Hair to the Throne Read online

  Table of Contents

  Hair to the Throne

  Book Details

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  hair

  TO THE

  THRONE

  PANDEMONIUM 3

  MEREDITH KATZ

  The city of Flecton is ruled with an iron fist by Demon Prince Vehr, whose human citizens suffer under demonic enslavement and live in fear of her ever-watchful presence. The prince herself is never seen, living in her underground palace and sending demons to kidnap skilled humans to serve her.

  Ten years earlier, Merle's best friend and closest confidante Abeille, a promising silversmith, was taken to Vehr's palace. Now, Vehr seeks a hairdresser, and Merle has exactly the skills she needs. Surviving the hairy situation will take more than wits—it'll take good people to rely on, old friends and new.

  Hair to the Throne

  Pandemonium 3

  By Meredith Katz

  Published by Less Than Three Press LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Keith Kaczmarek

  Cover designed by Natasha Snow

  This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  First Edition July 2017

  Copyright © 2017 by Meredith Katz

  Printed in the United States of America

  Digital ISBN 9781684310388

  Print ISBN 9781684310746

  To my wonderful, fantastic, beautiful fiancée, Sam. Thanks for believing in me no matter what, for all the suggestions as you read my first draft, and for the many, many, many writing dates to Starbucks.

  Chapter One

  Being chosen to do a service for a demon prince was a great honor.

  At least, that was what Ors—the man who ran the beauty shop where Merle worked—told her. "The Watchful Prince has requested our most beautiful hairdresser to attend her in her palace," he'd said, while Merle swept up the shorn hair of the last demon she'd attended. Even though she was pretending to be occupied, she could see him glaring at her in the mirror. "Do not offend her."

  "Like I would," Merle muttered.

  "Do not," he insisted emphatically.

  It wasn't like she had a choice in the matter. Not offending her was the only thing Merle could do. She couldn't refuse to go; after all, humans in this fiefdom existed only to serve the demons who were its true citizens. The prince even lived in their city, Flecton. If Merle went and angered the prince…

  Well, Ors wasn't worried about her so much as he was looking out for himself. He'd be made an example of for supplying the prince a poor excuse for a slave. If he was lucky, he'd be relieved of his relatively safe position as a shopkeeper and forced into harder labor in the quarries as punishment.

  If he was unlucky, his shop would be razed to the ground with himself and the others still in it.

  Merle made a face at herself in the mirror. Ors could worry about that on his own time; whatever happened to her would probably be way worse.

  Sighing, she folded her arms across her chest and lowered her eyes, trying to peek up through her lashes to see if she had the obsequious pose mostly right. To do it perfectly, she had to keep her head bowed and her eyes closed—it didn't do to look at the Watchful Prince, Vehr, without her permission.

  But you couldn't exactly confirm the pose if you couldn't look at it, could you?

  She gave up on that part. At least she was nice enough to look at, she figured, since that was apparently part of Vehr's demands. Long black hair, bangs cut short above her sharp eyebrows. Almond-shaped, monolid eyes, heavy-lashed, set in a round face. Strong nose, soft pink lips. She twisted those last left and right, screwing up her expression in disgust.

  Wonder if it's true that since the prince sees so much, she refuses to look on anything that isn't beautiful. It would be a little ironic if so. After all, slavery wasn't a pretty business. Merle had seen plenty of people disfigured from hard work, wracked with ugly illness—or scarred and injured by demons, just for the fun of it.

  No way to know if it was true or not. The prince never actually showed herself, staying in her inverted palace deep underground and sending up demons who would come and fetch slaves for her when she felt the need.

  Ten years earlier, when Merle had been fifteen, her dearest friend had vanished into that palace.

  Abeille's mother had been a blacksmith, stooped and bulging with muscles. Abeille—though that hadn't been her name then—had been starting to follow in her path. Her specialty was silversmithing, but that didn't mean she left iron alone. She'd swing swords around like they weighed nothing. "I'm practicing," she'd say to Merle, "for the day we fight our way out of this horrible city."

  They'd shared it all together, talked about everything, shared every secret. It was Abeille to whom Merle whispered that she thought girls were far, far prettier than boys. It was Merle to whom Abeille, in return, burst out in a panicked soft whisper, "Actually, you might not believe me, but I'm a girl too. I just am."

  They'd stared at each other, Abeille with her short-cropped dark brown hair and umber face full of freckles, broadening shoulders, muscular chest, gangly teenage height. "That makes sense," Merle had whispered back, "'cause I think you're so damn pretty, you know."

  Abeille had burst into a smile so wide it looked like it might hurt, her eyes sparkling enough to bring heat to Merle's cheeks. Merle had laughed and promised her, "You're my best friend. Don't worry. I know you."

  "You're mine too," Abeille had said, and they'd clasped hands. "Let's never keep secrets. I trust you."

  But most of the time they hadn't talked about anything that serious. Their secrets were about freedom and escape. Swords and adventure. It had been their favorite topic—how to get free before Vehr's fiefdom gobbled them up and left nothing but picked-over bones.

