Demonspawn by GJ Woodrum

Heat Rating: Zero Fire

Content Warning: Moderate Violence

Lytha is offered an escape from a life of abuse... by a demon.

Lytha evaded the man's groping paws and scurried back from his table, both hands clutching the ale pitcher lest she drop it. Amid a raucous medley of cat-calls and laughter she hurried to refill the pitcher, hoping one of her older sisters would be available to wait the tables soon. Like a mouse, the girl had vanished behind the counter. She was so small her head was barely visible above the worn and scarred surface.

"Rollam, yer little'un's still a bit shy... Maybe she's needin' a bit o' the in-an'-out ta settle her!" One of the sell-swords who frequented the tavern called to the big, florid-faced man standing behind the bar.

From down the hall, past the barrels of ale and beer, Lytha could hear her sisters plying their trade, their moans and groans all for the benefit of their ‘clients', or so the eldest one, Zella, had told her. She heard a door open and one of the men came wandering down the hall, still tightening the laces of his trews. He passed Lytha and grinned. "Yer'll be doin' it soon, don'cha fear none, little'un. Jest grow yerself some nice big'uns," and he tweaked her pre-pubescent chest with hard fingers. "Grow'em big and firm. That's how we likes ‘em yer know."

He strode past then, intent on getting a cool mug of ale to quench his post-coital thirst.

Outside Lytha could hear the approaching storm, the wind was beginning to moan--or was that one of her sisters?. In the near distance thunder grumbled like a drunkard awakened from sleep.

"Girlie, me mug's dry as dust!" a customer called.

Lytha had finished refilling one of the dozens of empty pitchers and was just turning to go when her sister, Meilla came sauntering out, her bodice half-undone, her face still flushed from what ever it was she'd been doing with that man.

"I've got it, Lytha. Now get yerself filling all these empty pitchers. We'll be gettin' in more men a'fore this storm hits, else they'll be wet outside and still too dry within." She winked at her sister, amused by what she thought was a fair bit of wittiness on her part.

As Lytha worked more men did come in, pushed indoors by the approaching fury of a storm coming in off the sea. Most were men who worked--when they worked at all--unloading ships, or doing the occasional odd job. Some were common peddlers, fruit vendors, sell-swords, thieves... Or worse.

The sun had long since set, and the storm settled in for a good blow before the last of the regulars, a group of sailors who were noted for begging on the docks as they were no longer able to do any other work, came in, dripping rain and swearing at the weather. They settled down and were just getting into a good bout of drinking when the door opened amid a blast of chill air and a swirl of blown rain.

It came in to the tavern, swathed in midnight folds of velvet, visage hidden by the hood it had drawn around its face, only the silver adorned hilt of the sword, and the dull gleam of coal dark boots, also chased with silver, breaking the inky darkness of the cloak. In front of the door it paused, as though waiting for something--or someone--to welcome it.

An omen from hell, lightning flashed outside, the thunder, harsh as a demon's laughter, shook the tavern to its foundations.

It crossed the room, moving like dark fog, slow and silent, paused at an empty table. From within the swath of fabric came a hand, slender, pallid as frost on glass, tipped with short, gleaming claws the hue of finest crystal. Soft as a well-bred woman's speech, though much deeper in tone, a voice from within the hood spoke: "I'll have wine, innkeeper. And it should be your very best."