Sam shut the door to her room, wincing at the loud creak. Trainees were not supposed to be out of bed at this hour. Tristan had never specified the punishment for breaking curfew, but she doubted it would be good. “Maybe we should wake Tristan,” she whispered. “He'd know what to do.”

“We don't have time to convince him the threat is real,” said Braeden.

“Why wouldn't he believe you?”

“Why should he?”

Sam had no answer to that. “Braeden--” she started. He put his finger to his lips.

Tristan wrenched his door open, wearing a dark scowl. “What do you two think you're doing?”

Braeden shot her a reproachful glance—she hadn't been that loud—and then swept a bow. “Please accept my apologies, Paladin Lyons, but you’ll have to save our dressing-down for another time.” He gripped Sam's shoulder. “Are you coming?”

Sam turned to face Tristan fully, prepared to explain herself, but her mind went blank.

“What’s with the red face, boy?” Tristan asked.

Gods, her blush must be bad if he could see it in this light. “Y-y-your clothes, Paladin,” she stammered. “You aren’t wearing any.” He'd left his room dressed only in his smallclothes.

Tristan looked down, noting the truth of Sam’s words. “Surely you’ve seen a man in his smallclothes before?”

No, she hadn't. “Y-yes, Paladin.”

“Never mind what I’m wearing or not wearing--why are you two out of bed after hours?” he demanded.

“Demons, Paladin,” said Braeden. “They’re in the keep.”

Tristan folded his arms over his chest. “Where is your proof?”

Braeden's gaze flicked to her, as if to say I-told-you-so, and then he pushed up his right sleeve, revealing a sinewy, well-muscled arm. Inked across his shoulder was the roaring head of a lion with a forked, serpentine tongue lolling out of its mouth. Its fur-and-scale mottled torso curled around Braeden’s triceps, and three thick, foxlike tails sprung from its back and wound around his forearm to his wrist. But it wasn’t the design of the fearsome tattoo that monopolized her attention.

The circulation of Braeden’s blood was a visible thing: his blue veins stood out against the thin skin of his arms, and as his blood ebbed and flowed, his skin rose and receded like the waves of the ocean. The tattoo seemed to come alive, its body riding the currents of his skin.

“Their blood calls out to mine,” said Braeden. “When they’re near, my blood responds like this.”

Tristan stared at the undulating skin. “Let’s say you’re right,” he said, with frank disbelief. “Say demons are in The Center. You thought to take them on yourselves? Two untested trainees with half a brain between them?”

Sam opened her mouth to retort, but Braeden silenced her with a slight jerk of his head. “We haven’t the time to worry about protocol or niceties. You can join us or punish us on the morrow.”

Tristan swore under his breath. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Let me get dressed, and then I will escort you to the front lobby. And when there are no demons, I will escort you back to your room, where you will remain for the rest of the night. Are we agreed?”

“Aye,” said Braeden.

“Aye, Paladin,” she echoed.



The front lobby was eerily quiet. Warped black shadows slithered across the room, and the silver light of the moon glimmered through the cut glass of the gothic windows.

“I don’t see anything,” she whispered.

“They’re here,” said Braeden.

The skepticism faded from Tristan's face. “Be on guard, lads.”

“Paladin, with your permission, I’ll draw them out of hiding,” said Braeden. Tristan nodded his assent.

Braeden ran the tip of his knife along the inside of his arm, pressing just hard enough to break the skin. Blood welled from the cut and trickled vertically to his fingers before splashing onto the pale cream of the tiled floor.

“They can’t resist the lure of blood,” Braeden explained when she and Tristan looked at him questioningly. “Not even one of their own.” He let a few more drops of blood spill from his veins, before ripping a strip of cloth from his robes, wrapping it efficiently around his wound. For a moment, nothing happened; only their uneven breaths and the slight rustle of fabric interrupted the quiet of the night.

Two scarlet spheres winked into existence at the rear of the room, backlit by an infernal glow. Sam sucked in a gulp of air.

“First demon?” Tristan asked softly.

Sam shook her head. “Second.”

“It’s just the one. I can deal with it my--” Tristan shut up as a second pair of red orbs joined the first, followed by a third. “Alright, let’s split. Sam, you take the one on the left, I’ve got the one in the middle, and Braeden, you take the right.”

Braeden held up a hand. “Wait.”

A fourth and a fifth set of eyes appeared, followed by a sixth and a seventh…Sam stopped counting as a sea of red swept across the lobby. How many were there? Certainly more than one full Paladin and two trainees were meant to handle on their own. Her heart skipped a beat.

“Sam, light the lamp to your left,” Tristan ordered, pressing flint into her hand. “Move!” Startled out of her trance, she turned her attention to the ensconced fixture on the nearest wall. Light flooded the antechamber. Sam was grateful for the reprieve from darkness...until she got a proper glimpse of their intruders.

It was as though the demons had taken the symmetric beauty of nature and turned it on its face. The head of a rabid bear, its muzzle covered with white froth, connected to the long neck of a spotted giraffe, which in turn, descended into the squat, scaled body of an alligator. A giant five-headed cobra balanced on a single coiled tail, flicking out its five tongues rhythmically.

Tristan shuddered. “I loathe snakes.” The almighty Tristan Lyons feared something? In spite of her own mounting fear, Sam smiled. Even heroes had their weaknesses.

Some of the creatures were perversions of the human race: a jackal crawled about on human hands and knees, its fur giving way to pale skin where its neck met shoulders. Others stood upright with the bodies of men, limp flesh dangling obscenely between their thighs. But atop their thin necks were the heads of animals, some as commonplace as a cat or dog, some didn't exist outside man’s imagination.

“What do we do now?” she asked, a slight quiver betraying her nervousness.

