Page 187 of Ignite
A piercing screech fills the air, and the attendees press toward the noise, cutting off my train of thought.
Sharp teeth flash in my peripheral, smiles attached to creatures from a nightmare growing with each scream. A shudder rolls down my body—I don’t want to know what would make these things happy.
But I think I’m about to find out.
“Boring of you to show fear,” Daimon drawls from his seat, his voice hushing the crowd immediately.
My heart pounds as the crowd parts, revealing a creature I hadn’t seen just below us, too lost in my thoughts to pay attention fully.
The man with beetle wings sprawls out on the steps beneath Daimon’s throne. We’re high enough to see what’s happening—though I almost wish I couldn’t.
The creature lies on his stomach, his face hidden in the crook of his arm.
Slowly, Daimon stands, his eyes fixed on no one in particular as he faces the crowd. Cheers of glee erupt from those around me when he slides the mask back over his head, the blood dripping onto the black velvet of his jacket.
Daimon descends the steps, the crowd wholly focused on his antics—while I try desperately to keep my features straight. Any lingering hope I had that Daimon was good fully vanishes as I watch him step on the hand of the disfigured creature splayed out on the step beneath him.
There is nothing good about Daimon—nothing redeemable within him.
He hasn’t looked at me since Opal declared him the son of Nyx, hasn’t addressed what he knows I heard. And I don’t ask. I don’t trust my voice right now, and what I truly want to do is shove all of this to the side so I can focus on getting Graylen and me out of here.
The creature screams again, and I fight a flinch. Daimon shifts enough that I can seewhyit’s screeching.
One of his wings—a shimmery and delicate green—has been snapped off at the base, the stump bleeding profusely, seeping a dark violet color, near the upper half of his spine.
I look over to Daimon, whose back is now to me. My hand flies over my mouth when I see where the broken wing is: inDaimon’s hands. He lazily plays with each end, fingers dripping with purple blood.
The crowd cheers as Daimon tosses it aside, the limp wing landing with a sickening, wetthump.
Just when I think it could be over—when the creature missing a wing starts to peel himself off of the steps—the room shifts, erupting with bloodthirsty cries of joy.
Without moving, shadows begin to leak off of Daimon. They spill down the steps and onto the ground. The creature in front of him notices and begins to shriek again, his cries drowned out by the cheers.
His mouth is fixed in a silent scream as the shadows pierce his chest, causing more violet blood to pour onto the stairs.
The small crowd pushes closer, everyone eager to get a front-row seat to the death—to the execution—seemingly done for no reason other than that Daimonwantsto.
Calling him Daimon feels wrong. No—this is the Lord of Shadows, second hand to Vidaris and keeper of the Shadow Lands. He shifts slightly, the side of his mask catching my attention. The pristine white wyvern-skull mask is now covered with the violet blood of the creature he just killed.
Daimon’s eyes are blank as the purple, gooey substance turns the bone a shade of deep lavender. It rolls down the front and sides in streaks.
The crowd cheers, wanting a better look as they hover closer.
I start to back away as nausea climbs up my throat.
A body presses against my back, and I immediately recoil—prepared to punch whoever thought they had any right to be this close to me—but a hand clamps around my upper arm.
“Don’t move,” a deeply familiar voice rumbles.
Not just any voice, but the voice of the man I love.
My eyes dart to where he and Opal were standing at the base of the steps, but she’s nearly swallowed by the crowd—a flash of her perfect white teeth on display as she focuses on the cruelty Daimon is handing out.
Graylen isn’t with her.
He’s behindme.
My blood drains from my face, and I fight to stay still. But I was never good at listening to men. I turn my head just enough to catch a glimpse of his sharp jawline, to see his ink markings peeking out of the collar of his shirt.
