October 25th, Almost midnight, London, England

Two years, four months and five days after the apocalypse.

Arta gripped the ale jug in her hand. It was late. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the banquet hall, the distant full moon was already low in the sky. She wished she could follow it to bed. The feast was in its fourth hour, and the air was overloud with laughter and drunken shouts. There’d be dancing soon. She knew well enough to be long gone before it started. It was too easy to get trapped in the chaos, too easy for tempers to rise and demons to turn violent. It was too easy a place to die.

“I tell you, I did,” the Ember Dagon slurred. “I hired Nalian to do it. Iblis doesn’t deserve the position. It should have been mine.” He was a great brute of an ember. His wide face and square jaw sat upon a squat neck with shoulders like boulders.

“You’re lying,” Arafa’s laugh was as wispy as the rest of him. “You’re just boasting, you wouldn’t really do it.” He was slim, more beanpole than brute, with a narrow face and a cruel twist to his expression.

“I would!” Dagon insisted, raising his hand as he gestured for more ale. “I already have!”

If Arta were a barmaid, she would have cut him off, but thralls didn’t have opinions. She poured more ale into his cup.

Dagon turned to look at her, and the sheer size of him made her heart catch in her throat. “Leave the jug,” he said, and Arta put it down on the table. “Nosey thrall.” His teeth were sharp like a shark’s. “Were you listening to us?”

Arta shook her head, taking a step backwards to distance herself.

“The little rat, she was, she was listening to us!” Dagon spat.

Arta shook her head, taking another step back and bumping against someone. “Picking fights with thralls now are you, Dagon?”

Arta turned to see Fulco, his red eyes glowing as he regarded the other demon. Fulco was an Ember of the Seventh Cohort. He rarely raised his voice and wasn’t usually prone to violence.

Dagon half rose from the bench, stumbling as his eyes flashed, but his reply was lost in a clatter of falling cutlery. Arta’s eyes darted to where a Flame stood from one end of the long table, drawing his blade. The thrall in front of him, Daxi-Nara, fell to his knees. He brought his hands together in a silent plea—silent because he couldn’t scream, couldn’t beg for his own life.

The blade came down as Arta looked away. Fulco’s hands on her shoulders tightened as a cheer went through the crowd. As the demons swarmed around them, he dragged her backward.

“You should get out of here.” He had to shout over the roar of the Horde’s descent.

Arta shrugged out of his hold, slipping through a gap in the benches and ducking underneath one of the long tables. She hid there, hands wrapped around her knees, as the revelry began, feet stamping and voices raising in a song that was half war cry. She had to get out. The space beneath the table was a shadowed corridor of tapping legs and booted feet. It was a straight shot to the end, to an open door she could slip out of. She’d have to crawl the whole way.

Her breath came in deep shuddering gasps, as panic settled into her chest. The table above her bounced from a pounding fist. It would only take a kick from one of the dancing legs surrounding Arta to break her spine. She squeezed her eyes closed, covering her ears, as she inhaled slowly. There was no time to panic, not if she wanted to live to see the morning. The noise of the horde faded to a dull roar, as Arta forced her shaking limbs to still. She had to survive.

Ahead of her, another thrall, Nari, slipped beneath the table, glancing back at her with wide, terrified eyes. At the sight of Arta, her expression softened. Nari gave her a small relieved smile, raising her hand as she beckoned for her to follow, and Arta began to crawl.

The council of hell sat around a modern marble conference table on a raised platform like a dais; the rest of the room matched. It was all brushed aluminium, concrete and glass. The demons—the King, his two sons, the four Ember Generals of the Prime Cohorts, and the four Flame Chieftains—discussed strategy. The gathered council didn’t appear out of place to Arta amongst the brutalist architecture. If you ignored their inhuman complections and size, they could have been mistaken for any C-level executive meeting. A large map took up most of the table, and in its centre sat a wooden box carved with ornate demonic glyphs.

“The human population is rising,” Lord Arkkawn, the King of both Hell and Britain, gestured to the map. “If the trend continues, there won’t be enough wheat to sustain them. We should put restrictions in place on childbirth in the factories and the camps.”

Arta poured wine for the general of the Third Cohort. Red streaked the coal-black skin of his hand like lava, and she found herself distracted by the patterns, nearly overfilling his cup. As she quickly lifted the jug to stop pouring, a drop of wine fell, splashing his white shirt cuff. Arta froze as the beast looked at her, red eyes tight with annoyance as he half raised the offended arm. His lips curled back, baring his teeth, and her heart sprinted out of her chest. A Court Thrall who spilt wine on a general was not long for this world.

