Lord of the Night

Chapter 3: Playing Nice

I slept little that night. The damp chill deep underground usually didn't bother me, but now it permeated my sheets, and cold sweat pricked my skin.

I wondered how cold the interrogation chamber got at night.

When my alarm beeped at 5am, I popped out of bed and began my morning exercises. Push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, speed drills thumping all sides of my cramped corridors. The burn in my muscles provided a little reprieve...but not enough.

Sweat still pouring, I paced down the hall toward the communal shower. As I worked through tousled curls and scrubbed the sweat from my arms and chest, the Demon's speculative gaze invaded my mind. Did he really think I was handsome? How would he react if he saw what lay beneath my clothing?

I jerked the shower knob to cold.

I toweled off, tugged on jeans and a black t-shirt, and scarfed down a packet of re-hydrated vegetables and rice. A second packet of food tumbled out of the cupboard with the first, and my eyes fixed on it.

The Demon prisoner must be hungry.

That wasn't my responsibility and certainly shouldn't come out of my rations. Then again, no one else would be feeding him. Why feed someone who would soon die? An irresponsible waste of precious resources, really.

But maybe I could use this to my advantage somehow. I could earn his trust, or offer him food for information.

I slipped the packet into my pocket and strode toward the interrogation chambers.

Outside the Demon's room, I paused. When he saw me return, he would surely adopt a cocky smile. I could already imagine his response: 'Couldn't get enough of me, Guardian?' Sucking in a breath, I pushed the door open.

The Demon was slumped over the table. His cheek pressed flat against the table, his arms wrapped his chest...and he was shivering.

Over the last fourteen years, most Guardians had started tuning out our hyper-awareness of pain. With the world in ruins, empathy was too great a burden. Usually, I only ignored the pain of Demons. Even if I deserved the burden, monsters didn't deserve empathy.

But this younger Demon Prince felt different. Was it because I had kissed him? Or was it something else?

"You're cold." The words left my lips unsummoned.

He picked his head up just high enough to blink at me. His face was even paler than the night before, eyes bleary and rimmed with red. "You're not Marqan."

"You didn't sleep."

"You came back."

Fuck, why did he sound so hopeful? I might not have tortured him, but I had left him strapped to that chair all night, cold and scared, waiting for Marqan to arrive...

Steeling myself, I grabbed a chair near the door, carried it to the table where he still sat, and plopped down across from him. "This is how this is going to work. No more bargaining. You'll play nice now, or I'll hand you off to Marqan."

He frowned. "Play nice, fine. But I really don't know anything."

"What's your name?"

His eyebrows drew together. "No one uses my name. They just call me by my royal title."

"I'm not calling you 'Your Highness.' And if you won't even answer this question–"

"Isalio." The name left his lips with breathless abandon, and he looked surprised to hear his own admission. Then he drew a breath and repeated himself. "My name is Isalio."