The Half Blood Book 2
Auteur
Laura B.L.
Lezers
208K
Hoofdstukken
54
Daphne's life takes a dark turn when she loses her job and makes a desperate deal with a demon to save her brother. Bound to servitude, she becomes a slayer for the demon king Rothvaln. As Daphne navigates a treacherous world of demons, witches, and lycans, she uncovers secrets that challenge her loyalty and force her to confront her own destiny. With her brother's life hanging in the balance, Daphne must decide who to trust and how far she will go to protect those she loves.
Prologue
Book Two: Tempt Me
Daphne's life has been dedicated to tracking down those who break their promises to the Demon King, ever since she struck a deal with him to save her brother's life. However, when she goes against the King and sets a mysterious captive free, her actions put everyone she cares about at risk. Despite her hatred for the demon she has released, he stirs up feelings of fear and longing in her like never before. Daphne knows she'll pay whatever cost necessary to keep her loved ones safe.
New England, 1878
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed up the staircase, each dark wooden step creaking under Daphne's weight as she ascended with fresh linens.
Her footfalls were punctuated by the ticking of a grand clock, standing eight feet tall in the dining room.
The clock was perched on a solid, square base, its long mahogany cabinet shaped like a carved tab, holding the timepiece aloft.
Mr. Ormand would be home soon. All the servants were rushing to ready the evening meal and his bath. Every Wednesday, the same routine was followed without fail.
Except today was bath day.
Daphne reached the top of the stairs, hurrying towards the large black double doors at the end of the hallway that led to Mr. Ormand’s private quarters.
No one wanted to enter that room. Only Daphne dared, as she had no other choice if she wanted to keep her job. And losing her job was something she couldn't afford.
Her younger brother, James, who was nearing his eighteenth birthday, was in poor health, and she was all he had left in the world.
Finally, she entered the room, her eyes darting around the gray walls adorned with hundreds of crucifixes.
The white candles had to stay lit at all times. Otherwise, evil spirits, or demons as Mr. Ormand referred to them, would emerge from the shadows.
Everyone in the village knew about the religious obsession of one of the most respected church members.
Many were still scared to enter his rooms, and she was no exception. The only difference was that she had to keep her job without complaint, without voicing any opinion that could jeopardize her position.
Surrounded by candles and crucifixes, she began to prepare the bathroom adjacent to the main bedroom. She swapped the dirty sheets for the clean ones she had brought.
As she finished, she couldn't help but take in the eerie room once more. Each crucifix hung next to the other, and rosaries were strewn across the dresser and bed.
Daphne’s gaze landed once again on the object that caused Mr. Ormond’s biweekly screams.
The brown whip with light-colored feathers lay on the floor next to the large, tall bed, stretched out and idle, waiting for its owner to return and put it to use.
Everyone knew the purpose of the whip. Mr. Ormond, plagued by guilt, would punish himself after returning from Mrs. Wallace’s house: a widow nearly thirty-eight years old, almost twenty years his junior.
Unable to resist, Daphne picked up the whip.
She examined it, wondering how someone could inflict such pain on themselves to absolve themselves of a guilt as trivial as physical pleasure.
Although she was unfamiliar with that darker side of the world where pleasure could override reason, she didn't consider herself as prudish as some women.
At twenty-two, her understanding had grown somewhat, learning from the stories shared by other maids in the house that the act of sex wasn't as sinful as Mr. Ormand believed.
And yet he was consumed by lust.
Driven by curiosity, her fingers traced the whip. Could it be that through pain, Mr. Ormand could rid himself of his guilt?
How could he endure such torture repeatedly without stopping? Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice the heavy footsteps approaching.
The door swung open abruptly, and the angry blue eyes of an aging man startled her so much that Daphne gasped, dropping the whip.
Mr. Ormand's gaze fell to the whip on the floor, his face growing angrier by the second.
“I’m so sorry, sir…” Daphne began to apologize, but he cut her off.
“Get out.”
“Sir, please understand. I didn’t mean to…”
“I said get out. Now!”
Despair washed over Daphne. With tears in her eyes, she fell to her knees, pleading with Mr. Ormand for mercy.
He grabbed her arm roughly, dragging her across the floor and leaving her outside the room.
She was ruined. Her only means of supporting her brother had just vanished because of her mistake. Why? Why did she have to pick up the whip from the floor?
Why couldn’t she just go about her usual business without meddling with Mr. Ormand’s stuff?
Daphne had just put James’s life in jeopardy.
Regretfully, she made her way back to James, who was waiting for her at the edge of the village.
He was with Agate, an eccentric old woman who had been assisting her for nearly three years.