The Prince of Hell’s voice cut through the silent war room. “Belial,” Asmodiel said, snapping the Ember’s attention away from her as she slipped back to her station at the edge of the raised platform. “What news have you received from the camps? Have you discovered the spies amongst the mortals?”

Belial grunted, the sound a deep rumble from his ancient ill-tempered chest, like rocks falling in the mountains. “There are more of them every day. We’ve been sending those we discover to the pits, but the harder we crack down, the deeper the veins of rebellion sink.”

Lord Arkkawn took a slow sip of wine, his gaze turning to his other son. “Askedian, have you found a weakness in the Army’s fortifications?”

“I have found little that would counteract the druids’ ancient protections.” Askedian was the younger of Lord Arkkawn’s remaining sons and the lesser in so many ways. “Unless one of those who dwell there is willing to open their doors to us, we cannot enter.”

All that remained of the British Army was a single base close to Glastonbury. By chance or design, they’d built over sacred ground—sacred enough that no demon could set foot there. Across the rest of the country lingered a few more pockets of freedom: the mountains of Northern Wales and the Highlands above Glasgow. Most of Norfolk had been free until last spring, but Norwich had finally fallen in March.

“Now that we have captured Xanthe Kazanpolous, the druids will come out of hiding,” Arkkawn said. He gripped the marble of the conference table so hard it creaked. “I want every one of them dead.” The stone crackled, like its very atoms were grating against each other. “The only fitting punishment for their betrayal.” He released his tight grip, pressing a gentle fingertip into the pin marking the Army’s last stronghold. “First the druids, and then what little remains of the British army. Starve them out, and when they surrender, we’ll put the remaining soldiers in the pits for the workers to watch till they’ve slaughtered each other.”

“Is that necessary, Father?” Asmodiel asked with just a vague sniff of disdain. “The army is on its last legs, and the winter will see to them more surely than we could. Surely you do not intend to cull the warriors from your mortal subjects?”

Arkkawn’s unnaturally blue eyes glowed with malice. “Whilst hope of resistance still lives in the hearts of men, the British army will always be a threat.” He tapped a long silver finger against the map before them. “In a few generations, I will foster the warriors amongst them. We will train them as we did of old and they will fight beside us, amongst the Cohorts. But for now, every last soldier must be eradicated.”

Asmodiel dipped his head. “Yes, Father.” He was the enemy of everything good left in the world.

Lord Arkkawn opened the box resting in the centre of the table with a soft creak. Inside lay a wickedly sharp knife, its curved blade engraved with glyphs.

“You have earned a blessing, Askedian.” The demon smiled, baring too many teeth. “Your defeat of the rebels in Norfolk is worthy of reward.”

 Arta couldn’t take her eyes off the knife.

“Father?” Askedian’s gazed at the King with awe. “I am honoured.”

“We must wait for Samhain.”

She suppressed a shudder. The younger prince of hell’s expression held a delight Arta would never share. A demon’s blessing meant a mortal’s death.

Floor 28 was all abandoned offices. Peering down into the murky water so far below, she could see it lapping as high as the first floor. Since the destruction of the Thames barrier, the river regularly submerged the city at high tide. With a silent sigh, she walked away from the window, sat on one of the long-abandoned desks and pulled open the drawer. The sketchbook was still hidden there, wrapped inside a patterned cloth. She pulled on the knot that bound it, untying the string. Splitting the leather binding, she cracked it open to a new page, tracing her fingers across the cartridge paper. She picked a pen from the pot already on the desk, clicking it on. The ink hadn’t dried up yet, and she traced a fresh black line across the creamy paper.

Arta squinted, trying hard to bring a memory to mind. She pressed the pen tip into the page as her thoughts remained frustratingly blank. The stylus clattered against the desk as she discarded it and grabbed the corner of the page instead. People stared up at her as she flicked through the sketchbook, the memories of family and friends she’d bound to paper so that even if she was here so long she forgot their faces, she’d still be able to look at them. She flipped another page, and a dried red petal slipped out, drifting to the floor. The drawing of the rose the petal had come from caught her eyes, and she traced her fingertips over the black lines of the sketch. Even in hell, flowers still bloomed. Arta bent over and picked up the fallen petal. It was so dry it tore between her fingers. Ignoring a twinge of sadness, she gently slipped the pieces back between the pages. Wanting to remember something didn’t mean she wanted to think about it. She flipped back to the current sketch, faced with a line of wasted black ink.

“It’s not your best work,” Asmodiel said, taking a seat on the desk opposite her, his palms clasped together.

