The Descent Series Complete Collection

by S. M. Reine

  She wasn’t going to let that thing lay a single fucking hand on her.

  Its fingers stretched for her arm, and Elise focused on the darkness in the room. She willed herself into shadow. All it should have taken was a thought, a moment of desire, and she should have been hanging among the rafters, well out of reach.

  Her skin unraveled. She felt herself extend, fade, shift.

  The angel unfurled his wings.

  They appeared at his back with a burst of blazing light, as though a miniature sun had gone supernova. A flurry of feathers exploded and swirled around him. Gray light pervaded the room until it was brighter than the brightest day.

  Elise was only halfway into the darkness when the cherub’s glow pierced her. She twisted away from it, throwing up one arm to guard her eyes while the other lashed out, reaching for the basandere that still stood just behind her.

  The nightmares were drawing their knives, screaming, suffering from the same pain that Elise was at the light of the cherub. They couldn’t fight back. Not against Elise, and not against the angel.

  Her hand fell on the basandere’s chain, which sagged uselessly between his fists. She ripped it from his grip and looped it around his throat. He was too shocked by the appearance of the angel’s wings to react in time. Elise shoved her bare foot into his chest, pulled her arms back, and tightened the chain.

  Elise had always been strong, but even she was surprised when she pulled hard enough to sever the basandere’s head from its neck.

  There was more screaming—but it wasn’t a reaction to the decapitation. One of the weaker nightmares had evaporated from the brilliance of the angel’s glow. Elise could feel herself coming undone, too. She didn’t have long.

  Dropping the chain, she jerked her black-bladed falchion from the dead basandere’s belt and plunged it into the gut of the nearest creature.

  The cherub grabbed her arm.

  Elise thrust the sword forward, but he twisted around her, forcing her hand behind her back. He marched her through the foyer toward another door, which was marked with even more locking symbols than the first.

  “Wait!” shouted another nightmare. Other shouts followed in the infernal tongue.

  The cherub waved his hand. Light blazed.

  Elise couldn’t turn to see what was happening, but she felt each of their lives vanish instantly, like snuffed candles at a church altar.

  The other door was propped open, and a portal waited on the other side. It matched the one at the Union compound, though it was in much more glamorous lodgings: genuine Earth wood decorated the walls, polished and gleaming; chandeliers hung from the ceiling; and when the cherub forced Elise to walk to the side of the basin, it was over plush red carpet.

  As they approached, the portal vibrated to life. Symbols illuminated around the rim as a light appeared in the air a good three feet above the basin. It started out as the size of her fingernail. Waves rippled from it, like tangible puffs of crystalline smoke filled with diamond starlight.

  The pinprick whipped into a lightning bolt that arced from the floor to the ceiling. The sliver became a gap. It widened.

  Gray sunlight poured forth, so much brighter than anything Elise had seen in Hell, brighter than even the angel’s wings.

  On the other side, there was a stretch of grass. Gray walls. A gate of stone that had no obvious seam. Ivy and creepers clung to the arched doorway, as though it hadn’t been crossed in years.

  And beyond it—far beyond—stood a mighty Tree.

  The garden.

  Elise felt a scream rise within her throat. She spun so that she could flee for the door, but the cherub stood in the way. His eyeless gaze bore down on her.

  She dived for him, slicing the falchion in a wide arc. He easily sidestepped it, darting through the light like Elise did the shadow.

  She swung again, and again. She missed every time.

  And as he dodged, he approached her slowly, one step at a time, forcing her to back towards the portal.

  The gray light burned. She could see her bones through the skin. She was losing herself.

  Elise reached into the her bustier and drew out the spell that Zettel had given Nathaniel, even as she feinted to the left. The cherub silently avoided her.

  He reached out, and his hand closed on her throat. His other hand slammed into the joint of her arm.

  The shock jolted through her spine. Her fingers went slack and the sword clattered to the ground.