At first, Daphne couldn’t fathom why Agate wanted to help her with her brother.
It was rare for the impoverished to aid other impoverished folks, and even though Agate was a bit odd, she never uttered a harsh word or made a rude gesture towards her.
The sound of dry leaves crunching under her feet echoed as Daphne made her way down the forest path to the hut.
The surroundings were drenched in hues of orange and red, and the chilly air slapped her face, leaving rosy patches on her cheeks and the tip of her nose.
The deeper she ventured into the woods, the colder she started to feel.
She was brainstorming new ways to make money. Perhaps she could seek employment at Mr. Brown’s house.
Despite his reputation for being harsh to those he incarcerated, they said he was fairly decent, even though his wife was mean to the servants.
Daphne carried the burden of caring for her brother and compensating Agate for all those potions she brewed for James. No doctor was willing to treat her brother due to the fear of contagion.
It was suspected that James had tuberculosis, but she had never contracted it.
Of course, no one was aware of Daphne’s predicament because she was afraid that once the word got out, she would never find work again.
She recalled the day she first met the old woman.
It was on a day when she was wandering around town, inquiring about potential jobs, that she ran into Agate, a woman who claimed to be at least seventy.
Her gray hair was plaited, her eyes were brown, her hands were speckled with freckles, and she had a hooked nose.
The first time Daphne saw her, she saw Mr. Brown and one of his goons yelling “heretic” and “witch” at her, leaving her motionless on the ground.
Many still feared those words, as the tales of the Salem trials were still being told.
Daphne observed from a distance, not wanting to get close and be associated with her. Just as she was about to turn and leave, something inside her snapped.
How could she abandon a helpless old woman on the street? There was no evidence to support the witch accusation.
She thought of her mother at that moment, who had vanished long ago, leaving her and her brother behind.
Without a trace, she just vanished. And her father? She didn’t even know who he was.
Daphne approached Agate, pulling her up by the arms. Some people watched from afar with curious eyes, while others looked on disapprovingly.
Mr. Brown had already left.
“Are you okay?” Daphne asked.
The old woman stared at her for a long time, and Daphne kept asking if she was okay.
“I’m fine, thank you, dear.” She smiled, and her wrinkled eyes scrutinized Daphne again.
“Okay, take care.” She was about to leave when the old woman suddenly grabbed her wrist.
“What’s your name?”
“Daphne Brooks,” she answered, eyeing the old fingers gripping her skin warily.
“And how can I repay Daphne Brooks for her kindness?”
“No need, ma’am…?”
“Agate.”
“Just Agate?”
“Just Agate. I don’t want you to leave without me being able to repay you.”
“I don’t think you can help me…” She spoke softly, trying not to sound impolite.
“I think I can… Regana Damonish.” Agate’s expression was peculiar.
“Pardon? What did you say?” she asked, slightly alarmed. She didn’t understand the last sentence the old woman had just said.
“If you need help, come find me. I live just outside the village, in the woods.”
“Have a good day, Agate.” Daphne quickly said goodbye and left without looking back.
Agate hadn’t moved from her spot, watching as the young woman disappeared into the distance. A quiet smile spread across her face.
The Regana had finally shown up, and it was only a matter of time before the Antequrom reappeared.
Daphne finally reached Agate’s hut where she and James stayed, pushing all thoughts aside and stepping inside.
Her brother’s illness was still uncured, but Agate’s potions eased his pain.
“Daphne, why are you here? You weren’t due for another two days,” James questioned, his brow furrowed as he lay on the narrow bed.
He was a tall, lanky young man, his pallid complexion always overshadowing his good looks. His brown hair fell in waves around his face.
“You’ve been kicked out,” Agate said, turning away from the bubbling cauldron over the fire.
Daphne watched as James’s eyes widened with worry. “What happened, Daphne? Did they hurt you?” James began to stir, attempting to rise, but a harsh cough forced him back down.
Daphne rushed to his side, and only then did she notice the blood-stained cloths on the floor, matching the ones in James’s hand.
She gently brushed her hand across her brother’s forehead, planting a kiss there. “No one hurt me, James.
“I messed up, and it cost me my job. But don’t worry, I’ll head back to the village tomorrow and see if anyone needs help.”
“Daphne…” Agate’s voice was weary as she turned her attention to her. “I need to speak with you.”
Daphne nodded and followed her outside the hut. “What is it?” she asked, somehow sensing the gravity of the witch’s next words.
“James, he doesn’t have much time left. My remedies aren’t working.”
Daphne fell silent.
“But didn’t you promise you could heal him? Weren’t you the one who bragged about being a powerful witch who could help him?” Her words were laced with anger and tears.
