I Tamed The Twin Demons

The blade touched Marco's throat just as he realized he was supposed to be dead.

“Hold still,” the woman above him whispered. “I would hate to cut your head off twice.”

Marco froze.

He had several questions, beginning with why a woman was threatening to decapitate him and ending with how anyone could kill the same person twice.

Unfortunately, the cold steel resting against his neck suggested that asking those questions in the wrong order might shorten his remaining lifespan.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

A blood-red moon stared down through a shattered ceiling, bathing the ruined chamber in an eerie crimson glow.

Black candles floated above the floor without flames, their charred wicks trailing wisps of smoke. Beneath Marco's back lay a stone altar covered in glowing symbols, and the air smelled of burnt flesh, iron, and something unpleasantly sweet.

Two women stood over him.

They possessed the same silver hair, the same black horns curling backward from their temples, and the same unnaturally beautiful faces. Yet their expressions could hardly have been more different.

The woman holding the blade wore dark armor that hugged her athletic frame. Her crimson eyes were cold, and a slender tail moved behind her as though even the act of standing still irritated her.

She looked like someone who considered murder a practical solution to most inconveniences.

Her sister stood beside her in a flowing black robe embroidered with golden runes. Unlike the armored woman, she wore a faint smile that suggested she found the entire situation entertaining.

Marco looked from one woman to the other. Then he glanced at the ceiling, hoping to discover a logical explanation for his circumstances.

He found none.

“Excellent,” he croaked. “I've finally managed to die and wake up somewhere worse than my apartment.”

The armored woman pressed her blade against his throat. “Your sense of humor is going to get you killed.”

“Judging by the knife, I suspect my sense of humor isn't the biggest problem here.”

Her tail snapped against the side of the altar.

“Davea,” her sister said, sounding amused, “he has been awake for less than a minute, and already he's annoying you.”

“Then perhaps I should put him back to sleep.”

“Permanently, I assume?”

“Now you're understanding me.”

Marco decided that remaining quiet might be the first intelligent decision he had made since opening his eyes.

He attempted to sit up, hoping to put some distance between himself and the blade. A violent burst of pain tore through his chest, and he collapsed against the stone with a strangled gasp.

His hand flew to his ribs.

Blood soaked his shirt, spreading from a deep wound beneath his left side. The edges of the injury were blackened, as though something had burned its way through his flesh from the inside. Thin black veins extended from the wound toward his wrists, branching beneath his skin like cracks in broken glass.

He stared at the blood coating his fingers.

That wound should have killed him.

Judging by the amount of blood on the altar, it already had.

His thoughts scattered as he searched for an explanation. An accident? A hospital? Some elaborate nightmare produced by an overworked brain?

He remembered ordinary things: computer screens, deadlines, unpaid bills, and the familiar frustration of dealing with people who insisted that obvious problems would disappear if everyone simply ignored them.

He remembered being a man with a life.

But when he tried to recall how that life had ended, his mind returned nothing.

There was no final memory, no flash of headlights, no sudden pain, and no comforting image of a hospital bed. Instead, he encountered a blank space so complete that it felt less like forgetting and more like someone had reached inside his head and torn something out.

He had no idea how he had arrived here.

He only knew that if the woman with the sword decided to finish what she had started, he might never find out.

“Before you kill me,” Marco said carefully, “could you at least tell me what I've done?”

Davea's expression hardened. “You opened your mouth without permission.”

Marco blinked. “That's a surprisingly serious crime.”

The blade drew a thin line across his skin. Warm blood trickled down his neck. He immediately abandoned the idea of making another joke.

The woman in black robes crouched beside the altar, watching him with a curiosity that was almost more unsettling than her sister's hostility.

“Tell me your name,” she said.

“Marco.”

“Your full name.”

He hesitated.

He knew his name. He was certain of that much. Yet when he tried to reach beyond it, searching for the rest of his identity, his thoughts became tangled in the same impenetrable darkness.

“Marco,” he repeated. “That's what I remember.”

The woman's smile disappeared.

Davea exchanged a glance with her sister.

It was a small gesture, but Marco caught it. Whatever answer they had expected, he had given them something different.

“Convenient,” Davea muttered. “The traitor loses his memory immediately after returning from the dead.”

“Returning?” Marco seized on the word. “You mean I actually died?”

“You were dead before we brought you here,” the woman in robes replied. “Your heart had stopped, your soul had departed, and your body was already beginning to decay. We confirmed all three.”

Marco looked down at his chest. “Then how am I talking?”

“That,” she said, “is precisely what we intend to discover.”

“Wonderful. I'm a medical mystery in a room full of people who look ready to dissect me.”

“Not people,” Davea corrected.

Her sister laughed.

“I'm Devana,” she said. “My charming sister is Davea, and the corpse you're occupying belonged to a man who betrayed us.”

Marco stared at her. “I'm sorry. Did you just say I'm occupying a corpse?”

“Would you prefer that we call it borrowing?”

“I'd prefer an explanation that doesn't involve borrowing someone else's body.”

