by Liz Meldon
“There’s a bit of foliage in front of his villa, maybe ten, fifteen feet from his exterior wall,” Malachi announced, all but pressed up against the carriage window to get a better look. “We’ll stop there and I’ll approach his speaker. Stay in the bushes, brother, until I’ve got him.”
Severus grunted, eyes still fixed on Moira. She sat stock-still at his side, shoulders back and hands in tight fists on her thighs.
“You all right?”
“Fine,” she said firmly, staring ahead as they both ignored Malachi’s very obvious eavesdropping. “Locked and loaded, I guess.”
“You needn’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with—”
“I said I’m fine, Severus,” she told him, their gazes meeting sharply. While her tone might have sounded unkind, her eyes were pleading: let me do this. So, as Malachi grinned from across the way, as if hoping for a show, Severus merely nodded and sat back.
“And your men have confirmed he’s still inside?” he asked.
“Would I be here if he wasn’t?” Malachi droned with another roll of his eyes. Honestly, Severus had never realized what a ridiculous drama queen his older brother could be; was this the outcome of a century of solitude?
“Now, take this,” his brother continued, pulling what would look to Moira like a flare gun out from under his seat. “Only use it if absolutely necessary. I’ve already got two strikes, and I’ll be damned if I have to spend the next fifty years working check-in at the arrivals hall.”
“Noted.” Severus accepted the firearm with a smirk; it was difficult to find compelling punishments for hell-born demons, given they so delighted in torture. Working the arrivals and departure terminals, where they were forced to be pleasant to nervous first-time visitors, was deterrent enough for some. For his dear brother, it would likely be his pride that would hurt most should he be sentenced to don the uniform and smile for tourists.
The carriage came to a smooth stop, and as Malachi exited, Severus studied the foliage outside. A collection of black, gnarled, trees clustered together, thorny underbrush crawling up the bottom three feet of their thick trunks. Their shadows stretched long and lean, cutting across the cracked grey earth and looming over what he assumed was Diriel’s estate.
After the door slammed shut, he shuffled across the carriage quickly and peered through Malachi’s window. While the home was substantial, a giant block of onyx surrounded by pristine beige walls, along with intricate yet oppressive wrought iron gates next to the wall-mounted speaker, it wasn’t the nicest in the neighbourhood by any means. Good. Diriel didn’t deserve to ascend that high.
“What did he give you?” Moira asked, and Severus shifted the gun out of reach at the sight of her creeping fingers.
“A last resort.” Frowning, Severus tried to figure out where he was going to tuck the damn thing; his suit didn’t leave much room for extras. In the end, he opted to hold it. When he spotted her studying him, white brows furrowed, he added, “Should things go south, think of it as a flare gun, only the flare is magic. Once fired, it summons all the Saevitia clan vassals to our aid.”
Those furrowed brows shot up. “Your family has vassals?”
“Demon families who have sworn loyalty to our clan, yes,” he told her with a nod. “Most vassals are low-ranking, occasionally middle-tier, demons who want to better their family. Heads of the clan support them—financially, but in theory we’ll stick our necks out, when warranted, should a vassal find themselves in trouble. If we run into trouble, we have backup.”
“Good to know.” She glanced out the window, nibbling her lower lip. “And what’s a strike? Malachi said he had two?”
“For all the evil bullshit talked about Lucifer on Earth, he generally wants to keep the peace below,” Severus said quickly, knowing they needed to get outside to watch the proceedings. “If you incite conflict without a just cause, spill a great deal of blood unnecessarily, you’re given a strike. Three strikes and you face punishment. The demons working at the check-in hall don’t clock in for the benefits, darling.”
She snorted, then pressed a hand over her mouth, flushing. Unable to stop himself, Severus tugged her hand away by the wrist and stole a quick kiss.
“Now, come along. Let’s make sure Malachi doesn’t fuck this up.”
The pair slipped out of the carriage through the door facing away from Diriel’s supposed residence. Severus crouched low, using the tires to hide his legs, and motioned for Moira to do the same. Together, they crept around the back of the carriage, then scurried into the thorny shrubbery. As they knelt out of sight, he kept her back enough that the grasping thorns didn’t snag on her clothes.
