What was really fucked-up was that as evil as the Neethul were, they were also among the most beautiful of underworlders. Freakishly dexterous, fast, and graceful, with pointed ears, creamy pale skin, and silky hair in shades of white, blond, or silver, they were what the elves of human lore had been based upon.
At least, on the outside.
Inside, they were the monsters other monsters warned their baby monsters about.
He crossed into the Neethul camp and scanned the crowd for the Draghoul Clan’s severed head crest while simultaneously trying to ignore the horrors going on in the vendor stalls. The fleshebiest burgers did smell good, though, and a guy had to eat.
As he started toward a food stand, movement caught his eye, a flash of midnight armor and a cloak sporting the black, navy, and purple colors of Gristlen’s Draghoul clan.
After one last regretful glance at the burger joint, he made his way to where the armor disappeared around the side of a hut. No one paid him any attention as he slipped down a narrow path between rickety huts and was rewarded with another glimpse of the armor.
He couldn’t see a face, just thick, white-blond braids that could have belonged to pretty much any Draghoul Clan member—male or female. The mystery Draghoul sped up and ducked between two enormous animal enclosures.
Avoiding getting too close to the hell stallion pens, Tavin lowered his hand to the hilt of the dagger at his hip and rubbed his thumb on the smooth, icy ruby seated just above the blade. The jewel, enchanted by his mother’s spellcaster people, masked the sound of his breathing and heartbeat when touched, a handy feature when hunting predators.
In almost total silence, he eased around the back of another of those moist hide tents, taking care to keep from touching it. Wet things in Hell tended to be poisonous, caustic, or worse.
The muffled sounds of sniffling…no, crying…rose over the background clamor of the festival. Stepping carefully to avoid feces and puddles of urine from the penned animals, he peeked over a stack of barrels.
On the other side of the barrier, a female Neethul cradled some sort of little animal in her arms, her long, gloved fingers stroking blood-soaked gray fur that stuck up in tufts between iridescent scales. A teardrop plopped onto the creature’s broad head.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”
The Neethul…was crying? What the…what? Neethul didn’t cry. They didn’t feel sympathy. Or empathy. Hell, he thought all they felt was sadistic joy and maybe anger.
He’d tangled with a few Neethuls in his life, and if they weren’t trying to enslave you or kill you, they were fantasizing about it—even when they had sex. He’d been dragged down that road before, and he had the road rash to prove it.
The Neethul’s platinum braids obscured her face as she gazed down at the demon animal. One hand stroked its back lightly, but Tavin couldn’t tell if the thing was even alive.
This was so bizarre.
He shifted to get a better view and like a total noob, bumped a barrel with his elbow. The female swung around with a snarl. The hand that had been gently petting the animal now wielded a wicked talon-bladed knife. Fucking Neeths liked to cause a lot of pain and damage while killing.
Hands up, he stepped out from behind the barrels. “Hey, there. I mean no harm. I was just trying to get away from the crowd. It’s wild out there.” He nodded at the lizard-cat thing. “Your pet?”
Her azure eyes narrowed into slits of contempt. “Neethul do not have pets,” she spat. “We have only food.”
“Riiiight. So you’re in tears because your food might, what? Die before you can eat it?”
“Neethul don’t cry!” She lunged toward him with the blade. “Leave me!”
No sense of humor, this one.
He thrust his hands out in a placatory gesture but held his ground. She was still a good three yards away, and he was comfortable with the gap.
“No need to get stabby. I’m just passing through.” He jerked his chin at the limp animal tucked in the crook of one arm. “If you want, I can heal your food before I go. If not, that’s cool too.”
She stared, her expression flitting between suspicion and hope. Finally, she lowered the knife a little. “You can heal him? Truly?”
“Sure. I’m a Seminus demon. My gift is healing.” What she didn’t need to know was that the same power that allowed him to knit damaged flesh back together also allowed him to rip healthy flesh apart. He could kill or heal, depending on the situation.
His answer didn’t seem to quell her fears. She still regarded him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, and her lithe body was as taut as a bowstring. Even in her defensiveness, she was an extraordinary beauty. Neethul demons were, to a person, gigantic asshats, so he hated to admit that she was one of the most beautiful females he’d ever seen.
“Need proof that I’m telling the truth?” He jerked his right arm out of his jacket sleeve to reveal the symbols set into his skin from his nailbeds to his throat. Anyone who knew anything about his species would recognize the dermoire, the history of paternity every Seminus demon was born with. “I just need to touch the animal.”
He shoved his arm back into his sleeve, and a heartbeat after that, she moved toward him, slowly, knife ready. When she was close enough, she held out the creature. It whimpered, twitching as it tried to curl around a nasty degloving wound on its hindquarters.
Holy shit, the poor animal must have been in agony. “What happened?”
The Neethul bared her teeth in a silent snarl, revealing stunningly sharp fangs. “They were skinning him alive.”
Fucking bastards. Tavin had snuffed many lives but he didn’t take pleasure in it. Usually. Some assholes just needed to suffer. Like whoever had done this to a helpless animal.
He reached for it, but she snatched it away at the last second. “Will this hurt him?”
“Are you being serious?” Once again, the female surprised him. “I’ve never met a Neethul who gave a shit about something like that.”
She sniffed, all haughty. “I am not like most Neethul.”
That was for sure. He’d known her for two minutes, and she’d already shown more compassion than every other Neethul he’d met combined.
“It might burn a little, but he’ll be fine. Better not let anyone else catch you crying over an animal though, or you’re the one who’s going to get skinned.”
Suddenly, the dagger was at his throat, the pointy tip stabbing into the glyph just beneath his jaw. His personal glyph, the one that set him apart from all others of his species.
“If you tell anyone—”
“I won’t,” he blurted. “I swear. Now, if you could just get your knife away from my jugular, that’d be awesome.” He might be able to heal others with his gift, but he couldn’t heal himself, and it would suck to bleed out and die because he’d taken the time to be what humans called a Good Samaritan.
She glanced down at where the tip of the blade pricked his skin. “What is this symbol I am poking? A skull with a…worm wrapped around it? Is that seriously a worm?”
Man, he loved it when people pointed out that his personal symbol was a fucking worm. Other Sems got things like weapons or lightning bolts or vicious beasts. He got a flaccid worm. The teeny-tiny skull only emphasized how ridiculous the worm was.