“Daphne, do you remember what I told you when you first sought me out?” Agate’s expression was stern.
All Daphne could do was cry.
“I said I would do my best to extend your brother’s life.
“Yes, I am a witch, child, and I am grateful that you’ve cared for me while I’ve been repaying my debt to you.
“But I can’t save your brother. My powers have limits. I can’t save a mortal soul that’s already doomed.”
Daphne crumpled to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. She couldn’t lose James, her brother, her only family. She buried her face in her hands, her cheeks wet with tears.
What would she do without him? How could she exist in this world without her dear brother? Without hearing his voice? Without seeing his smile?
“I can’t save him, Daphne, but I know someone who can.”
Daphne’s sobs halted abruptly and she stood. “You know someone, and you’re only telling me now? Who is it? I’ll go find them right away.”
“It’s not someone you can find easily. And…there’s a price you’ll have to pay.”
“Whatever it takes, I’ll do it,” Daphne replied, not considering the potential consequences.
“Very well.”
Agate closed her eyes and began to chant unfamiliar words. Her wrinkled, clenched fingers touched a ring with a grotesque black stone that hung around her neck.
“What do you want now?”
A male voice startled Daphne, who spun around. Her amber eyes met dark brown ones and a prominent nose.
The man who had appeared seemingly from nowhere was undeniably attractive, but she sensed a dark aura behind his handsome exterior. Something sinister.
“I need a favor,” Agate began. “This is Daphne Brooks. Her brother needs help. She needs to make a deal.”
The man surveyed Daphne from head to toe; despite her plain gray dress, he paused to study her face. She was undeniably beautiful.
Small freckles dotted the bridge of her nose and cheeks, the amber hue of her almond-shaped eyes illuminated her face, and her hazel hair perfectly complemented her natural beauty.
“Who are you?” Daphne asked, a voice inside her warning her not to trust this man.
“Rothvaln.”
“He’s a demon,” Agate clarified.
Daphne looked at her in disbelief, and a fit of laughter overtook her.
“A demon?” she echoed, glancing at Agate, who remained serious. She then turned back to the strange man in black, who didn’t seem phased by her apparent mockery.
“Do you want me to help your brother? Yes or no?” Rothvaln asked, his patience seemingly wearing thin.
“Can you… Can you really save him?” Daphne’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“I can extend his life, but it won’t be without a price.”
“I don’t have any money…”
“Money is a mortal concern. I need something more.”
Daphne was at a loss. What else could she possibly offer? Could she offer herself, body and soul? Her innocence?
“If it’s me you want, I… I’ll give myself to you,” she offered, her voice shaky.
Rothvaln’s smile was not one of warmth or amusement. It was a knowing smile, full of secrets only he was privy to.
“You intrigue me, Daphne,” Rothvaln’s voice was soft, causing her heart to pound in her chest. Fear, that was what she was feeling. “Three hundred years for your brother, and in return, you’ll work for me.”
“How long?”
“Five hundred years? But if you cross me or disobey, your brother’s life ends instantly.”
Daphne’s mind raced. Her life was already a mess.
Making a deal with a demon wouldn’t make things worse, it might even improve them. And most importantly, James would live longer.
Even if it wasn’t forever, he would have three healthy centuries, and she would have time with him.
Sell her soul? Give herself to a demon? She would do anything to save James and spend time with him. She looked from Rothvaln to Agate.
For the first time since they’d met, Agate was smiling. Rothvaln didn’t miss it.
It was odd that Agate Brevil, knowing her nature, would help a mere mortal.
And unfortunately for him, he couldn’t deny the old woman, not when she knew the biggest secret of the Demon Kingdom and was bound by a pact.
“Deal,” Daphne finally agreed.
***
Present Time
Relentless droplets of water fell on the face of a slayer, a woman working to pay off a debt.
Those who’d made a pact with a demon and failed to uphold it feared her. That nightmare was now lurking in the shadows, waiting for her next victim.
Daphne was clad in a black shirt, leather pants, and boots, all concealed by a heavy cloak that hid her figure and projected an intimidating aura.
She could only hope that her next task wouldn’t be as unsettling as the last. It had taken Daphne two weeks to recover from a spell that caused relentless hallucinations.
And once again, thanks to Rothvaln, she’d managed to escape the torment. It was unbearable to watch her James die in every conceivable way.
Daphne glanced again at the door of what appeared to be a house, or more accurately, a dilapidated shack.
A faint light, likely from a candle, was the only source of illumination inside. Thunder and rain were her companions that afternoon.
The Witch Kingdom seemed even more desolate, especially in this part of the realm, where only the outcasts of Evanora’s elite society resided.
