Nightshade

She didn't scream. Screaming was a waste of breath.

Yara lunged, driving the golden hairpin straight toward the jugular vein in Xeron's neck. It was a perfect strike—fast, vicious, and aimed to kill.

Xeron didn't dodge.

His hand, which had been reaching for her veil, simply snapped closed around her wrist.

The motion was so fast it blurred. One moment she was striking; the next, she was frozen, the poisoned tip of the hairpin hovering a millimeter from his skin.

Yara’s eyes widened. She tried to pull back, but his grip was like iron.

Xeron looked at the hairpin. Then he looked at her. The boredom in his red eyes vanished, replaced by a spark of genuine surprise.

"Oh?" he murmured. "The Saintess has claws."

He twisted her wrist. Yara gritted her teeth, refusing to cry out, even as the bones ground together. She dropped the hairpin.

Xeron caught it with his free hand. He held it up to the light. A drop of clear liquid beaded on the tip.

"Widow’s Kiss," he identified, sniffing it. "Nasty stuff. Paralysis, asphyxiation, death. Very efficient."

He looked at her, tilting his head. "The Liling I heard about faints at the sight of a papercut. You... you went for the throat."

He brought the hairpin to his lips.

"No!" Yara gasped involuntarily.

Xeron licked the poison off the gold tip.

Yara stared in horror. That dose could kill an elephant.

Xeron closed his eyes, savoring the taste. He swallowed. Then he smiled—a sharp, terrifying showing of canines.

"Spicy," he said. "My blood is already venom, little flower. Your poison is just seasoning to me."

He released her wrist. Yara stumbled back, her heart hammering against her ribs. He was immune. She was unarmed. She was dead.

Xeron advanced on her. He reached out and ripped the red veil from her head.

He studied her face. It was Liling’s face, perfect and pale. But the expression wasn't right. Liling’s face was made for weeping. Yara’s face was twisted in a snarl of defiance.

"You aren't her," Xeron whispered, delighted. "The aura is wrong. You smell like damp earth and hatred. Who are you?"

"I am nobody," Yara spat. "Kill me and get it over with."

"Kill you?" Xeron laughed again, but this time, the sound was rich and warm. "Why would I break the only interesting toy the Righteous Sect has ever sent me?"

He circled her. "A substitute. A body double. They kept the real Saintess safe and sent the disposable one to the wolves. How very... righteous of them."

He stopped behind her, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

"Do you hate them?"

Yara shivered. "I want to burn their glass house to the ground."

"Good," Xeron purred. "So do I."

He walked back to the table and poured two cups of wine. He held one out to her.

"I have no use for a weeping Saintess," Xeron said. "But a shadow with a knife? That, I can use. What is your name?"

"I don't have one," Yara said, staring at the cup. "They called me Shadow."

"Boring," Xeron dismissed. He looked at the hairpin on the table. "You tried to kill me with nightshade toxins. So, I will call you Yara."

"Yara?"

"It means 'Nightshade' in the old tongue," Xeron said. "Beautiful. Common. And it stops the heart."

He toasted her.

"Welcome to the Obsidian Spire, Yara. Try to kill me again tomorrow. It was the most fun I've had in years."

Yara looked at the demon. He wasn't looking at her like she was a victim. He was looking at her like she was a challenge.

She took the cup. She drank.