Arta closed the book and slipped it back into the drawer. She hadn’t heard him come in. For a creature so heavy, he could be eerily silent when he wanted to be. Her gaze met black eyes the colour of the midnight sky. Arta folded her arms, impatient.

“Is there something you’d like to say?” he asked with a taunting smile.

Arta had learnt enough sign language to get by, but he didn’t understand it. He knew what it meant when she swore at him, though. Asmodiel laughed, raising his hand. At the gesture, relief slipped through her chest, lightening it as the tightness in her throat loosened. She coughed.

“You’re not funny,” she said with a glare. The words were thick and slow, but they’d return to normal after a minute or two. “And you’re late.”

Asmodiel was unphased by her reproach. “I’m very busy.”

Arta pursed her lips. “You’re right, crushing the spirits of your enthralled subjects is a full-time job. It is a wonder Your Noble Highness has the time to talk with one so lowly as I.”

“As dearly as I enjoy your flattery,” he said, tapping a finger against his forearm, “I can’t help but notice that you seem upset?”

She breathed out through her nose slowly, drawing her temper together. “Did you see what happened to Daxa-Nari?” She didn’t even know his name, just his number—Forty-seven in the demon tongue.

“Ah.” He hesitated. “Were you close?”

“No.” Arta said.

She sunk her nails into her palms, wishing that it was less horrible, that any of this could be less awful.

The smile melted from his face. “If you barely knew the man, then why mourn him?”

“Whether I knew him or not, he didn’t deserve to have his head cut off!”

It terrified her that a demon could kill her on a whim. One day, the man in front of her might look at her and decide she’d served her purpose. Would she even see it coming? His crooked smile would turn cruel, his dark eyes would turn cold, and that would be the end of her.

She swallowed, glancing away. “What if I fail you?” He was a monster—she shouldn’t have to keep reminding herself of it. “Will you rip off my head, or snap my neck… or—”

“Throw you off the observation deck?” he offered.

Arta felt the hot sting of anger inside her chest. He wasn’t taking her seriously. “If I fail you, will you kill me?”

“I don’t see why that’s a particularly important question,” Asmodiel replied.

Her mouth fell open. “I disagree. I think how you plan to kill me if I fail you is a very—”

“You will never fail me,” he said smoothly, cutting her off. She couldn’t tell if it was a warning or an assurance. “So I see no reason for us to discuss what might happen if you do.” He looked to the window. The sky outside was moody, the deep grey that said it was thinking about raining, but wasn’t sure whether to commit to it. “And I am not so cruel as the flames—they do not see humans as…”

“People?” Arta clung to the edge of the desk, her knuckles aching. “People who hurt and suffer and think and feel…”

“Your lives are the blink of an eye to them. A hundred years is nothing, as fleeting as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings,” Asmodiel replied. “A Flame can live a thousand years, an Ember ten thousand. No flame living today has known humanity as anything other than their enemy. ”

Arta swallowed, her anger fleeing just as quickly as it had come. “And a Monarch? How long can a prince of hell live?”

His eyes met hers, the depths of them endless and alien. “An eternity.” He smiled. “If we aren’t foolish enough to get ourselves killed.”

Even after two years at court, she didn’t know how old he was. She’d never considered asking him. His expression softened as she looked at him, and for a moment, it looked like he meant to say something, but he cleared his throat instead. Her chest twinged, a strange, nameless ache that reminded her he was her enemy. She sighed, her anger ebbing. There was no point fighting him when he refused to fight back.

Arta wet her lips, the words hesitating in her throat as if he’d taken her voice back already. “The Ember Dagon is annoyed that Iblis was put in charge of the Fifth Cohort of the Horde. He told the Ember Arafa last night after two pints of ale. Dagon thinks the command should have been his. After nine pints, he admitted that he’s paid the flame Nalian to kill him.” Even demons struggled to hold their tongues after too many litres of bitter. “He pretended he was joking, but I believe he was serious. Especially since Nalian has been promising the Migra Melka that soon he’ll be able to buy out Melka’s family’s service to the Trine chieftain and have enough left over to purchase a plot on old land.” The demons called all of Britain old land. They had been there first. “Nalian’s got his eye on somewhere in Northumberland… but Melka says his great-grandmother always used to say the ground up there isn’t good for growing.”

“A Migra would know,” Asmodiel said. He leant back as the desk creaked under his weight. “How is it that you seem able to recount the life story of every demon in the horde?”

“You asked me to watch them,” Arta reminded him. The demons were terrifying and strange, violent and vengeful, and somehow human. “But I enjoy listening to them. They’re not so scary when they’re talking about settling down and raising sheep in a cottage by the sea.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Is that what you would like to do? Settle down on a small farm and rear sheep?”

