Free ASH MISTRY AND THE CITY OF DEATH by Sarwat Chadda

children and babies in their arms. They flee into the darkness. They will not escape. With a nod, three of his horsemen break off in pursuit.
    He sees Parvati leap from her steed as it takes a spear in its chest. She turns in the air and her sword flashes. A head leaps off a pair of shoulders, trailing a ribbon of blood. She has not yet touched the ground. Her eyes burn with demonic light. Men fall beneath her blade like wheat beneath a reaper’s scythe. She does what she does best: end men’s lives.
    Ashoka drops from his horse and sweeps his weapon across a man’s throat without pause. He rams his shield into the face of another as he charges into the melee.
    A hammer slams into his wrist knocking his sword away. He spins and sees a huge, oak-chested man wielding a heavy wooden mattock. The man is covered in minor cuts, but swings the hammer with bone-shattering power. A soldier runs to Ashoka’s defence, then collapses as a single blow flattens his skull.
    Ashoka discards his shield and leaps at the villager. Both fall and scrabble in the blood-soaked dust. He digs his fingers into the man’s neck, squeezing —
    “Ash!”
    Ash squeezes the throat of his enemy as other soldiers grab his arms to try and haul him back. The big, fat villager’s face turns red and his eyes bulge.
    “Ash!” a girl screamed as she hung on to his arm. She wept and screamed again. Is she the man’s daughter? She is nothing. She is —
    “Lucky?”
    Ash dropped his grip and his dad gasped. There was a bruise over his cheek and he lay there, coughing and clutching his ribs. Had Ash punched him?
    “Oh God, Dad, I’m so sorry.”
    His mum switched on the light. Ash’s bedroom was wrecked. His books had been thrown everywhere, the chair legs were snapped, and there was a fist-sized hole in the cupboard door.
    Had he done that in his sleep? Ash stumbled back on to his bed. “I’m so sorry.”
    But no one listened. Mum was kneeling with Lucky beside Dad as his father struggled to breathe. Purple finger marks surrounded his neck.
    Ash stared at his family and met Lucky’s gaze. She stared back at him with horror and disgust. Her eyes were red with tears, but her face was hard and pale. All she could do was shake her head.
    He couldn’t bear to look. Instead he covered his face with his hands and sank down with a groan. What was happening to him?

“ sh?” His mum tapped his door. “There’s a friend to see you.”
    “I don’t want to see anyone.”
    “Ash, I think—”
    “I said I don’t want to see anyone!”
    The door opened. He didn’t need to turn to know exactly who it was. Ash remained where he was, looking at the wall, in the dark, his back to the door. “I especially don’t want to see you, Parvati.”
    The light came on. Ash slowly swivelled round.
    Parvati closed the door, sat down on the corner of his unmade bed and, taking off her glasses, looked around.
    “Is that dent meant to be in the door?” she asked.
    The worst of the damage had been fixed or tidied away. Ash had straightened up the shelves and, with his dad, repaired the broken table and replaced the chair. He’d talked to his parents about it and they’d put it down to the trauma of Gemma’s death. His dad now wore a cravat to hide the bruises.
    “What do you want?” Ash snapped.
    “To see how you’re doing. We’ve not spoken since that night your friend died.”
    “Since you let her die, you mean.”
    When Parvati didn’t respond, Ash peered at her. She’d changed. Her hair was a mess – dried out, brittle and knotted – and her skin, usually smooth and clear, bore lines and a sickly yellow tinge.
    “You’re ill,” Ash said. “I didn’t know demons got ill.”
    She smiled weakly. “Everyone gets ill.”
    “And what’s happened to your eyes? The whites have completely gone.” The green filled her entire socket, utterly serpentine. The pupils dilated in the semi-darkness to huge black discs.
    “My demon heritage grows stronger as I