneath: charm dipped in muscle. He didn't just look powerful. He looked like he ruled the apocalypse.

The Goddess and the Devil.

My gaze snapped down as his hand drifted to her thigh. As if she was his favorite toy, and he was simply reminding us all. His expression was carved from boredom, but his touch was anything but.
That's when the Varnoks shoved us forward.
The chains screamed. Odysseus, Bo and Solange stood shackled not in awe, but in disgust.

"Odysseus," Ozias said, flashing that too-perfect dimple I used to love. "What an unpleasant surprise."

Bo spat. Right onto the immaculate marble.

Ozias only arched a brow. "Charming."

"Traitor," Odysseus growled.

He didn't flinch. He just smiled—that slow, wolfish grin that didn't say 'you're wrong.' It said 'you're next.'

Jade and Logan flanked me, their shoulders coiled tight. They didn't bother hiding the venom in their stares. I caught the flash of heartbreak there too, twisted into something uglier.
Behind us, the council stood frozen in a tableau of disbelief. Like they'd walked into the wrong world. And I couldn't blame them. The first time Oz lent me his vision, I had felt it too.