“I’d lose them. I’ve never even kept a plant alive for more than a week.” Arta shook her head. “What about Dagon? Will you stop him from having Iblis killed?”

“And deprive Nalian and Melka of their dreams?” He raised a brow. “What sort of monster would I have to be to stand in the way of true love and husbandry?” His gaze hadn’t left her face.

Arta frowned. “Do you not believe it a shame for a being like Iblis, whose life isn’t ‘fleeting,’ who could live ten thousand years to die?”

“What are ten thousand years if you do nothing with them?” He tapped a finger against the desk. “Some mortals achieve more of note in nineteen short years than an Ember in a lifetime.”

Her gaze drifted to the purpling clouds as they darkened like a nasty bruise. She hadn’t done much with her nineteen years.

“Iblis isn’t so bad,” she said. “He’s calm for an Ember, less volatile.”

“You have a kind word to spare for my kind?” Asmodiel’s eyes widened. “I thought we were all filthy villainous scum.”

Arta glanced at the floor. “I didn’t say it that way.”

“No, your exact phrasing is too crude for my noble mouth to repeat,” he teased.

“I wouldn’t use those words to describe all demons.” The carpet was thick with dust. “Just a special few.” Arta glanced up, catching his smile widening.

“You consider me special?” he asked.

She ignored him. “I think Iblis makes a better leader for the fifth cohort than Dagon would. Dagon’s a monster. Iblis is practical. He’s less likely to use excessive force to put down rebellion, but Dagon enjoys suffering.”

Asmodiel raised his brow. “My father was of the same mind when he made the appointment. I imagine it was more to do with the likelihood of Iblis following orders than a distaste for Dagon’s cruelty.” His eyes danced with amusement, and Arta felt the start of a smile touching the very corner of her lips as the tightness in her chest relaxed. “You have the mind of a politician, Arta.”

She flinched, the smile dying. “Don’t call me that.”

“I apologise, you are right—to call someone a politician is a grave insult.” He stood, stepping closer. “Should I instead call you clever, or would you prefer brave or cunning?” She caught the flash of his teeth as his grey lips lifted in a crooked smile. “What if I called you beautiful? Would that make you less displeased with me?”

“I’d be less displeased if you stopped mocking me.” Arta rubbed a hand over her face—she didn’t have the patience for him today. “Your brother is sleeping with the flame, Rusalka of the Trines.”

The desk creaked as he sat down beside her. “A brave choice—the Trines can be vindictive.” Asmodiel tilted his head back, looking up at the old metal panels of the ceiling. “What do you think I should do about it?” he asked, his tone clinical. “Should I bribe her for his secrets… Or should I seduce her myself, just to spite him?”

The clouds were thicker now. It would be dark soon, and the lights didn’t work on this floor.

“Maybe you should let him be happy?” Arta said, considering the problem dispassionately. The cavalier way he talked about seducing someone was off-putting in a way she wouldn’t let herself think about. “A relationship might make him less… psychotic.”

“Rusalka could not hope to mellow him, and she’s not known for her pacifism,” Asmodiel replied, tapping a finger against his lips. “Besides, I cannot let his influence grow too strong with the Trines. They are volatile, but if he somehow manages an alliance, it would be disastrous for me.”

Arta watched him carefully, trying to gauge his mood. “Then you shouldn’t enrage them by playing games with Rusalka’s heart.” It felt like she was scolding a child. “You risk alienating them yourself if they think you’re a—a petty seductress.”

Asmodiel’s hand dropped from his face as he turned his full attention to her. “A petty seductress?” He spoke like he was savouring the taste. “Of all the honorifics you’ve bestowed on me, I believe that is my favourite.” He shook his head. “But you give Rusalka too much credit, believing she has a heart.”

“Everyone has a heart,” Arta insisted. “And no one appreciates being used as a bargaining chip in a game of spite.”

“Everyone?” He raised his brow.

“Everyone…” Arta corrected herself. “Except for Princes of Hell.”

“That hurts.” Asmodiel pressed a hand to his sternum. “It twinges most terribly, right in the centre of my empty chest.”

Despite herself, she laughed. He was sitting close enough that she could feel the warmth from his body in the sliver of air between them, close enough that she could smell him—something smoky that she stopped herself from trying to name.

“And you haven’t heard anything about a certain flame chieftain passing secrets into the hands of the British Army’s spy network?” Asmodiel asked.