  Immense pressure tightened underneath her jaw as the cherub lifted her off of her feet, but no matter how she clawed at his arm, he remained as immobile as a golem. He stepped toward the portal. The garden blurred in the corner of her vision, and a whiff of cool air blew over her skin. She smelled ripe apples and damp soil.

  Elise thrashed, kicking out. Her feet slammed into the cherub’s breastplate. He didn’t budge.

  Energy danced around her. Just inches from the portal.

  She threw the square of paper at the image of the garden.

  Elise wasn’t sure that anything would happen—she could barely force air into her lungs, much less attempt to speak a word of power. And though she had performed magic created by James and Nathaniel, Allyson Whatley’s brand of paper magic was new, unfamiliar, different.

  For an instant, the paper only fluttered through the air.

  It caught in a beam of light, and magic exploded.

  The energy had all the subtlety that Elise expected from Allyson—which was to say, none at all. The magic pounded through Elise’s core, sucked the color out of her vision, made her ears ring. They were at the top of a tower. She had nowhere to draw energy from but herself, and it hurt.

  All of her nerves lit up with flame. Her blood burned molten-hot in her veins.

  And the garden vanished.

  The cherub dropped Elise. Her foot caught in the dancing energy of the portal as she fell, and it instantly went numb below the knee.

  She jerked her leg free and scrambled across the floor to her sword while the magic continued to feed off of her. She stretched her fingers toward the hilt—and caught it.

  Elise twisted in time to see a new image appear within the dancing light of the portal: the room at the Union warehouse that she had left behind. Men in black were ringing the stone basin on the other side. They held guns, wore body armor, and carried oxygen tanks. They were prepared to invade Hell.

  The cherub gave a wordless shout and rounded on her. Allyson’s magic had faded, and she was ready for him.

  Leaping to her feet, Elise seized the cherub by his armor and flung him to the ground.

  “You aren’t sending me back,” she growled. “I am never going back.”

  She buried her hand in his throat, tensing her fingers around his esophagus. His expression remained impassive as he grabbed her wrist.

  God, he was strong. At least as strong as she was.

  Elise roared as she dug her fingers into his skin. She felt her fingernails pierce him. It was a struggle to force her way through whatever ethereal materials stood in place of his muscles, and silvery blood gushed out of the wounds, slicking her hand. She kept squeezing, tightening harder and harder, until one fingertip met her thumb.

  Then she ripped his throat out.

  Fluid splashed over her and immediately evaporated. The angel’s mouth finally opened, and the scream that came from him wasn’t a scream at all—it was a noiseless explosion that rocked the room, making the stones of the portal quiver.

  Elise swung her sword to point it at his breast. Before he could react, she plunged it through the metal and pierced his heart.

  Fingers of shadow grew from the puncture wound, crept over his chest, slithered up his throat, and consumed his screaming mouth. The light of his wings flickered. Feathers shed on the floor even as they were devoured by darkness, one by one, and then shattered like delicate crystals on the ground.

  And that was when the Union men began marching through the portal.

  Several of them
jumped through at once and fanned out, and Elise was suddenly faced with three fully automatic weapons.

  They fired.

  She phased into shadow, slid around them, and appeared at their backs.

  Metal churned in her gut as she resubstantiated—she had been hit. Elise reached around and ripped the oxygen mask off of one of the men. He cried out, hands flying to his mouth. She jerked the gun out of his hand.

  The other two whirled on her, but she pressed the muzzle to the head of her new hostage.

  “Don’t you fucking shoot me again,” Elise said. It was made somewhat less intimidating by the thickness of her voice and the way she wavered on her legs. Her abs were clenching as her body rejected the damage.

  The man she’d disarmed gasped, hand at his throat—he looked like he was shocked to be able to breathe.

  Another two people stepped through. Zettel and Allyson. Zettel ripped off his oxygen mask. “Don’t waste ammo,” he said. “It won’t work on her. Lock down the room.”

