I served a purpose in this world. I knew my place. That is, until the Amazèa cast a spell in an attempt to separate me from my Powers. They succeeded, sort of. I still have my Powers, but they split my soul in half—shattered me right down the middle. Now, I’m only alive at night. My human half, Liora, lives during the day, complete with her own personality, memories, free will.
When the Amazèa separated my demon half from my human half, it was far worse than if I had died. For so long afterwards I wished it had been me who died. Instead, it had been my best friends, Kayla and Michael Roberts, who paid the ultimate price while I was forced to watch them suffer.
I’ve never forgiven myself for being unable to help them.
I’ve never forgotten the vows I made beside their crumpled, lifeless bodies as I swore to avenge their murders to my last dying breath.
I’ll never stop trying to lift the curse and restore my broken soul, whatever the cost.
Killing the Amazèa is my only option. There is no plan B.
Unfortunately, this isn’t as easy as slaying a run-of-the-mill parasite demon or even a lower Light-angel. It’s strictly forbidden by Demonic Law for any demon or demion to attack another ranked higher in the hierarchy. As far as the chain of command goes, the Amazèa rank near the top while I rest somewhere in the middle.
I don’t care. I only care about revenge for Kayla and Michael.
I only care about getting my life back.
Whatever the cost.
Diablo gallops us closer to our destination, and I force away the anguish that threatens to swallow my heart whole. Soon we’ll reach a Portal to Thiberoux. In order to pass through its protective seal, I need to focus. As the cold fog suddenly appears, enveloping us in complete darkness, I wrap my hand around my Boumeaux. Diablo, unfazed by the blinding barrier all around us, continues racing forward.
I close my eyes. I feel my palm smolder; the stone vibrates in my grasp. Silently, I recite the secret command:
Hasish Auria, permissum mihi obduco.
Hasish Auria, permissum mihi obduco.
Hasish Auria, permissum mihi obduco.
The dense fog quickly lifts, and I welcome my new surroundings. My real world – not the one Liora lives in. There, I am an outsider. Unwanted. Here is where I belong.
The three full moons of the goddess Illyria glow brightly in the eternally sunless sky, illuminating the landscape. Acres of lush foliage paint the hillsides vibrant green and gold, untouched by Man’s seasons which turn their trees into skeletons. There is no death here. Only life. And limbo. But never death.
The Land of Thiberoux. Home of the royal descendants of the first Dark-angels, the enchanted realm of demonia. Safely hidden from the naïve eyes of the human world.
Once, after one of my first visits to Thiberoux as a young demion, I looked for its location on a Sapie map. I was surprised to see that instead of the lakes of fire and oceans of ice, volcanoes exploding with thunder and lightning, magical forests full of sprites and elves, and the pits of swirling vortexes connecting various dimensions, there were cities, freeways, two airports, and four major universities. Two separate and opposite worlds existing in the exact same space. I used to wonder how that could be possible.
Now I totally understand.
Diablo grunts, his powerful muscles push and strain as we head up the mountainside. I bury my face in his mane and squeeze my legs tight. He’s never thrown me, but the curves here are wicked, the cliffs treacherous, and he barrels around them with terrifying agility.
He eases to a trot as we approach the River of Kings. The stream of churning fire flows for miles in either direction and creates a perfect circle around the inner sanctum of Dryndara, my tribe’s territory of Thiberoux. A massive beast, nearly invisible in the night save for his piercing yellow eyes, growls menacingly at us from the base of the footbridge.
I eye the creature with caution and dismount. A light tap on his hindquarters sends Diablo cantering into the shadows to await further commands. After dusting off my cloak and lowering my hood, I approach the sentry. The hellhound growls again and bares his razor-sharp teeth.
“What’s your problem?” I ask good-naturedly and give him an affectionate pat on the head.
I take several steps back as the canine begins to tremble violently. He rises on his haunches, twisting and convulsing until his new shape is formed. It is that of a young man, skin stretched tight over rippling muscles—his formerly beastly body now a vision of smooth and sculpted perfection. He runs his hands through his bronze hair and looks at me through the lushest of lashes. Fire mixed with desire smolders in his coffee-colored eyes. His sensuous mouth, one designed to render human females utterly helpless, turns slightly down in a heartbreaking pout.