Chapter 51: Drinking the Potion

With the potion successfully brewed, Gima found herself with an entire afternoon of glorious freedom.

And she was feeling a little peckish. It figured. The morning “recharge” from George had been a nice start, but the delicate art of alchemy—not to mention the spiritually draining charity work of helping a bald man rediscover his life’s purpose—had taken its toll. Her energy reserves were dipping dangerously low.

If her new Nightmare abilities also ran on lust, she’d need a far more efficient fueling method. Something along the lines of orally consuming chestnut-flavored liquid directly.

The burdens of a demon lord are truly endless.

She sauntered past the Fellen Brothers Bank, manfully resisting the urge to bestow upon them a supernatural “surprise” involving fire and brimstone.

Should I head back? No, that’s completely off-brand. My cover is ‘adorable, playful little girl who loves to wander.’ An early return would be highly suspicious.

But what was there to do in Salem City? The only real entertainment was the delightful buffet of lovely ladies from every corner of the globe. Beyond that, the city was a total snooze-fest. Plus, wandering aimlessly was just asking for trouble.

Fine. Back to the inn it is. Time to recharge the old-fashioned way.

Just as she decided, a gust of wind hit her, and she caught a distinct whiff of distillery-grade alcohol clinging to her clothes. George, with his bloodhound nose for anything out of place, would be on her in a second.

A detour was necessary. Gima found a bathhouse and scrubbed herself clean before making her way to the highest point in the White Sand district—a tower perched atop a bridge—to get a bird’s-eye view of the city of canals.

Along the way, her Eyes of Desire pinged eleven separate times, allowing her to gracefully sidestep various muggers, pickpockets, and overly friendly street performers.

From her perch, the city’s bustling waterways pulsed with life. A magnificent flower boat drifted down the main canal, its awning sheltering a veritable feast for the eyes. A lineup of dazzling women in an array of tantalizing costumes—princess gowns, noble finery, sultry desert silks, and even a few shockingly modern bikinis—waved to the crowds.

None were quite up to her exacting demonic standards, of course, but she had to admit, there was a certain power in numbers. The spectacle was a siren’s call, drawing a swarm of smaller boats in its wake.

As the flower boat passed beneath her, Gima’s gaze drifted to a drab little vessel chugging along, leaving a shimmering, rainbow-colored oil slick behind it. She noticed several more just like it. Oil tankers.

Out of sheer boredom, she spent the next hour counting them. There were a lot.

Stocking up for the Rainbow Festival? Maybe for a new, highly flammable event?

She rubbed her eyes, a flicker of her inner merchant-tycoon awakening. Tiring of the canal, her gaze swept to the heart of the city: the Noble District. It was a lush, green island where the grand manors of the obscenely wealthy peeked from behind ancient trees. Three stone bridges were its sole tethers to the mortal world.

High white walls, built upon sheer cliffs, turned the entire island into a fortress. In a war, you could just shut the gates and laugh. It even had its own private docks, a direct line to the sea, currently choked with a flotilla of pleasure barges so opulent they made the flower boat look like a dinghy.

The view was lovely, but Gima’s thoughts were, as always, more practical.

If I torched all those boats, then blew up the three bridges, the whole district would be trapped. A perfect little island prison. And if I then set the island itself on fire… well, that would just be good management.

Of course, the good swimmers might try to make a break for it. I’d need to deploy archers on patrol boats with a standing ‘shoot on sight’ order.

She nodded, pleased. An impeccable plan for city-wide annihilation. I’ve still got the magic touch.

After looking at Salem City, Gima turned her gaze to the most prosperous wharf district. Sailing and rowing boats came and went. A row of bodies swaying from the gallows on the wharf silently told visitors of the dignity of Salem City’s laws. A group of people were gathered near the execution platform, but they were too far away for her to see what they were looking at.

It was high noon, which she loathed. That meant the Criminal Carnival was in full swing. It was the city’s premier entertainment event, a hit with everyone from slaves to peasants, who flocked from miles around to watch. The main attraction specifically consisted of performing creative executions of criminals for the public. Sometimes, they would use a cage of hungry rats, placing the opening of the cage against the criminal’s soft belly, and then light a fire to drive the rats out.

Gima had seen it once when she first came to Salem. It was disgusting, and amateurish compared to the grand, visceral theater of demon executions. Demons were straightforward. They understood the PR value of mounting your enemy’s head on your pauldrons.

She looked out at the sea to cleanse her palate. The sight of white-sailed galleys on the azure water was almost enough to make her forget the barbarism. Almost. Then a group of sailors unceremoniously dumped a body overboard, and the moment was ruined. Galley slaves. Chained to an oar for life, then tossed into the sea, the sick, too. After all, the captains didn’t know if it's contagious. How inefficient.

Just as she was about to head back, she noticed the crowd at the port had become a frantic, swarming mob.

Well now, that’s a party.

