The Devil's Debt: A Kiss That Binds the Damned

CHAPTER NINE: The House of Wrath

Hell arrived for dinner at nine.

Kael had tried to cancel it. But the Law of the Seven was plain: a king who received one wedding guest must receive them all, at table, beneath his own roof, or the insult would be answered in blood. So he stood at the head of the great banquet hall in black velvet, a bandage under his cuff and a hollow place in his memory where his mother's face had been, and watched the Houses of Hell take their seats.

Aurelian of Greed, courteous as a bank. Duchess Vespera, trailing roses, her gold eyes sliding over every man in the room. Lady Isoreth of Pride, silver-haired in a gown of mirrored glass, who did not look at anyone and was not looked away from. Twin dark-eyed lords of Envy, who whispered constantly and watched Kael as though measuring his coat. A veiled woman in gray, the envoy of Sorrow, who sat at the foot of the table and began, softly, to weep.

And one empty chair.

"He is late," said the bride, from the seat at Kael's right, with pleasant interest. "Dravik is always late. It is how he makes an entrance."

On his left, Seraphine said nothing. She stood arm's length behind his chair, in black again, as the Collector's Clause demanded. She had not spoken to him since the king's chamber, and her stillness was so complete that it felt like a hand on the back of his neck. I am sorry was a thread tied to a boulder, so he had said nothing, and the nothing had grown until it filled the room.

The doors blew open.

The man who strode in was six and a half feet of corded muscle in a coat the color of dried blood, his face carved by a long white scar from brow to jaw. His eyes burned fevered red. A massive blade hung at his hip, and where it touched the floor, the stone smoked.

"Prince Dravik of Wrath," Seraphine said, without moving her lips. "Do not drink. Do not bow. Do not look away."

"A feast!" Dravik roared, and the candles bent. He dropped into the empty chair so hard that the table jumped, drained a goblet of red wine, and fixed Kael with a grin full of teeth. "They tell me you refuse wine."

"I do."

"They tell me," Dravik said gently, "that you traded your mother's face to a counting-house goblin for a bell and a handshake."

The hall went silent. Kael felt the heat climb his throat. Behind him, Seraphine had stopped breathing.

"That is between myself and the House of Greed."

"It is not. A king who sells his dead will sell anything, and I do not buy what has already been spoiled." The grin vanished. "The House of Wrath trades in neither memory nor desire. We trade in this."

He drew the blade. It came out of its scabbard with a sound like a scream, a broad red sword that shimmered like heat over iron. Guards surged forward and halted when the Prince raised a hand.

"One duel," said Dravik. "To first blood. If you draw mine, the third bell is silenced and my House stands at your side. If I draw yours, I take the arm you used to do it."

"Refuse," Seraphine said, very low. "He will cut you in half."

"And if I refuse?"

"Wrath's price is blood. It will come either way."

He stood. At the edge of his vision, the bride leaned forward, chin on her hand, her lips curved in delighted anticipation, and he wondered what kind of woman looked at him like that and was not afraid.

"Terms accepted," said Kael.

---

The hall was cleared in four breaths. Nobles pressed themselves against the walls like frightened birds. Kael's sword was a plain, balanced blade, the best his father's armorer could make. He weighed it in his palm.

It will not be enough, he thought. It never will.

Dravik came at him like a wall coming down.

The first blow nearly tore the sword from his hand. The second drove him back three steps across the polished floor. Heat rolled off the red blade, and Kael's eyes streamed, and every instinct told him to run, as he had run before.

Then, from the dark of the hall, he heard a voice, cool, level, impatient.

"Stop being afraid and use what you were given."

Seraphine.

The thorn on his wrist burned. He did not decide. Black fire rose from the silver mark and crawled down his arm in a blazing line, and the steel in his hand began to glow, white at the edge, black at the heart. Dravik's grin faltered.

Kael met his next blow. The clash split the air. Sparks fountained across the floor, and a ripple of force cracked the windows. He drove forward, forgetting every careful lesson, fighting with the cold fury of a man who had been told for twenty years that he was nothing like his father and wanted, for once, to be something. Dravik fell back. His boot slid in a slick of spilled wine, Kael's sword swept low, and the red blade flew from his hand and rang against the marble.

The Prince of Wrath lay on his back with the point of Kael's sword at his throat.

"First blood," Kael said, and nicked the skin.

A single drop of black blood welled up. For a second, Dravik only stared. Then he threw back his head and laughed, a great, shaking, delighted roar. "The boy has teeth!"

And behind Kael, a blade sang.

He heard the whisper of metal cutting air and turned too slowly. A dagger, black-bladed, spun end over end out of the crowd of nobles toward his unprotected chest.

He had no time to move.

Something struck him from the side. A rush of silk, a breath of roses, a body that slammed against his and drove him back.

The dagger landed with a wet, short, terrible sound.

Seraphine staggered. She stood in front of him with her hand pressed to her side, black silk darkening between her fingers, her eyes wide with something almost like surprise. "Oh," she said, in a small, polite voice. "That is... unfortunate."

Then her knees buckled.

Kael caught her. She was shockingly light. Blood ran warm over his hands. "Seraphine, look at me—"

Across the hall, the bride screamed.

It was a raw, terrible sound, nothing like her laughter. She was doubled over at the end of the long table, both hands clutched to her left side, and as Kael watched, a bloom of red opened on the white of her gown, spreading from the same spot, in the same moment, as if the wound had been cut into her too.

Not as if.

The whole court had gone quiet. Even the envoy of Sorrow had stopped weeping. In the stillness, Dravik slowly got to his feet, wiped a drop of black blood from his neck, and looked from the woman in Kael's arms to the woman gasping on the floor.

"Ah," he said softly. "Now you see."

"See what?" Kael's voice was a rasp.

"One heart," said Dravik. "Two bodies. Kill one, you kill both." His red eyes gleamed with something that might have been pity. "And love one, little king, and you doom them both."