Arawn gripped the chair’s armrests and leaned forward. “What did you say?”

“I can kill the Hellion. I did it before.”

Arawn’s eyebrow went up. “You said you killed a shadow demon. Those can be vicious, I grant you, but this is Difethwr, the Destroyer. The chief commander of the legions of Hell.”

Irritation surged again. “I know what the Destroyer is.” I had no time and no need for a Demonology 101 lecture. I rubbed at my demon mark, trying to calm it, as irritation flared to anger. “And I did kill it. I killed them both. On the same night.” I’d damn near died doing it, but I wasn’t going to admit that to Arawn. Not when I needed weapons and assistance from him. Not when I wasn’t willing to admit to myself that I didn’t know if I could do it again.

Arawn sat back in his chair. In one hand, he held his crystal goblet of wine. With the other, he stroked his beard, regarding me. Dark flames flickered in his eyes as he sized me up. “You believe you can kill the Destroyer now?”

“Let me put it this way—I can’t let it live. Ten years ago the Destroyer marked me.” I rubbed the demon mark some more, then noticed Arawn staring. I made myself stop. “As long as the Hellion lives, I’ll never be free of its influence.”

Even now, as we sat here in Arawn’s private chambers, anger and frustration kept growing, a pressure building behind my eyes. My demon mark ached and burned; my fingers itched for a weapon. The only way, a voice inside me whispered, the only way to relieve the feeling would be to smash something. To take Arawn’s crystal goblet and shatter it, then drive the shards into that smug face…

Stop, Vicky. Breathe. Arawn had done nothing to earn my anger. A deep breath shuddered its way into, then out of my lungs. That feeling of rage wasn’t me; it was my demon mark. I couldn’t let the Destroyer take control.

Arawn watched me, his intelligent gaze taking in my struggle as I fought down the rage. I pushed away the image of his face, slashed and bleeding, of myself laughing as I struck again and again. No. That was Difethwr’s laughter, not mine. Not me. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. When the violent image faded and all I could see was darkness, I opened them again. Arawn still watched me with hawklike eyes.

When I spoke, my voice was steady. “As I said, I can’t afford to let the Hellion live. The Destroyer is bigger and more powerful than before, thanks to all those demons Pryce packed into the cauldron. Pryce is bound to it, but he can’t control it. I don’t think the Hellion can even control itself, not right now. It’s confused and enraged and disoriented.” A bad combination for a Hellion.

Arawn nodded. “I have much to attend to here, and—do not tell anyone this—my injuries are not fully healed. I am not at my full strength.” He set down his goblet. “I cannot interfere in the bargain you struck with Mallt-y-Nos beyond my borders. What price does she demand?”

Was he going to help me, or did he just want me to get the hell out of his realm? He’d watched my struggle; banishing me would banish one little piece of the Destroyer.

“I can’t return to the Ordinary with the Destroyer on the loose.”

“I understand. But you haven’t answered my question.”

“The Night Hag asked for three things.” I reached down and retrieved the pieces of Rhudda’s magic arrow. “This.”

“A broken arrow?”

“It belonged to Rhudda Gawr. I won it from him in an archery contest. It wasn’t broken then.”

“You?” His voice betrayed surprise. “You beat Rhudda Gawr at archery?”

“I won his magic arrow,” I repeated. “Pryce broke it. I was hoping it could be fixed.”

Arawn took the pieces and examined them. “I’ll see what my armorers can do. What else?”

“A white falcon that nests in Hellsmoor.”

Arawn’s stonelike face gave nothing away. “And the third item?”

“Well, um, apparently Mallt-y-Nos has a great admiration for…”

“For my hunting horn, yes?” When I nodded, he sighed. “She’s desired it for centuries. I use it to call the wild hunt.” He steepled his fingers again, chewing his lip as he thought. He reached a decision and folded his hands. “You say you can kill the Destroyer. I want it out of the Darklands. Rid me of the Destroyer, and I will give you my hunting horn.”

My heart thumped with hope. I was getting somewhere. “I’ll need better weapons.”

“Of course. I’ll send for my armorer to assist you.” He called over the servant who stood by the door and spoke to him. The servant nodded and left the room. “My armory is at your disposal. But there is only one weapon in my kingdom that I believe is capable of defeating a Hellion.” He stood, drawing his sword from its scabbard. The steel-gray blade, engraved with mystical symbols, didn’t reflect the firelight; instead, it seemed to absorb it. “Darkblaze. It is the symbol of my power. You saw its flames?”

