Page 113 of Bargain with Fate
The ground thrummed with the beat of many footsteps.
Vale tensed. “Are you sure there are only seven of them?” Vale asked. “Sounds like an army.”
I tightened my grip on the handle. A fae army would be an even bigger problem.
Vale cut me a sidelong glance. “You look nervous.”
“There are people.”
“We’ll protect them.”
“I know, but they’ll see us.” They’d see me. Vale could blend. With my snake hair and wings, I was a monster in their midst. They’d be frightened. And if they knew my past, they’d have even more reason to fear me.
“It’ll be fine,” Vale said. “I see…” He trailed off, the tension easing from his broad shoulders. “What exactly do I see?”
Hefting my sword, I followed his gaze to the corner where the first visitor bobbed into view. Mine was a proper blade—oldsteel, warded hilt, hungry edge—and there I was, standing on a side street that smelled like pot and spilled beer, braced for carnage.
Instead, a living lantern waddled toward us on wooden sandals.
It had eyes. They blinked. The umbrella tipped itself politely as it passed, then scuttled along, humming off-key.
The sword suddenly felt ridiculous in my hand.
More demons trailed behind the lantern. “I don’t believe it,” I said in a hushed tone.
“It’s some kind of demonic Mardi Gras,” Vale said.
A demon with a tiger-skin loincloth strutted by, chest puffed out like he was on a runway. He had coarse, pebbled skin the color of old stone, and a broken horn that had been snapped off at a crooked angle, like someone had taken a bite out of it. He caught me staring and shot friendly finger guns at me.
“Pew, pew,” he said, his voice unexpectedly high-pitched.
Another demon followed, limping proudly on a single disproportionately long leg, the other tucked up like an afterthought. Every step made a hollowthunk. Its foot was hairy, ending in three thick claws that clicked on the pavement. It dragged a wagon behind it filled with spinning tops, all laughing.
I lowered the sword an inch.
“This is…not what I expected,” Vale said. “You?”
“I feel embarrassingly overprepared.”
People migrated toward the park, phones raised, grinning. Someone shouted, “Yo, this parade is sick!” A woman in a witch hat clapped and yelled, “Happy Halloween!” even though it was seventy degrees and nowhere near October.
No one screamed. No one ran.
The parade kept coming. A pogo stick with a cracked grin hopped on one foot. A teakettle with arms puffed steam and argued loudly with a rolling stack of plates. A lacquered chestsprouted legs and chased a yapping sandal with its tongue hanging out. It was like the enchanted objects fromBeauty and the Beasthad come to life and marched all the way from their castle.
Then the fire demon showed up.
I stiffened despite the upbeat environment. Old instincts died hard.
Its body was entirely flame, not illusion or glamour—real fire, folding and unfolding like muscle. A segmented skull floated within the blaze, plates clicking softly as it turned its head. Its eyes bulged, bloodshot and furious looking, like it had just lost an argument with the universe.
It leaned down toward a group of onlookers.
And sneezed.
A burst of sparks sprayed out, spelling something that looked suspiciously like “sorry” before fading. The tourists applauded. Someone tossed it a glow stick, which the demon caught, stared at, and tucked behind its misshapen ear.
Okay. Definitely not carnage.
