Page 13 of Hell Burns Between Us

The snake canted its head back and forth in consideration. Then Slang’s voice rang through her head once more. “Long ago, a demon tricked the Lady of the Lake into an ill-fated bargain that granted him almost unlimited power ssourced directly from Hell. Not only was the bargain curssed to begin with, he intentionally did not keep hiss sside of it. This became what we now call the Curssed Bargain.

“The raw power of the broken bargain corrupted him and he began to decay. It sshould have killed him.” The small snake shook its head in frustration. “If he had been allowed to die, thingsss would have been ssimpler. Hiss death would have broken the bargain and everything would have reverted back to what it once wass. Insstead, the Grand Dukess kept him alive in ways that are unnatural. They’ll ssoon try to reembody him, and it’ll sset in motion eventss that will close the gatess of Hell forever—unlesss you return what wass sstolen and break the Curssed Bargain firssst.”

“Alright.” She ran an exhausted hand down her face. Calling Slang to her originally had been an act of rebellion, forgivable, but still something her family wouldn’t have approved of. They did not condone any demoness bargaining with other magical creatures. Now the once carefully protected bargain she’d made with Slang was burying her in commitment—avalanching her into something she might not be able to dig herself out from.

However.

The Ascension ceremony was a corrupted thing—of that she was certain. Perhaps it had not always been so, but it definitely was now.

What she had seen her grandfather do at the Ascension clung to her mind like a festering wound. She hadn’t understood the ritual, not really—but she had understood the screams, the way the air had warped and shuddered, the way the demonkind had gone still afterward. Too still. The memory rose unbidden, sharp and choking, and she had to swallow hard to keep from retching.

If the Grand Dukes were doing the same thing; if they were tearing magic apart, breaking creatures the way her grandfather had—

She wanted to help them, only she couldn't imagine how. She possessed little power and even fewer practical skills beyond losing herself in obscure books and scouring the wilds for potion ingredients.

Still, perhaps she owed it to Slang, and also herself, to try.

“I think,” she said carefully. “I’m going to need you to lay out the exact terms for what accepting the Bite would mean.”

“All that we require is for you to retrieve the item taken from the Lady of the Lake by the deceiver.” The striped snake coiled around her arm playfully.

A shiver of unease twisted through her. “And that will break this…Cursed Bargain?”

“Once you return it to her. Yesss.”

“Fine,” she said, both exhausted but resolved. “What do you want me to steal back for you?”

“A sssimple earring.” The snake nuzzled its head underneath her chin.

“An… earring?” Peri gently drew the snake away from her, searching its eyes. “What kind of earring? Where would I even find it?”

“I cannot tell you everything.” Slang’s voice grew mocking. “Let usss hope you are clever enough to figure it out.”

By the time the snake's tail flicked out of sight, Peri’s wrists had healed.

Dual snakebite scars shone silver against her amethyst skin—relief and foreboding enveloping her.

Slang’s Bite.

Chapter

Five

OLEANDER BRIGHTMORE

Withering winds speared through the forests of the Rune Circle as winter’s claws raked deeper. Oleander trudged through slick, hard-packed snow; ducking under icicles that hung from low branches like glittering knives. His breath came in ragged clouds as his eyes scoured the ice-crusted earth, hunting for any sign of plant life bold enough to defy the frost.

He glanced back at the home he shared with his brother Hemlock, perched high and painted a cheerful crimson. The sun was setting and yet, even in the darkening forest their home remained a burst of colour, a ripened berry shining bright around the trunk of a Serpentine Spruce. They’d chosen this tree for its ability to maintain strong protection spells—only allowing those who they trusted in.

Lately, though, he spent most of his time prowling in and around Brightmore Manor. Especially now, when he was attempting to prove his merit to his father.

Scrawny, bright green shoots of moonwort poked out of the ground under the mustard yellow Lynwood bushes and dark triumph crackled through Oleander at the sight of it. He found the nearby patch of loosely packed dirt he’d been seeking and he gave it a hard push with his boot.

Five fire sprites the size of fingernails popped out—tiny orange flames blazing furiously. He knelt, prodding the dirt once more to make sure it was empty. Another fire sprite climbed out, a yawn overtaking their tiny flame.

They were babies, likely only a few days old. Their parents had left them in the soil’s safety to grow strong and absorb the potent magic in the Rune Circle for a moonphase or two, before coming to collect them to bring them home. A moment of hesitation closed his throat, but the angry whistles of the fire sprites forced him into action.

He reminded himself that he needed this success, and it wouldn’t do to hesitate just because of a guilty conscience. The infants had to agree to his bargain immediately, or they’d be in danger of their flames burning out in the crisp evening air.