I nodded.

“When its blade burns, Darkblaze can kill anything. Shades. Demons. Even me, and I am a god.” His gaze caught mine and held it. “But a weapon this powerful may be used only in pursuit of a just cause. If wielded for the wrong reasons, the flames extinguish.”

“What are the wrong reasons?”

“Greed. Envy. Hatred. Lust. Choose your favorite among the seven deadly sins.”

He was giving me a warning. “In other words, anger is on the list.”

“Understand this, Victory: Darkblaze will not strike an angry blow.”

Fine. I couldn’t think of any cause more just than destroying the Destroyer. Pryce’s goal was to expand the demon plane into other realms, turning them into hells for him to rule. If he managed to harness the Destroyer’s power, there’d be no stopping him. Multitudes would suffer. That sobbing child in my vision—and millions like her—would die. I was angry, yes, but it was a just anger. As long as I kept my focus on protecting the innocent, Darkblaze and I would get along fine.

Watching Difethwr disintegrate into a big heap of demon ash—and Pryce with him—that would be a bonus.

Arawn held out his sword hilt first, offering it to me. I stood and reached for the weapon. As I curled my fingers around the grip, a vibration, subtle but unmistakable, trembled along my arm. It felt like the sword was taking my measure. The vibration buzzed around my demon mark, lingering there. The mark burned and bubbled under the skin. Then the sensations faded. I raised the sword, moving it, trying its weight, its balance.

“What makes it flame?” I asked.

“A deserving opponent. As with so much else here, magic makes the determination.”

Good. No incantations to learn. Darkblaze itself would guide me in knowing when to strike. I set the sword on the mantel and buckled on Arawn’s sword belt.

There was something I needed to ask him before I set out. “Speaking of the magic, you mentioned a magical book.”

“The Register of the Cauldrons. Yes, what of it?”

“It lists the names of those who’ve taken a swan dive into one of your cauldrons?”

A slight scowl darkened the king’s face, as though he thought I was being disrespectful, but he nodded.

“What about…what if a shade doesn’t make it into a cauldron?”

“Such as those who perished in my city today?”

“Yes,” I said, even though I was thinking about Dad.

“Those names are not recorded. When a shade perishes in the Darklands, its spirit ceases to exist. What does not exist has no name to record.”

Evan Vaughn, I thought. My father’s name is Evan Vaughn. There was comfort in the very syllables, as though the fact that I knew my father’s name kept him from slipping away.

There was no way Dad could have made it to Resurrection Square before hell broke loose. But maybe that spring, with its flow of life-giving magic, was like an extension of the cauldrons. I was about to ask when Arawn’s servant appeared in the doorway. “My lord—” he began.

“Ah, my armorer is here.”

“No, my lord. A man is demanding admittance. He says it’s about…” He nodded at me. “Our guest.”

Dad? Hope coursed through me. Who else would look for me here?

Sounds of scuffling came from the hallway. A muffled half-shout rose, then was cut off. Someone snarled.

Arawn snatched Darkblaze from the mantel.

Another snarl. That didn’t sound like my father. It sounded like—

A figure appeared in the doorway, dragging two of Arawn’s guards in a double headlock. It was Kane.

Kane—in the land of the dead?

Oh, God, no.

His eyes snapped with fury as he scanned the room.

“Kane, are you—? What’s happened?”

His gaze softened when it lit on me. “Vicky.” He saw Arawn, and the softness turned to steel. “I’ve come to take you home.”

28

NO FLAMES FLARED FROM DARKBLAZE. ARAWN STARED AT Kane, then set the sword back on the mantel. “You are welcome in my kingdom. Please release my guards.”

Kane dropped the men on the floor and straightened, opening his arms to me. Relief rushed through me as I realized his clothes were white, like mine.

“You’re not dead,” I whispered as he folded me in his arms.

He pulled me close, covering my hair and face with kisses. Like he could never get enough of touching me. His warm woodland scent surrounded me, blotting out the sharp smell of magic. Then he pulled back, holding me at arm’s length, studying my face.

“And you?” he asked.

“I’m not dead, either. You can tell by the clothes. The living wear white.”

“Thank God.” Again he pulled me to him. Over my head, he spoke to Arawn. “She doesn’t belong here. You will release her to me.”

Arawn chuckled. “I believe your friend has come to play Orpheus, Victory. I’ll leave you to explain our arrangement.” His footsteps crossed to the door, then paused. “And you are welcome, sir, to help yourself to some wine.”