  Well, Abeille has been eaten by it, all right, Merle thought bitterly. Abeille had been swallowed into the depths of the prince's palace, never to return. Merle had tried to go after her but was refused entry. Not pretty enough, not talented enough. Just an underdeveloped child with few skills, back then.

  She wanted to be happy that she was more interesting now, skilled and beautiful. She couldn't be. Abeille was likely long dead.

  The prince had taken so many people over the years. Only a few came back. For the rest, who knew? Merle was pretty sure they were used until they became boring or ugly, then killed or given to the prince's other demons to be destroyed.

  And Merle didn't intend to go the same way.

  She rose out of the obsequious pose, spinning a pair of scissors on a finger.

  *~*~*

  They came to take her the next day. At the time, she was on the open second floor where she lived along with the other two girls who Ors employed in his shop, another hairdresser and a cosmetician.

  They had been ignoring Merle since Ors had selected her as the prince's tribute, and were muttering sourly as she prepared for the guards' arrival. Frankly, Merle would much have preferred to be considered less pretty than them, but she supposed a slight was a slight, and one way or another, their feelings were hurt.

  Merle prepared despite them—and to spite them—putting on her plainest black dress and apron, then tying her
hair up in twists. She didn't have makeup of her own, but Ors had told her to use the shop's supplies. She had to go slowly and carefully out of lack of habit. It took her three attempts at putting lip paint on, wiping the mess off in between, before she supposed it looked good enough for anyone's judgment.

  It was just as well that she didn't need a fourth attempt because she'd barely finished when they showed up downstairs. She heard the banging on the door as she stared down at the makeup brushes.

  All she could think was that when she came back, she'd catch hell from Ors for having left them dirty.

  If I come back.

  Thinking of it that way cheered her up. Who cared about uncleaned brushes when she was about to vanish, probably forever, into some kind of nightmare demon palace? She picked up her tool belt, slinging it around her waist and buckling it, and then headed downstairs as quickly as she could while trying to maintain at least some sense of grace and dignity. It didn't come naturally.

  By the time she reached the first floor, Ors had let them in. There were only three of them; two were liveried demons whose helmets and armor hid them well enough that she couldn't figure out what types they were, other than humanoid.

  In comparison, the third, who turned a smile onto her as soon as she came down the stairs, was utterly recognizable. Horns, slit pupils all sideways like a goat's, hooves… definitely an incubus, a male-presenting cubant.

  In other words, a sex demon.

  Great. Merle tried not to grimace. She'd never trusted any demons, really, but cubants were especially untrustworthy—she didn't like worrying if her attraction to someone was her own or someone else's aura forcing her to want them.

  One way or another, this is going to make for an uncomfortable ride to the palace.

  The incubus had been ignoring Ors's attempts to suck up to him as soon as Merle had come down the stairs, holding up a hand to silence Ors before walking right up to her. The other two demons stayed back by the door, as if making sure she couldn't bolt.

  "You'd be Merle, then?" the incubus asked. "His prettiest hairdresser."

  She could almost hear the other girls' moods souring further, all the way upstairs where they were surely listening. "I'm Merle, yes," she answered. A bit belatedly, she curtsied. That, at least, she was well-practiced in from dealing with the usual customers. "Who do I have the honor of addressing, my lord?"

  "My name is Sestin," he said, still smiling. His orange eyes were odd, seeming to shift from darker to lighter behind the shine of their surface, guttering like a candle flame. "I am one of Prince Vehr's knights."

  "I'm—" she bit her tongue on surprised and hurriedly swapped in another word, "—honored that she would send a knight to fetch this humble slave."

  Crap, she thought. She'd just said 'honor' right before that. Well, whatever. It's not like I'm being brought for my eloquence.

  Sestin's smile seemed to brighten more. It was starting to get uncomfortably intense. "This humble knight was available to be sent. Are you prepared? Have you packed your bags?"

  She tried not to stare at him. What a weirdo. "Sir, I am carrying all I will need."

  He looked her over: her dress, her tool belt. Nothing more. "Well, no worries," he said lightly. "I imagine we'll have better things waiting for you than any belongings you could bring. Come along, then. The carriage is waiting."

  He turned with a whirl of a finger, a dramatic punctuation. She bit her cheek on the disbelieving smile that threatened to rise at his almost-comedic overacting.

  "Don't offend her," Ors hissed as she fell into step behind Sestin.

  She was sure all three of the demons had heard it, but she wouldn't have tried to answer him anyway.

  I know already.

  The carriage outside had two horses in barding. Merle had never had reason to be anywhere within ten feet of a horse before, so she eyed them a bit dubiously as she was escorted up to the carriage. Sestin opened the door for her, while the two guards pulled themselves up to sit on the front outside. It looked like it was just going to be her and Sestin in the carriage itself.

  The ride ahead is just getting safer by the minute, Merle thought, shoulders stiff. She let him help her into the carriage, then casually dropped a hand on her tool belt as she sat, keeping her scissors close to hand. If he puts a finger on me, I'll chop it off.

