Demon from the Dark

The two demons' countless battles, more victories than defeats. The dozens of times Malkom had saved Kallen's life; the thousands of times Kallen had praised him, encouraging him to better himself.

'You are a fearless warrior who's more than his past.' 'Of course you've the intelligence to learn how to read! Who the devil convinced you otherwise?' 'You are stronger and faster than the others, your will to live greater than any I've known. You see details others are blind to. Uniqueness is a kind of nobility, is it not, brother?'

Throughout, Malkom had begun to shed the taint of his past. He'd dared to entertain dreams of a better life.

Now Kallen was dead. Malkom roared with impotent fury, his eyes going wet with loss. Kallen. Dead.

Or worse.

The sorcerer cast a layer of black dust over Kallen's body.

'No!' Malkom bit out. 'Leave him in peace!'

More chanting, more power.

Malkom's lips parted. Kallen's body was lifeless no more. With each of the sorcerer's words, it began to twitch, to ... move in the dirt.

Not from death spasms. But writhing with life. The headless neck pumped blood anew.

The Viceroy again snapped his fingers for the demon slaves. Once the pair had kicked Kallen's body into the grave, the sorcerer scattered more of that dust over all. To make Kallen whole once more?

When smoke snaked up from the depths, the Viceroy raised his bloody sword. 'Now 'tis your turn, Slaine. And I promise you, rising from the dead—if it takes—will be the easy part. If you live, I will break you.'

Malkom silently prayed for a true end, beseeching the gods who had never once answered his most desperate entreaties. Please, do not let me rise—

The sword whistled through the air. He perceived the scantest bite of blade.

Then nothing.

Despite Malkom's prayers, he and Kallen had both risen two nights later, waking into a nightmare of darkness, deep in the earth. After clawing through the dirt, inching their way to the surface, they'd been thrown in a murky cell in the Viceroy's dungeon.

They hadn't suffocated as they'd risen because they now drew no breaths. Nor did their hearts beat.

The walking dead. Vampire. I am a vampire.

No! Malkom still hadn't accepted his fate, was ready to rage and fight it. Even as he recognized how much he'd been altered.

Though he wore no cuffs to prevent him from tracing, he no longer had that ability. His clammy skin felt as if a thousand spiders crawled all over him. His upper fangs had elongated and narrowed, throbbing painfully. Even in the low light, merely opening his sensitive eyes was an agony.

His very hearing was different, more acute. He could detect insects boring in the ground beneath him.

From the moment he'd awakened in the grave, the burgeoning need for blood had lashed him. Confusion and anguish roiled within him.

In Kallen, too. He stared at the filthy cell walls, hollow-eyed and unblinking.

'We will fight our way free,' Malkom assured him now, 'then return home.'

'We are Scarba. Brother, no demons will ever take us among them.'

He was likely right. The two were worse even than the vampires. They were defiled demons, cursed to feed off their own kind. They were the monsters of legend feared by all.

Kallen rasped, 'There is no reason to go on.'

'There is always a reason.' How many times had Malkom had to convince himself of this? 'If for nothing else, you can seek vengeance.' He himself would not rest until retribution was meted.

He would slaughter the sorcerer who'd muttered his curses in the background, the guards who'd held them down, and the bloodthirsty Viceroy whose sick will had set them all into motion.

Then he would return to destroy Ronath.

Those who betrayed Malkom did it only once.

When all was done, he would find a way to erase every vampire trait from himself, to rid his veins of the Viceroy's blood and return to what he'd been.

Or he'd greet the sun. Malkom frowned. Would that kill a Scarba?

'Live for vengeance?' Kallen said. 'Tell me, will that be enough?'

How to answer that question when Malkom's own dreams appeared so ridiculous now?

He'd wanted a home that no one could ever force him to leave. He'd wanted as much food and water as he could ever enjoy. But more than anything, he'd secretly longed to be respected like Kallen—a noble like him—gifted with a blood far better than his own.

Malkom's only fortune was that no one else had ever discovered how much he yearned to be highborn. 'Then live for your fated female,' he urged Kallen. 'She will accept you. She must.'

'Is that what you seek, Malkom? Your fated one?'

'I've no such expectations.' What use had he for a woman of his own? He'd needed no offspring for a noble line or sons to work the water mines with him.

'No? Then why have you never taken a demoness from the camps?'

Malkom's gaze flicked away. Never had he known a female. Those who followed the army could be had for a price, but Malkom had never used one. No matter how urgent his need, no matter how badly his curiosity burned, he physically couldn't.

They smelled of other males, reminding him of his childhood. Nothing extinguished his lusts like the scent of seed.

So he'd put females from his mind. As a boy, he disciplined himself not to dream about food. He'd applied that same discipline to keep from fantasizing about intercourse.

At length, Malkom answered, 'Because war has become everything for me—'

The Viceroy traced into their cell, his eyes lit with pleasure. 'Remade in my image,' he said. The vampire wasn't shocked the ritual had worked—he was brimming with pride. So how many had they created here? 'And this is just the beginning. Do you feel the Thirst? It's sacred to us, as death is.' His gaze fell first on Kallen, then on Malkom. 'Only the one who kills—or answers the Thirst—will ever leave this cell alive.'

Just as Malkom tensed to attack, the Viceroy disappeared.

Once their situation sank in and he'd found his voice, Malkom said, 'We will not fight each other.' They both knew that when he said fight, he meant drink or kill. 'I will not fight my brother.' But if anyone was freed, it should be Kallen. He's all that is good.

'Nor I,' Kallen vowed.

'We will not,' Malkom repeated, wondering if he sought to convince Kallen—or himself.

Three weeks later ...

Malkom weakly stood before the bars, expending precious energy just to remain on his feet, yet unable to lie down as though defeated.

Day after day had passed with no food, water, or— dark gods help them—blood. His thirst intensified hourly, his fangs throbbing until he'd silently wept. He'd caught himself staring at Kallen's neck, the skin there taunting him.

At times, Malkom had flushed to find Kallen's gaze on his own neck.

Never had he hungered like this. Last night, Malkom had waited until Kallen fitfully dozed. Then he'd sunk his aching fangs into his own arm, sucking, disgusted by how rich he'd found the taste. How delicious, how blistering the pleasure...

Endless days passed as their bodies withered but would not die. With no industry to be had, no battles to be fought, Malkom was beset by memories cloying in his mind. For someone who held survival paramount, he'd begun to have doubts. How important was living?

Living means more betrayal.

His first betrayal had been dealt by his own mother. At six years of age, he'd complained of hunger so acute he'd nearly blacked out. She'd railed that he was never satisfied, then sold him to a vampire who would feed him