As far as he could tell, no one had witnessed their dash from carriage to foliage, the next house positioned far enough away that Severus was forced to squint to see it properly, but he knew he must act as though there were a dozen eyes on them.
“Stay low,” he whispered. Moira shot him a look.
“Duh.”
Smirking, he gave her cheek a little chastising pinch, then crept around the spiny underbrush to get a better look at things. Malachi was already crooning into the speaker on the wall next to the gate, the same communication device outfitted to all estates, grandiose and pathetic alike; Hell had no electric lighting inside its homes, but a speaker box fuelled by magic? No problem.
From the distance, he couldn’t hear what his brother was saying, nor could he hear what was said back whenever Malachi paused, but as he stabbed lazily at the talk button, pushing it like it might infect him with the stench of poverty, he certainly looked smug.
But then again, that might just be Malachi’s face these days. In their youth, it had only been cruel; Severus remembered that far better than this new mask.
However, that smug, drawling façade fell away when something shot out of the wall directly below the speaker—a spear, its head a jagged grappling hook.
A grappling hook that pierced straight through Malachi’s gut and out the other side.
Blood spurted from his mouth, spraying the once-pristine wall, and Severus reared back to clamp a hand over Moira’s mouth when she shrieked.
Heart in his throat, Severus pressed the tip of the gun to his lips, holding Moira’s stare until she nodded frantically, and then stood. Through the dead trees, their limp branches and curled leaves chattering in the breeze, he found his brother staring down at the harpoon that had impaled him. Mouth gaping, Malachi staggered back, dragging the spear with him as blood oozed onto his shirt and dribbled down his chin. The spear gave him some leeway, a chain rattling out of the wall—only to stop sharply at about two feet. Malachi reached behind him, grabbing uselessly at the tip, and Severus shook his head, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to reach it the way he needed to.
His brother tried to pull it out the way it came in, lips peeled back in a snarl, black blood splattering the ground, watering the scorched earth.
“It’s hooked at the ends,” Severus whispered. “It’s a fucking pronged hook.”
The claws bit into Malachi’s back as he attempted to drag it back through his body—stuck. His roar echoed through the suburb, the carriage windows rattling and the skeletal horses snorting while he flailed about, a fish caught on the line.
“Severus, what do we…” Moira trailed off as a new sound resonated through the air: the cries of baying hellhounds. Severus stilled, Malachi too, and they listened to the snarls, the snapping of razor-sharp teeth, the low, eager whines—all culminating in a horrific symphony on the other side of the wall.
Fuck. “He’s going to kill Malachi.”
“I thought demons couldn’t die in Hell,” Moira countered, and he pushed her back down, a firm hand on her shoulder when she tried to stand.
“You can die if a pack of hellhounds eats you,” he hissed, “bones and all.”
It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Malachi was supposed to do what he did best and charm his way inside, or possibly coax Diriel out. Either outcome resulted in
Diriel being hauled into the carriage for torture. Simple. Straightforward.
Diriel wasn’t supposed to fight back—they hadn’t even started yet.
As the chorus of howling hellhounds reached a crescendo, Severus sprang into action; it was either move or watch his brother die. Lurching forward, he grabbed at the large metal carriage wheel, ripping one of its spokes clean off.
“Get in the carriage,” he barked, pointing to it with the spoke, his glare so fierce that Moira shrank back, cheeks red. With no time to apologize, to coddle, to explain, he sprinted toward his brother.
As soon as the iron gate swung open, a pack of savage hellbeasts bounded straight for Malachi, and Severus pointed the gun up and fired. A fizzing red ball of energy shot up and exploded, blitzing the landscape like a nuclear shockwave. He heard Moira cry out behind him, but there was no time to see to her.
Because within seconds, all Hell broke loose.