“Then you should have chosen a less complicated resurrection.”

Devana's casual answer chilled him more than the blade had.

Resurrection.

The word sounded absurd, yet nothing about his circumstances suggested that he could afford to dismiss it. He was bleeding on an altar in a chamber filled with impossible magic, and two horned women were discussing his death as though they had witnessed it personally.

He looked at his hands again.

They were not the hands he remembered. These fingers were longer, the knuckles more pronounced, and the skin marked by black veins that had not been there in his former life.

He had not simply survived a fatal injury.

He had awakened inside another man's body.

“Who was he?” Marco asked.

“A traitor,” Davea replied.

“You mentioned that. I was hoping for a name.”

“You will receive no name from me.”

“Then tell me what he did.”

Davea leaned closer, her crimson eyes narrowing.

“He opened a gate he could not close. Something came through, and people died because of his arrogance. We hunted him down, and I personally watched the life leave his body.”

Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her blade. “And now he is breathing again.”

Devana rose abruptly.

“Devana, that's enough.”

“Why? You want to pretend this isn't a problem?”

“I want to understand what happened before you destroy our only lead.”

“Our only lead is a dead traitor wearing a different expression.”

“Then perhaps we should find out why the traitor's body has started behaving differently.”

For the first time, Marco sensed a genuine disagreement between the sisters. Davea wanted him dead because she believed he was the same man they had killed. Devana suspected that something had changed, and her curiosity was beginning to compete with her fear.

That difference might save his life.

Marco needed to give them a reason to keep him alive.

Not a promise. Not a plea. Something useful.

He forced himself to examine the altar.

The glowing symbols beneath his left hand had been flickering since he awakened. At first, he had assumed the light was reacting to the blood soaking the stone. Now he noticed a pattern: whenever his fingers moved, certain symbols dimmed while others brightened.

The pattern repeated with every movement.

His pulse quickened.

The magic was responding to him. He shifted his left hand a fraction of an inch.

Three symbols darkened. A fourth brightened, releasing a thin thread of red light that crawled across the altar and disappeared beneath the bandages covering his chest. Pain shot through his ribs.

Marco clenched his teeth, but the wound stopped bleeding for a moment. He stared at it in disbelief. Then the blood began flowing again.

The effect had lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough to change his understanding of the situation. Whatever had brought him back had not healed his body completely. Something was keeping him alive, and the symbols appeared to be part of that process.

If he could understand how they worked, perhaps he could prevent himself from dying a second time.

And if he died now, he might never discover what had happened to his original life.

“Wait,” he said, raising his free hand. “Before either of you decides to make another corpse, I think I can prove that something unusual is happening.”

Davea's blade remained at his throat. “You have three seconds.”

“That's not much time for a convincing presentation.”

“Two.”

Marco ignored her and concentrated on the glowing symbols.

He had no magical training, no explanation for the strange light, and no idea what the runes meant. He had only the pattern he had observed and the suspicion that his movements were somehow influencing it.

He pressed his palm against the nearest symbol. Nothing happened. His heart sank.

Perhaps he had imagined the connection. Perhaps the previous flicker had been nothing more than a reaction to the blood. Perhaps he was about to discover that his final act in this world would be making an unsuccessful argument to a woman with a sword.

Then he remembered the black veins spreading across his hands.

They resembled the markings around the wound, and both seemed to pulse whenever the red light appeared.

Instead of pressing harder, Marco relaxed his fingers and focused on the sensation beneath his palm. A faint vibration answered him from the stone, followed by a strange pressure behind his eyes.

The symbols rearranged themselves.

Not physically, but in his perception. Their shapes became clearer, as though his mind had suddenly learned to recognize a language it had never encountered.

One symbol seemed to mean life.

Another suggested exchange.

The third carried a meaning he could not quite grasp, although the impression of a boundary or a sealed door lingered in his mind. Then a fourth symbol flashed.

Marco felt something inside his chest respond.

The wound closed by a fraction, drawing the torn flesh together just enough to slow the bleeding. At the same time, a sharp sting spread through his left hand, and one of the black veins beneath his skin turned bright red.

He jerked away from the altar. The symbols immediately returned to their previous arrangement. For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Marco examined his hand, struggling to comprehend what he had witnessed. He had not consciously cast a spell. He had not even understood the symbols until moments ago. Yet the altar had reacted to his attention, and the magic had altered his wound.

The experience left him with two conclusions. First, he possessed an ability that had not belonged to his former life. Second, using it came at a cost.

Davea slowly lifted her blade away from his throat, although she did not lower it completely. “What did you do?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Do not play games with me.”

“I'm not. I touched the symbol, concentrated on it, and somehow convinced the altar to stop me from bleeding to death. If you know a better explanation, I'd be delighted to hear it.”

Devana stepped closer, her golden eyes fixed on the mark that had appeared beneath his skin.

“That wasn't possible,” she whispered.

Marco looked at her. “I'm beginning to hear that a lot.”