Arta’s gaze snapped to his. She had heard nothing of the sort. The flame chieftains were the fiercest warriors of their people. She’d never heard anyone question their loyalty. She doubted most demons would dare.

Arta shook her head. “No, nothing.”

“And you wouldn’t tell me, even if you had,” he muttered, his gaze flicking between her eyes.

Arta shifted, creating a few centimetres of space between them to clear her head. He had a higher opinion of her than she deserved. Arta didn’t want to find out what she’d have done if she had known a demon was helping mortals. If she’d had to choose between humanity and the deal they’d made.

“Good, I expected nothing less of her,” Asmodiel said. “We will need to silence any whispers that you do hear.”

“Silence…? You know she’s doing it, and you’re not stopping her?” There was only one female chieftain. The Gralls were the fiercest of the four Flame clans and Diandra was their leader.

“Would you believe me if I said I was trying to protect the mortals?” Asmodiel asked.

Arta squinted at him, trying to read his expression. “You’re controlling the flow of information that reaches the army,” she realised. “If you’re ahead of it, you can use it to manipulate them into doing what you want.”

He smiled. “You’re quicker than a snap-vine scenting blood.” He leant towards her, raising a brow. “Can both things not be true?”

“It would be out of character for you to be so benevolent,” Arta said.

“I am always nice to you,” Asmodiel insisted. “Is it so unimaginable that I am not wholly a monster?”

The air between them felt heavy with static, ready to shock at the lightest touch. Her smile melted away as she realised she had nothing else to tell him.

“If you were really nice—” She felt the faintest, twisting coil of hope. “—then you’d let me keep my voice.” His eyes widened, before his expression blanked. Arta grit her teeth. She had to keep going, otherwise she couldn’t bring herself to ask again.

“Asmodiel,” she tried to keep her voice firm. “Please.” Her nails bit into her palms. “Don’t take my voice away. I’ll keep silent. I won’t say anything, just… Let me keep it.”

He hesitated as she gripped her elbows, holding them as she tried to be brave, tried to keep the flicker of hope alive in her chest. Maybe this time would be different.

“What would you do with it?” he asked. “If I let you keep it?”

“I…” She couldn’t say what she’d do with her voice that was so important, only that she longed for it when it was gone. Only that the silence was like a knife inside her throat. “It’s mine.”

“We made a deal, didn’t we?” He didn’t mock her with a smile. Instead, Asmodiel gently tucked the hair that had fallen over her face behind her ear. “Is the favour I will owe you not worth more than a few words wasted on ears not worthy of hearing them?”

Arta swallowed. She had never dared ask if it was within his power to grant her freedom. In the two years she’d whispered secrets in his ear, she’d watched the world around her destroyed. The demons had won. There was nowhere free left to go. The safest place she could be was here at court, playing spy to a prince of hell.

“Have I earned it yet?” Arta knew the answer, and she suspected it might never change. They’d never agreed on how many secrets equated to a boon.

His profile was pointed, with high cheekbones and shadowed eyes, a square jaw that on a human would have been called handsome. But he wasn’t human; he was a demon. He was the enemy of everything good in the world. If she were a good person, he ought to be her enemy.

His eyes met hers, and in their infinite depths, she thought she saw the hint of stars. “Not just yet.”

She didn’t know what she’d do with it if she ever did. “Asmodiel…” He waited, listening patiently as she wet her lips and took a deep, shaking breath. “I hate it. I hate how it feels. When I can’t speak, I feel… I feel like I’m nothing, like I don’t exist. I feel like a ghost who’s still somehow terrified of dying.”

“A voice doesn’t make you something, and a lack of one could never make you nothing.” He reached for her, his hand hesitant as it hovered between them. “Whether you can speak or not, you burn brighter than a Flame in battle. But we made a deal… and for now, this is the best protection I can offer you.” He pressed a soft fingertip to her throat, meeting her gaze. “I wasn’t mocking you.” Something inside her tightened, words drying up as he took her voice away once again. “You are very brave,” he breathed.

Arta shivered, feeling something terrifying in her chest. Something that shouldn’t be there. She didn’t know when the distance between them had become so small. This close, she could see the small scar beneath his eye, she could see that his silver skin shimmered in the last light of the sunset and that the flash of teeth as he smiled could have been human, if the incisors weren’t just a little too sharp. It was the greatest evil that a demon could seem so human, that her worst enemy could feel like anything but.

“I am sorry, but we must play this game just a little longer,” Asmodiel said.

Arta swallowed, her throat dry and her palms sweating. She had chosen this, chosen to bind herself to him, chosen to be his spy. She had chosen to survive, and she had to live with the weight of her decision.