Interest perking at his classification, I kept my eyes peeled for my first look at another Agonae daemon.
A male swaggered onto the field who was the equivalent of the daemon on steroids. His features were a perfect mixture of hard angles and sharp edges, his fangs thick and white, his lips full of sensual promise. He wore his silky black hair in four Dutch braids tied at his nape. Strands escaped to frame his pretty face, drawing attention to the perfect arches of his eyebrows and his coal-black eyes.
“Jason Momoa called,” Clay broke into my thoughts. “He wants his eyebrows back.”
“Yes.” I couldn’t put my finger on it before, but he was right. “He’s got a Khal Drogo vibe.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with Rue?” He recoiled. “She never watches TV.”
“Ask Colby how much trouble she got in when I caught her watching the Dothraki wedding episode.”
A shrill whistle left his pursed lips, and his grim expression confirmed I had been right to flip my lid at the graphic nature of the show. The guild had been watching together, which was no excuse for Colby diving in with them. Mentally, she was ten years old. She always would be. The others were aging up, but Colby wouldn’t. I ached for her, for that forced stasis, but she knew better. She just didn’t want to feel left out.
During the two weeks that followed, she really felt left out with no internet access.
“Lady Witch,” Ruger called, yanking my attention to the field. “Will you grant me your favor?”
This guy was throwing off some hardcore renaissance faire vibes.
Mmm.
My kingdom for a fried Oreo. Oh! Or a fried Snickers bar. Or a fried Twinkie.
Really, anything that didn’t make me want to hose it with bug spray or step on it first fit the bill.
“Why would I do that?” I scrunched up my face, playing my part. “I want a champion who actually wins.”
The crowd erupted into laughter, the daemon puffing up with pride, but Ruger only doubled down.
“Will you be mine, beautiful darkness, if I win?”
The daemon scoffed as if it was the most ridiculous question he had ever heard. “Rue mine.”
“Let the wicked lovely speak, half breed.”
A hush fell over the spectators as the insult landed, or maybe it was the faint buzzing in my ears.
“Call him that again.” I let him see his death in my eyes, how much I would enjoy it. “I dare you.”
“Lay a finger on him,” Clay warned me out of the side of his mouth, “and Ace forfeits the match.”
And I would have let my temper write his, and the daemon’s, death warrant.
“I applaud your willingness to overlook his deformities, but you could fuck me with your eyes open.”
The daemon swung his head toward me, lips screwed tight over his fangs, a furrow dug across his brow.
“Are you still talking?” I appealed to the eavesdropping crowd. “Are you guys bored too?”
The overwhelming answer was yes.
Indulgent smile on his lips, Ruger executed a courtly bow to me then pivoted on his heel.
Any concern on the daemon’s part vanished, and he pounded a fist over his heart. “Rue love me.”
“You really are a sad thing, aren’t you?” Ruger rolled out his shoulders. “Barely comprehensible.”
The buzzing turned into a full-on roar as Clay slung an arm around my shoulders to restrain me.