The Kraken's Sacrifice (A Deal With a Demon #2)(3)

The city itself looks like an old-school version of cities everywhere. Or maybe even a current one. I’m not a city expert. There are tall buildings and short ones, and I got bored staring at them after the first hour.

Finding out the bathroom had indoor plumbing was a great relief, and the shower is very large, but that only occupied me for a short time too. Same with the wardrobe filled with some of the fanciest clothing I’ve ever gotten my hands on. All in my size, which is another neat trick. I indulged in a fashion show worthy of any movie montage, but I exhausted the clothes quickly enough.

Azazel appeared briefly to give me a tattoo that apparently functions as a verbal translation spell. Nifty thing, that. There’s also a secondary tattoo that apparently marks my demon bargain. But that meeting is far too short for my liking. He obviously doesn’t want to spend any more time in my presence than strictly necessary.

Boredom set in quickly.

Food appears at regular intervals, but no matter how much I try to watch the door, I never see the person who brings it. Must be magic, but that knowledge doesn’t help me decrease the boredom. It builds and builds inside me, making my skin too tight and my mind staticky.

Azazel locked me up because he didn’t want to deal with me. Just like my mother used to. Oh, she called it “grounding,” but I’m pretty sure when most kids are grounded, their doors don’t have locks on the outside.

I shudder.

“No. Enough of this. I made a bargain with a demon and now I’m entitled to an update,” I say aloud. I don’t give a fuck that I haven’t been hurt and that I’ve been fed and clothed and nothing has been asked of me. Anything would be better than this. Anything.

Which is how I find myself kneeling in front of the lock and trying to pick it. A skill I learned far younger than I’ll ever admit . . . and the same one that prompted my mother to install a dead bolt on my door.

“I am not thinking about that right now,” I mutter. The bobby pins I pulled from my hair are stronger than most—an expense I justify for this very reason. Having no escape makes me feel like an animal in a trap.

I have no illusions about how far I’ll go. I will gnaw off my own limb to escape.

Thankfully, the only thing between me and relative freedom is a locked door. A locked door that seems to be resisting me, but a locked door nonetheless.

“Come on.” I twist the pin, feeling for the lever. “Please. I can’t stay in here. If I do, I’m going to start screaming and never stop.” Dramatic? Yes. Accurate? Also yes.

The lock clicks.

I blink. I hadn’t even found the lever yet . . . or at least I didn’t think I did. Half-sure I imagined that click, I try the handle.

Unlocked.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Cat. You’re just better than you thought you were.” Gods, I don’t know what it say that I’m talking to myself, but it’s not a good sign. I’m losing it. I need to get out of this room. I push to my feet, take a moment to fix the fall of my dress, open the door, and step into the hall.

“Neat trick.”

I scream and practically levitate six feet to the right. A mocking laugh responds. I spin to face the voice and find an unfamiliar bargainer demon. This one is built shorter and more delicate than Azazel—but still plenty tall by human height standards—and they have a second set of horns curving up from their eye sockets. I frown. “Are you a guard?”

“Merely a curious party.” They grin. “Name’s Ramanu. Pronouns are mostly they/them, but really any will do.”

“Nice to meet you.” I smooth my hands over my dress, nerves making me want to bounce on my toes. They don’t seem dangerous—or at least not more dangerous than anyone else in the world. Worlds? Realms?

I clear my throat. “Are you going to make me go back in my room?”

They seem to study the door, though I don’t know exactly how that’s possible since they have no actual eyes. “No,” they say slowly. “No, I don’t think I will. There are a few hours until you’re collected for the auction. Want to stretch your legs?”

“Stretch my legs,” I echo. I narrow my eyes. “I’m not allowed to wander the halls, am I?”

“Nope.” Their grin widens. “But since the castle let you out once, it’ll probably do it again, and it’s better that you have an escort. Won’t stop our fearless leader from popping a blood vessel, but that’s just a bonus from where I’m sitting.”

I very much want to move, to start down the hall and walk off some of this restless energy, but I don’t know if it’s a smart idea. Then again, I’m not sure I care. “Do you not like Azazel?”

“It’s not a matter of liking Azazel.” They turn and offer their elbow. “He’s too good at his job. Sometimes it’s important to throw a wrench or seven into the gears. Keeps him on his toes.”

And I’m a wrench.

No reason for that to sting. I am the problem child, the unruly one, the daughter and girlfriend and employee who can’t manage to get anything right. The endless letdown.

That doesn’t stop me from slipping my arm through Ramanu’s and walking down the hall. I am my most charming version, telling them some of the more outrageous—and harmless—stories about my life and making them laugh. It’s pleasant enough, though I can’t help feeling their interest is at least partially scrutinizing. Whether that is directed at me specifically or simply because Azazel brought me here is up for grabs.