  They lowered the guns just in time for Elise to start vomiting bullets. Thick wads of black mucous slid out of her throat and splattered on the floor as Zettel stood over her, watching with disdain.

  Another pair of Union soldiers jumped through, and then another. Most of the men arrayed themselves around the room, but a few of them had taken position over the cherub’s body. There was no point in guarding him—he was solid obsidian, and definitely not going anywhere.

  “What is this?” Elise asked, her voice raspy. She climbed to her feet. “An invasion?”

  “We’re taking control of the Palace. Where’s Abraxas?” Zettel demanded.

  She grabbed his shirt in a fist and pulled his face toward hers. “You sent a boy into Hell with a booby trap. If he had been holding it when it activated, he could have died. You asshole .”

  He shoved her off. Straightened his shirt. “I didn’t have to let either of you go at all. You could have been dead at my base or dead in Hell. What’s the difference?”

  “What the fuck are you doing here, anyway? Where’s Malcolm?”

  He smiled thinly. “Malcolm’s not in charge anymore.”

  Anger choked her, but she had bigger problems than Zettel.

  “Abraxas isn’t here,” Elise said, sheathing her falchion. “He’s been replaced by an archangel—Metaraon, the voice of God. They have my aspis on trial right now.” The disbelief surrounding Zettel and Allyson was palpable, but Elise didn’t feel like trying to convince them. She strode toward the door, calling to them over her shoulder, “If you want to save the Treaty of Dis and keep the world from falling apart, you’re going to help me get James back and kill Metaraon. Or you can sit here and play with yourselves. I don’t care.”

  She left it all behind—the portal, the Union, and the body of the dead cherub.

  Every door between the portal room and the elevator was locked. It wasn’t only meant to keep people out—it should have kept people in, too. But every time Elise stepped up to the doors, the locks opened instantly.

  The Union followed.

  A half-dozen of them got onto the lift with her. More could have fit, but Zettel was the only one who would stand anywhere near her. Everyone else stayed at the edges, breathing loudly into their oxygen masks. Elise was tempted to rip them off and throw them down the shaft.

  She didn’t know where the courtroom was, but she imagined it had to be somewhere secure, probably underground. She lowered the lever as far as it would go.

  They didn’t make it far. The lift jerked to a stop halfway between two levels.

  There was a short hall and a temple on the other side of the doors. Steam sighed as the pressure in the pistons emptied. Hot, moist air gushed over the sides of the lift.

  “Someone knows we’re coming,” Zettel said, lifting the rifle to his shoulder.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Elise said. “Nobody is going to see me coming.”

  She phased.

  Everything was strangely peaceful when she vanished into shadow. The first time she had done it was an unpleasant surprise, but every time since had been better and better, like she was meant to sink into the darkness. She spread into the hallway outside the elevator and examined the temple with detached interest. There was a trio of statues labeled “The First Summit.” She didn’t recognize the angel or the human, but she knew the face of the eight-armed demon. It was a face she now shared—the stone image of Yatam.

  A strange mix of demons were on their knees in worship, but they weren’t Elise’s problem. The security guards rushing up the opposite hall were.

  Elise let herself expand to fill the room with a sigh. The glossy black stones welcomed her. Every molecule of the Palace hummed and vibrated with pleasure at her presence.

  The worshipers stood and began to shout as the Union slid out of the elevator one by one and dropped to the floor. The sounds of gunfire registered faintly, although Elise felt only faint bemusement as she watched demons fall under the Union’s gunfire.

  She waited until the security guards entered the temple, and then she wrapped herself around them…and tightened.

  Hazy screams swam in and out of her consciousness, as if she was hearing everything through twenty feet of water. She plucked the flesh from the bones of the security guards and then devoured their bones, too, as she had with the fiends at the House of Abraxas. They spilled blood and ichor. She drank it all.

  It was easy. A moment later, they were gone, and she was satiated.