“We fight,” said Tristan grimly. “And we pray.” The demons edged closer, sniffing the air, lured into the light by the seductive smell of Braeden’s blood.

“No plan?” Sam asked.

“Don’t die,” said Tristan, and with a battle cry, sprinted into the throng of demons.

She watched with a mixture of awe and dread as Tristan carved his way through demon after demon. He was beautiful to watch, a whirlwind of man and sword, blood spraying in a never-ending spiral as he moved.

“What are you waiting for?” hissed Braeden. “Go!” He shoved her none-too-gently before leaping into action, knives streaming through the air. His supply of knives seemed to be endless; as soon as a blade left his fingers, a new one appeared in his hands.

Before Sam had time to contemplate her first move, a large body slammed into her side, knocking her to the floor. As she struggled to right herself, an elephantine trunk wrapped around her waist and flung her into the air as if she weighed no more than a feather. She plummeted towards a wide, gaping mouth framed by pointed teeth the length of her head. Sam closed her eyes, imagining her end in the pit of the creature’s stomach.

Sam was submerged in liquid, wetness seeping through her clothes. But as she opened her eyes, she was not, as she had expected, soaked in the demon’s digestive fluids. By sheer, dumb luck, she had landed blade first into the creature’s eye, the force of her landing driving the dagger deep into its skull. She now stood knee high in a combination of aqueous liquid, blood and a gray, viscous membrane that clung to her boots like glue. With two hard tugs, she managed to retrieve her dagger, and used it as leverage to free her feet from the sticky substance.

“They won’t die until you cut off their heads!” called Tristan, skirmishing with a fire-breathing lizard. He leapt neatly over the three foot high flames then sliced clean through the creature’s neck.

Sam followed Tristan’s advice, hacking away at the demon until its head was severed from its body. Gods, how she wished she had a sword instead of this pathetic butter knife.

A glint of steel caught her eye, and Sam clapped her hand against her forehead at her own idiocy. Why hadn’t she thought of it earlier? She darted between the jackal-man and some sort of feathered worm, then pulled down one of the ornamental swords from the wall. She tested the blade’s edge, wincing as it cut through her skin. It would do.

Imbued with new confidence, Sam marched towards the thick of the fray, sword at the ready. Despite Tristan and Braeden’s efforts, two-thirds of the demons still remained; it would not be an easy victory, if it were a victory at all.

Determined to prove her mettle, Sam buried her sword into the closest demon, ripping through its ribcage and into its heart. The creature sank to its knees, clutching at its chest as she liberated its head from its body. Without pausing, she moved to her next target, ramming her blade through flesh and bone.

As she fought her way through the horde of demons, she found herself practically back-to-back with Tristan. Wordlessly, they acknowledged each other, striking the enemy in unison, felling demons left and right.

The five-headed cobra loomed over them like a monstrous glove. Its jaws hinged open at an obtuse angle as if to swallow them whole. Without warning, it struck, heads descending upon them at an impossibly fast speed. Sam and Tristan just barely managed to roll out of the way. Now, she was mad: that was the second time in the space of half an hour that something had tried to eat her.

Tristan mopped his sweaty face with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his cheeks. “We can beat this thing,” he said, a hint of fatigue creeping into his voice. “You attack from behind; I’ll distract it.”

While Tristan engaged the demon in an elaborate game of cat and mouse, Sam ducked and dodged her way around to the cobra’s tail. With a running start, she planted her sword and vaulted off the floor, propelling half way up the snake’s vertebrae. Using its rounded scales as stepping stones, she climbed higher, reaching its hooded neck. Gripping onto the folds of its loose skin with one hand, she held her sword aloft with the other, jamming it deep into the braincase of its leftmost head.

The problem with beheading a five-headed cobra was that there were five heads to behead. Sure enough, a single decapitation was not enough to kill the demon. Instead, the now four-headed cobra reared backwards, sending Sam sailing across the room, legs buckling beneath her as she crashed. She attempted to get to her feet, but the instant she put pressure on her right ankle, her eyes crossed at the pain. Hoping to use her sword as a crutch, Sam realized with dawning horror that the blade remained lodged inside the cobra's decollated head.

Sensing injured prey, four demons encircled Sam. She was surrounded by fang and flesh and feather, the sweet scent of her despair drawing them like moths to a flame. A remembered fear washed over her, the creatures returning her to the helpless brat of her youth.

But this time, Tristan was in no position to play hero; the snake demon had coiled itself about his legs, effectively trapping him where he stood. Only his sword, which he rotated above his head in a fanlike motion, shielded him from the cobra’s venomous fangs. A defensive move like that required tremendous energy, and he wouldn’t be able to keep it up forever.

Where was Braeden? Sam hadn’t seen him since he disappeared into the swarming mass. Was he even still alive? Tristan had been at her side, if only for a time; Braeden was alone with his knives.

“Braeden!” she shouted, praying to the gods that somehow he--they--everything--would be alright.

A deafening howl pierced through the din of battle, forcing Sam to her knees, her hands clamped fast over her ears. Even the demons seemed to be taken aback by the sound.

From the remaining mob of demons, a lone, man-shaped figure emerged. Braeden.

But the figure wasn’t Braeden. Or at least, not the Braeden she remembered. The rust-colored eyes, pupils stretched so thin they were almost invisible, those were his. But there was a savagery about them that she didn’t recall. The creature--for he was more demon than man--was bare to the waist, litheness replaced by bulging muscle, the definition and vascularity bordering on deformity. The silver hair she was so used to seeing piled in a topknot fell in loose, wild waves to his hipbone. He spread his arms wide, and a wall of demons assembled behind him, pawing at the ground, but obedient.

“Braeden?” she called again tentatively.

The Braeden doppelganger turned to Sam and smiled, a feral grin that spoke of cruelty to come.

She was as good as dead.