“The resurrection circle was designed to contain the soul of the man we killed. It should have rejected anything that did not belong to him.”

“Perhaps it did,” Davea said, her voice growing dangerous. “Perhaps this thing is only pretending to be a man.”

She seized Marco by the front of his shirt and dragged him forward, ignoring his pained gasp.

“Tell me what came through the gate.”

“I don't know what gate you're talking about!”

“Liar.”

“I don't even know where I am!”

“Then why does the circle answer you?”

Marco had no answer.

Davea's eyes burned with suspicion, and for a moment he believed she would strike regardless of what he said. He could see how badly she wanted a clear explanation, but he had none to give her. Whatever had happened to him, it had happened beyond his understanding.

Still, he had learned something important.

The twins needed answers just as much as he did.

That gave him a chance to negotiate.

“You think I'm the man who betrayed you,” Marco said, forcing himself to meet Davea's gaze. “But if I were, wouldn't I know what I did? Wouldn't I know what came through that gate?”

“Perhaps you are pretending.”

“Then test me. Ask me something only he would know.”

Davea's expression tightened.

Devana looked sharply at her sister.

Neither answered.

Marco pressed his advantage carefully. “You want to know why I'm alive. I want to know why I'm here. You want answers about your traitor, and I want answers about the body I'm trapped in. Killing me won't give either of us anything.”

“You presume that you have something to offer,” Davea said.

“I can interact with your resurrection circle. You just watched me do it. Whatever you think I am, that makes me worth more alive than dead.”

Devana's gaze shifted from his hand to the altar.

For the first time since Marco had awakened, she looked genuinely uncertain.

“He has a point,” she admitted.

Davea turned on her. “You cannot possibly be considering this.”

“I'm considering the evidence. The circle has been dormant since the traitor's death. Now it responds to him, and the markings on his body are changing. If we kill him before understanding why, we may destroy the only clue we have.”

“And if he is the thing that came through the gate?”

“Then keeping him where we can observe him is wiser than letting him loose—or allowing him to die before we learn what he is.”

Marco swallowed.

He appreciated Devana's reasoning, although he would have preferred that his survival not depend on the outcome of a debate between two supernatural executioners.

Devana released his shirt and stepped back. Her blade remained in her hand.

“You will answer our questions,” she said. “You will not leave this chamber, touch another rune, or attempt to use whatever power you possess without our permission.”

“Understood.”

“If you lie to us, I will know.”

“That's reassuring.”

“And if you attempt to escape, I will cut you apart and make certain that nothing brings you back.”

Marco nodded solemnly.

“I'll add that to my list of reasons not to run.”

Devana smiled faintly, but her attention remained fixed on the altar. She was studying the symbols as though they had revealed a problem far more dangerous than a resurrected traitor.

Marco tried to draw a deeper breath, only to discover that his chest still hurt. The brief healing had slowed his bleeding, but the wound remained open, and the black veins beneath his skin continued to pulse.

He needed medical attention, food, water, and a better understanding of his surroundings. More urgently, he needed to learn how to control whatever ability had just manifested before it killed him.

He had survived the first few minutes. That was all. “There's one more thing,” Marco said.

Davea looked ready to regret allowing him to speak. “What now?”

“If you expect me to cooperate, I need to know where I am and what happens next.”

“You are in the lower sanctum of the Blackthorn Citadel,” Devana answered. “You will remain here until we understand what you are.”

“And after that?”

“That depends on what we discover.”

Marco exhaled slowly. It was not a comforting answer, but at least it was an answer. Then the altar shuddered beneath him.

The floating candles went out simultaneously, plunging the chamber into darkness. A deep vibration rolled through the stone floor, and the red moonlight pouring through the shattered ceiling suddenly dimmed.

Devana spun toward the circle. “Davea, move away from him!”

The armored demoness reacted instantly, seizing Marco by the collar and dragging him off the altar. His injured chest screamed in protest, but before he could cry out, the runes beneath him ignited with a violent crimson light.

The symbols he had activated began changing, one after another, spreading outward from the place where his palm had touched the stone.

Devana's face drained of color. “No. That seal was supposed to be permanent.”

A sound rose from beneath the altar.

It was not a voice, not exactly. It resembled the scrape of enormous claws against the other side of a locked door.

Marco stared at the glowing symbols as the black veins beneath his skin flared red in response. A pressure gathered behind his eyes, and the unfamiliar shapes appeared in his mind again, clearer this time.

He understood one of them.

Open.

His stomach dropped.

“I didn't do that,” he whispered.

Davea tightened her grip on him, her expression murderous. “Then tell me why the seal is breaking!”

The stone beneath the altar split with a deafening crack. Something on the other side struck the barrier once.

The impact shook dust from the ceiling and sent Devana stumbling backward. Her golden runes blazed to life as she raised both hands, desperately trying to reinforce the failing seal.

A second impact followed.

The altar cracked down the middle.

And from the darkness beneath it, a voice spoke directly into Marco's mind. “At last. The vessel has awakened. Now open the gate, Marco Veyne.”