Literally.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Malachi and Severus had been so sure of their plan—so sure that Moira had gone along with it unquestioningly. She couldn’t help it; ever since she woke up that morning, she had been lost in her own head, battling the anxiety of coming face-to-face with Diriel again. Hoping she’d be brave enough to do what needed to be done. Fighting the fears of being in Hell, of facing her torturer, of the way Malachi looked at her. Her head had drowned in it all, so much so that she’d passed out midway through the carriage ride and woken up here, better rested but still lost.
And then…this. All of it. Malachi getting skewered. Severus rushing to help the brother who had always tormented him, firing that gun. The shockwave knocked her on her ass as it washed over her, and by the time Moira had pushed herself back onto her feet, bits of crusty ground stuck in her palms, everything had changed.
Demons materialized out of nowhere. Demons of all shapes and sizes, of all skin hues and horn lengths. All savage. All fierce. All glowing with a gold and red hue—symbolic of Malachi, maybe. Vassals. The cavalry had arrived, but as Severus sprinted toward the pack of enormous wild dogs attacking his brother, more demons appeared out of nowhere. Blink and you miss it. Blink and there’s chaos. Silver and blue hummed around the second wave of demons, and as she ducked down behind the scraggly underbrush, Moira couldn’t help but wonder if they were Diriel’s vassals, summoned to protect his home.
Because as soon as the demons saw each other, the bloodshed began, titans colliding on the battlefield, the opposing sides made distinct by the shimmer glowing around them.
Malachi’s roar echoed over the madness. Hands clenched in tight fists, Moira forced herself to move, ignoring the way her legs trembled, and spotted the chaos demon through the mosh pit between them. Severus had been pulled away; he slammed the metal wheel spoke down on a demon shimmering in blue and silver, a trio of his allies keeping the others at bay as black blood splattered across his face.
No one had stopped the pack of dogs—dogs the size of Irish wolfhounds but thicker, sturdier, deadlier. No one had stopped the hellhounds.
And Malachi was going to die.
“Fuck,” Moira hissed. Get in the carriage. Severus’s gruff order rattled around her head as she lurched toward the carriage—but she didn’t listen to it. Instead, her hands closed around another metal spoke, and she tugged with all her might. It didn’t move. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
She pulled harder, propping a foot up on the wheel, needing a weapon. No one had bothered to give her one, but then again, the Saevitia brothers hadn’t thought it would go this way. Maybe there was something hidden inside the carriage, but she didn’t have time to root around. Malachi probably didn’t have that kind of time.
“Fuck you, you stupid wheel,” she whispered harshly, feeling the strain in her neck, her shoulders, as she pulled harder. Moira yelped when the spoke finally came loose, tumbling onto her back, adrenaline pounding through her. One of the skeletal horses at the front of the carriage glanced back, seemingly unfazed by the bloody battle raging in front of Diriel’s home. The creature continued to watch her as Moira scrambled to her feet, then took off in a sprint.
Not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention, Moira skirted around the conflict—far around. Offhand, she counted roughly forty demons, more glowing in red and gold than blue and silver. That had to be good, right? They stuck together tightly, wielding swords and axes and knives as they slashed at each other, the ground soaked in black demon blood. She tried to find Severus in the midst of it, but she couldn’t see him anymore. Her heart leapt into her throat at the thought, but she was already nearing the gleaming beige wall that had skewered Malachi.
Severus would have to wait—because Malachi had officially become a hellhound chew toy. Blood spattered the otherwise pristine white wall, coating the speaker and dribbling down to the ground. It soaked his clothes, stained his face, his hands. It was a miracle the guy was still standing, still fighting, still kicking, still swinging those enormous fists as the pack ripped into him, that too-thick red coat doing a half-decent job at protecting him, but not for much longer.
To his credit, Malachi hadn’t shed a single tear. In fact, as the furry black blurs ravaged him, anger rolled off him in waves—waves Moira could feel in her bones. As she watched, feeling somewhat helpless, somewhat overwhelmed, the chaos demon managed to pick one of the beasts up, raise it over his head, and hurl it some fifteen feet away. The creature landed with a yelp, grey dust flying up around it, but Malachi was already onto the next defense, body-checking a trio of hounds away. Not the kind of guy to go down without a fight—Moira could appreciate that.