  Sestin, however, seemed disinterested in doing anything of the sort. He sat across from her with an easy decorum, folding his hands on one crossed knee and piling his tail on there as well.

  She opened her mouth to say something, probably something that'd come out wrong, then almost bit her tongue as the carriage jolted forward.

  "Careful," Sestin said, one hand outstretched as if contemplating trying to catch her if she toppled off. "The roads are a bit bumpy."

  It was probably blatantly obvious that she'd never been in one of these before. "I'm fine," she said through gritted teeth, clutching the edge of the seat with both hands to keep from rocking forward.

  "Glad to hear it." He smiled at her again, the expression somewhat thoughtful. "So what do you think of all this?"

  "Me…?" She stared at him in surprise. It had to be the first time anyone had actually asked her opinion of any part of this.

  "There's nobody else here," he said, pointedly. "I assure you they can't hear us out there. You're free to say whatever you wish."

  It was not the most comfortable assurance—not that she thought it'd matter if they could hear her. It wasn't like they'd help her if he tried anything. Still, he was showing no signs of being aggressive toward her. He hadn't put his aura on her, nor had he tried to shapeshift into a succubus to seduce her. Still, she eyed him uncertainly.

  "I promise I won't bite," he said, and held both hands up as if to show they were empty. "I'm just curious. Not every day you get to meet a demon prince. Not every day someone wants to, either, mind, so I thought you might be feeling a bit anxious."

  "You're her knight," she said finally, settling on the most neutral comment she could think of in the awkwardness of the moment. "Are you looking for something to report to her?"

  He blinked, then laughed, the sound soft and melodious under the racket of the carriage over cobblestones. "Hardly! No, no. But I can understand why you wouldn't trust me. I'm here as your captor, after all, at least until you're inside the palace itself."

  That comment struck her as even more absurd, and she snorted before she could quite stop herself.

  "What is it?"

  Well, saying this much is probably fine. "You're not my captor," she said. She gestured. "The city is. If I got away from you, I wouldn't be free. I couldn't go back to Ors, not when he knows I'm supposed to be down there. And there's plenty of demons who'd be willing to gobble up a lost human with no protection." She made a face to herself. "Not that having employment is much protection in the first place, but at least if I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing, I'm less likely to be just disposable."

  The smile had faded from his face, but the interest that was showing there wasn't much better. "That's fair enough," he said. "Then, if I'm not your captor, what am I?"

  "You're one of them," she said.

  "It's like that, is it?" He nodded understandingly, apparently unoffended. "I can see that. Still, you'll have to get along with some of them, not just some of you. At least, if you want things to be comfortable while you're down there. But I'm sure you'll see what I mean soon enough."

  "Was that a threat?"

  "No, it—"

  "It sounded threatening," she pointed out bluntly.

  He laughed, then leaned back in his seat, tilting his head back. "Oh, goodness," he said, still mirthful. "I feel as though you're going to be a bit refreshing around there."

  At least someone was entertained. Merle didn't volunteer anything else, and Sestin let her be. It was just as well—the ride grew bumpier as it crossed the rough, choppy stones that led to the palace gates, and it was hard enough to keep her seat and think through the
din without adding conversation on top of it.

  And then suddenly, the ride became almost disturbingly smooth, and she knew they were now closer to the palace than she'd ever been.

  Careful, Merle let go of the seat and leaned over to the window, pushing one curtain back a little to look out. As she'd expected, they'd passed under the gate that lead to the Glass Courtyard, an ice-smooth flat circle in the very center of the city. She'd seen it through the bars before, but humans weren't allowed in unless invited, and she'd never gotten this far when she'd tried to go after Abeille, years ago.

  She'd thrown a rock, though. A good sized one, too. She wondered if the chip she'd left was still there. They were demons. They'd probably magicked it away somehow, but…

  But it'd be nice if I left some mark on this stupid place.

  Chapter Two

  The carriage came to a stop, and Sestin stretched, as though rising from a long nap instead of from a miserably rough ride while interrogating her. "Well, here we are," he said. "The rest of the trip is all downward. It's significantly less bumpy, for what it's worth."

  "Reassuring," she told him blankly.

  "I try," he replied, saccharine-sweet.

  The guards opened the door, and Sestin climbed out first. He spent a moment surveying the area, and then turned to help her down. To her surprise, the guards then bowed to Sestin before leaving, heading to the east and west gates respectively.

  "Shall we?" Sestin held out his arm.

  Merle eyed it, but the offer seemed genuine enough, and no good could come of rejecting it. She took his arm as if she were a lady and he a gentleman to escort her to some ball. Some crap like that.

  "Hold tight," he said.

  The advice was inexplicable until the ground started to move. She staggered despite the warning, grabbing onto him more tightly for balance.

  It's amazing he can keep his balance, she thought as the circle of ground immediately around them began to descend into the earth. He was the one with sharp, flat hooves, after all, not strong flexible feet. But he stayed in spot like he'd planted himself there, his tail winding catlike behind himself to keep himself in place as the platform shuddered.