  The Union had stopped shooting, stunned to inaction by the sight of Elise descending upon security. In the resulting silence, she heard murmurs spread through the crowd. Elise only understood one word, whispered in several human languages, as well as the infernal tongue: Father .

  She resubstantiated beside the statues, and all of her senses came rushing back to her, as though the volume had been turned up again and her ears had cleared.

  Hands lifted to her in worship.

  “Father!”

  The Union was still standing by the elevators, and she could see them gaping as the demons between them dropped to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the floor. Elise plucked a bit of leather out from between her teeth—a scrap of uniform from one of the guards she had absorbed—and flicked it at the statue of Yatam before addressing the demons.

  “Listen,” she called. “There are traitors in Dis that would pull down this Palace. I’ve come to stop them, but I need to get to the courtroom. Where is it?”

  A hundred fingers pointed at once.

  17

  In the same instant that the demonic artifact illuminated on James’s chest, three other things happened in the courtroom.

  His eyes met Ariane’s. She looked sad.

  Several of the audience members shouted angrily, as if realizing that James had betrayed them and the Treaty.

  And the angels standing in the back of the room attacked.

  There were only two, but they were both massive creatures. One of them was a foot taller than James, and she was the smaller of the two. She wore the glistening gold breastplate of a cherub, but her eyes had been gouged from her face. It destroyed the perfect beauty of the angels that usually guarded the garden.

  The other was like no angel that James had ever seen before.

  It had to be at least ten feet tall, with ruddy skin and long, inky black hair. He wouldn’t have thought it was an angel at all if not for the burning wings at its back.

  They descended upon the onlookers from separate directions, and the monstrous one ripped Baphomet’s head off of her shoulders before she even realized something was happening.

  “Merde ,” Ariane swore, clutching the seal in both hands.

  Adrenaline swamped James’s veins as chaos erupted in the audience. The Council and touchstones stood simultaneously to face their attackers, and nobody was watching him anymore—nobody except Metaraon.

  He grabbed Ariane by the throat. She struggled against him. “Release the circle,” he gr
owled into her ear.

  “James—”

  “Release it!”

  Ariane kicked out one of her feet and nudged the line of the circle. The magic faded. He dropped her.

  Blood and ichor splattered into the ring, dripping into the grates and vanishing into the pits below. There were hisses, and the smell of something burning.

  For an instant, James was torn between running for the door and trying to save the touchstones. They all fell as he watched, skewered on the blade of the cherub, or worse, in the jaws of the other angel. It had silver teeth like fangs, and it ripped into one of the human men as though he were nothing more than a particularly juicy hamburger.

  Metaraon rose. James could feel the archangel watching him.

  So he ran.

  He slammed through the doors and raced up the hall, bare feet pounding against the warm ground. The sounds of battle echoed behind him. It wouldn’t last long. Some of the demons would be able to put up a fight against the angels, and maybe even kill one of them. But a hundred demons didn’t have the strength of a single angel, much less two.

  James grabbed the cage for the lift at the hall and wrenched it open.

  “James Faulkner,” a voice boomed behind him.

  Metaraon was following him.

  He jumped inside the lift, slammed the cage shut, and shoved the lever into position to ascend.

  Nothing happened. It was locked, and James didn’t have any keys.

  Metaraon slammed into the other side of the doors and reached a robed arm through. The pale hand closed on his throat, and Metaraon jerked him forward, slamming his face into the bars. James’s vision erupted into stars.

  The archangel entered the lift and towered over James. The darkness in his hood was immense, even now.

  Instead of dragging James out again, he pushed the lever down. Twice.

  And he did have the right keys.

  James had thought that they were at the bottommost level of the Palace before, so he was shocked when the lift jerked and began to lower again.

  “What do you want from me?” James asked.

  No response.

  It was only when the heat began to build in the lift and James heard distant, echoing screams that Metaraon’s intent began to dawn on him. The lift stopped after a few more moments, and there was dancing light in the short hallway on the other end of the cage—the flickering reflection of fire. It shined through the fogged glass on the door.