Her curiosity snagged, she focused her gaze. Something was definitely up. City guards were storming the execution platform, not with weapons drawn, but with a stretcher, carefully lifting the condemned man.

Did they get the wrong guy?

Now she was hooked. She scrambled down from the roof, tossed a coin to a guard to loosen his tongue, and hit the streets. The rumor was already spreading like wildfire. It didn’t take long for her to get the whole, delicious story. And it was a good one, she wasn’t the only one who was impressed. The entire upper class of Salem City had also been “moved.” The entire city was in an uproar. Soldiers were blockading canals and shaking people down, casting a delightful pall of anxiety over the upcoming festival.

Gima scurried back to the inn. In the courtyard, she saw the celestial warhorse, placidly munching oats in its stall. It was not alone. Several other horses were nearby, and a quick, discreet peek confirmed her suspicions: most of them were mares.

So, George is back. And his horse has been busy.

She headed inside, her hand brushing the wooden box in her backpack, the cool weight of the potion a comforting presence.

Upstairs, she unlocked the door. George was standing with his upright back to her, looking out the window.

“You’re back early,” he said without turning.

“The city’s gone under martial law,” Gima chirped, closing the door and casually dropping her pack by the bed. “Guess what happened?”

“Slave revolt?”

“Better! Some absolute legend named the Gray King served a noble a taste of his own medicine. Disemboweled him. In front of everyone.” She tossed her cloak aside, her face radiant with delight, her tail flicking with excitement as she launched into the story. “There is this thief who stole a loaf of bread for his starving nephew, got caught, escaped to check on the kid, got caught again, and the noble sentenced him to be gutted. So, the Gray King snuck into the noble’s mansion, knocked him out, gagged him, and swapped him with the thief on the execution platform.”

“They didn’t realize they had the wrong guy until the noble’s intestines were decorating the stage. The place was a madhouse! The guards had to literally poke people with spears to clear a path to the body.” She finished with a dramatic sigh. “A true artist at work.”

George listened, his expression unreadable. “No,” he said finally. “He’s a cruel, cold-blooded murderer.”

“What? The thief’s story is tragic! It’s poetic justice!” He was basically Jean Valjean with more flair.

“And you heard this tragic story from whom?”

“A boatman, a peddler, a fruit seller… a highly reliable cross-section of the populace.”

“Who likely made it all up to vent their frustrations,” George countered. “They don’t care about justice. They just wanted to see a nobleman die.”

“Why are you taking his side?” Gima bristled. “He was a slave owner, George. The opposite of you.” Her grudge against the Good Master had metastasized into a general hatred for all of Salem City’s pampered elite.

“You’re too young to understand the danger the Gray King represents.”

“I have the inherited memories of a thousand generations of succubi!” she huffed. My mental age could be your great-great-grandfather’s, you sanctimonious virgin!

“It’s talion law,” he lectured, “an eye for an eye, blood for blood. It undermines the very foundation of society, of law. Without law, there is only chaos, and chaos leads to slaughter.”

“Whose law?” she shot back. “The law of the Good Masters? The law that sanctions your ‘Criminal Carnival’ where men are publicly tortured for sport? That’s the law you’re defending?”

“An evil law is still better than no law,” he said grimly. “It provides a measure of stability. Do you know why I fight against the Demon Lord?”

Her mood curdled. “I know. To stop the spread of slave contracts. And because it’s easier to kill a demon than to confront the evil in your own backyard.”

“The Holy Sanctuary determined that violently dismantling the slave trade in Salem City would cause a humanitarian disaster,” he explained patiently. “We lack the resources to manage the ensuing chaos. We can, however, manage the resettlement of Demon Lord Kima’s harem.”

“Noted,” Gima said, her tail lashing irritably. “The next Demon Lord should clearly invest in a larger harem. A hundred human servants per concubine, ten slaves per servant. Give the Holy Sanctuary something to really think about.”

“Gima—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. The law is king.” She hopped off her chair. “I’m going to go study. Later.”

George just shook his head.

Night fell, blanketing the turbulent city in a fragile peace.

Gima lay in bed, every muscle aching with a deep, satisfying exhaustion. She’d spent hours forcing herself to study, burning through two entire candles just to wear herself out. Now, sleep was a breath away.

She peeked at George on the floor. His back was to her. Perfect.

She rolled onto her side, facing away from him, and stealthily retrieved the test tube of Nightmare Potion. She dabbed a bit of the ginger oil onto her philtrum, the fiery sting a welcome jolt to her senses.

Then, she carefully uncorked the potion, brought the vial to her lips, and downed it in one go.

It was bitter, with a gag-inducing cilantro finish. Other than that, nothing. She set the empty tube aside, clutched the ginger oil as a precaution, and closed her eyes.

A familiar ringtone shattered the silence.

“The night gave me black eyes, yet I…♪”

Gima’s eyes flew open. Was that… her cell phone?