This land was known as “No One’s Place.” There was no grandeur here. Instead of roads, there was mud, houses that resembled huts, old carts, and ragged witches and sorcerers.
The disparity between them and the upper class was stark.
Daphne adjusted her cloak again, further concealing her features under the dark hood. She began to approach her target.
Her fingers clutched the grotesque stone ring that Agate had given her years ago before she vanished.
Somehow, the piece of jewelry provided the comfort she needed in her most anxious moments.
The muddy water splashed with each step; the stench of decay was temporarily masked by the storm.
Houses with tattered roofs and crumbling walls lined the narrow, marshy path. It was a chilling atmosphere, considering the danger of this place.
Fear was the most logical emotion she could feel now, remembering what happened last time—but she had no other choice.
Years of settling debts had been her duty since she made a pact with the Demon King himself.
She ascended the two decaying wooden steps, unconcerned about the noise giving away her presence. When the Slayer of Rothvaln was coming, there was no escape.
Years of rigorous training, blood on her face, wounds that never seemed to heal, countless tortures that seemed endless, had shaped her into who she was today.
Rothvaln had ensured she was well-prepared for this job.
Without knocking, she pushed open the door, and with her signature intimidating grace, Daphne stepped inside. She surveyed the room.
A single candle, nearly spent, sat on a table while another, barely used, perched on a windowsill. The dark green cloak hinted at impending danger.
Daphne’s eyes landed on a woman’s form hunched in the corner. She was draped in what once might have been white rags. Her hair was a golden hue, and young arms cradled a hidden face.
Soft sobs echoed from the mysterious figure. The room’s light dimmed as the nearly extinguished candle finally gave out.
Daphne moved towards her target with caution. The dagger, sheathed at her thigh, was ready for action.
“Filix Wood,” Daphne began.
The woman’s body shook, her sobs growing frantic.
“Plotting against a demon is a grave offense in the Kingdom of Rothvaln…”
Hysterical laughter interrupted Daphne. The woman remained hunched, her face hidden between her arms and knees.
“Rothvaln…?” A face emerged from the laughter. The woman was as youthful as her arms suggested, with green eyes and full lips.
“I know what no one else knows…” The woman’s laughter continued, wild and unhinged.
Daphne watched her, her face a mask of indifference. Her curiosity about the woman’s words remained hidden.
“Antequrom,” the woman repeated, still laughing.
Antequrom? What does that mean? Daphne had never heard the word before.
“What is Antequrom?” Daphne asked.
The woman, still seated on the floor, turned to face her. Her laughter ceased, replaced by a silent, toothless smile.
“No one knows…no one knows…everyone will die…he will die…everyone will die…ungrateful…” The woman’s words became a repetitive chant.
Just as Daphne was about to ask another question, the woman lunged at her.
Where once there had been youthful arms and skin, now there were only wrinkles and age-worn flesh.
The witch attacked Daphne, attempting to claw out her eyes with long, dirty nails.
Daphne punched her in the nose, causing the witch to recoil. Seizing the opportunity, Daphne stood, her right hand closing around the witch’s throat. She strangled the witch, lifting her off the floor.
The witch struggled to break free, but Daphne’s grip tightened. The witch’s moans ceased with the sound of her neck snapping.
The witch’s body dropped to the floor. Daphne looked down at her, her face devoid of emotion or regret.
She had long since moved past feelings of guilt.
Initially, she had mourned each victim that fell by her hand, but the thought of James was what got her up each morning, driving her to fulfill her mission.
She couldn’t abandon everything she had worked for. Leave James? Not when she took such joy in his happiness, in the life he had lived all these years. She had never regretted her choice.
As the rain continued to fall, Daphne removed an object from around her neck. The black iron medallion bore the emblem of the Demon Realm.
Iron waves formed wings, cradling a rhombus-like symbol in the center. From the fourth point, a dagger-like shape descended.
Daphne held the medallion to the witch’s face. The wrinkled skin began to burn, taking on the shape of the object. This was the final punishment for those who broke their pact.
All would meet this ignoble fate, all would bear the mark of a debtor to the Kingdom of Rothvaln.
She replaced the medallion around her neck, leaving behind a lifeless body and a scarred face. The meaning was clear. The witch had made a pact with a demon and failed to honor it.
Daphne’s gaze fell on a small crystal vial hanging from the lifeless body’s neck, filled with a red liquid. She removed it.
This wasn’t the first time she had found such a vial filled with blood, known as Daemon Touch by the witches, but it was nothing more than demon blood, as deadly as a Fae’s kiss.
Pulling her cloak back over her head, she turned and left, transporting herself to the Demon Realm.