“Hey!” Apparently his will to live had her thinking she could help with this fucked-up situation. Malachi’s head snapped in her direction, and she made herself as big as possible, hoping to attract some of the hellhounds her way. And then what, she had no idea—one step at a time. “Hey!”
One of the hellhounds turned its great black head toward her, red eyes narrowing as blood and spittle oozed from its mouth.
“Moira, don’t—”
“Shut up, Malachi, for once this fucking morning, just shut up,” she snapped, eyes fixed on the hellhound taking a few curious steps toward her. “Let me help you.”
She stumbled back, hoping to attract a few more, but the lone hound had its sights set on her. Moira screamed when it lunged forward, a great, terrifying black spectre made entirely of muscle and fangs and bloodlust—headed straight for her. Somehow, she managed to hold her ground, body responding instinctively; once the hellhound was close enough, its jaws snapping at her, its snarls the stuff of nightmares, she reared back and clocked it hard across the side of the face with the wheel spoke.
The beast lost its balance and barrelled into her with a cry, its mouth turned to the side, its body like a runaway train as it knocked her to the ground. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear Severus shouting her name, but she blocked it out, focusing on the lead weight on top of her. Grunting, she pried her arm out from under the hound, then slammed the spoke down into its side. The hellhound yelped again, the sound followed by a long, low whine, and she scurried away, leaving her sole weapon embedded in its side.
As she crab-crawled back, her heart racing, she couldn’t help but think that the hellhound sounded like any regular dog on Earth. Low whines. Whimpers. Wet, ragged breaths as it flopped to one side, panting.
The spoke stuck straight up, nestled between its ribs, ochre blood pumping from the wound. She must have punctured a lung.
Why did it have to sound like such a dog? She’d never admit just how much her heart broke at the sound of its cries. Forgotten by the rest of its pack, it just lay there, red eyes locked on her, pink tongue lolled out over its sharp white teeth.
Before she knew it, Moira was crawling back toward it, one shoulder pressed to her ear—as if that would muffle every wet, strangled gasp. With trembling hands, she grabbed the hellhound’s muzzle. Much to her surprise, it let her close it
s jaw—and then finally snap its neck. She turned hard and fast, yelping herself at the feel of bone breaking. The creature went limp. The sounds of demon snarls and growls, shouts and insults, were nothing but white noise as she stared down at the too-still body.
Her first kill.
Tears blurred her vision, and she wiped them away hastily, smearing blood across her face. It was warm. Too warm. Warm enough to make her stomach turn.
“Don’t cry!” Malachi’s voice cut through her stupor. She looked up, brain muddled, and suddenly all the sights, sounds, and smells of the moment slammed back into her with such ferocity that Moira gasped. Severus’s brother glared daggers at her some ten feet away, still impaled as hellhounds shredded his trousers, hands thrown up in an are you fucking kidding me?! sort of way that had her cheeks burning.
“Right—”
“Don’t fucking cry, for Lucifer’s sake!” the chaos demon bellowed as she staggered to her feet. He was right. Nothing in this hellscape deserved her tears—nothing and no one but the demon she loved. Moira took two steps forward, then hurried back to grab the wheel spoke as Malachi flung a steady stream of curses at the creatures tearing into him. Whenever he managed to throw one off, there were three more to take its place, and three others still going to town on him.
Severus had been right; without her help, those hellhounds would devour him.
Moira charged in screaming, hoping the sound would distract them, maybe even frighten them, but they had such an intense, laser focus on Malachi that nothing could deter them.
That didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.
Moira swung at their legs, their backs, the spoke landing hard enough that she felt every blow radiate up her arms. She wrenched tufts of fur from their raised hackles. She kicked and pushed and screamed, fighting alongside Malachi, but after all that, only one fought back. As she tried to wrestle off the hellhound ripping at Malachi’s right arm, another lunged at her and slammed into her side. She toppled down, the spoke flying from her hand, bouncing, then rolling a few feet out of reach.
