Edge of Heaven

by Rhiannon Leith

  “Pretty,” he drawled, and ran a fingernail along the bare flesh of her shoulder, leaving behind a vivid scarlet line.

  “I haven’t finished breaking her in as yet.” Sam didn’t bother to keep the warning from his voice. “I want her to be perfect when I present her to the Nameless.” If he was seen as the one who delivered both Micah and Lily to the Nameless, his position would have risen greatly since he was last here. By the way Asmodeus withdrew, he knew he was right. Besides, no one, not even Asmodeus, would be fool enough to tamper with someone destined for the Nameless.

  Sam smiled. Now this, while definitely useful, could also be fun.

  Asmodeus shrugged as he withdrew, as if it was nothing of any consequence. “Later then, pretty one,” he promised Lily.

  She shrank back, her face very pale in the shadows. Something unexpected lurched in Sam’s chest, and the thoughts of a moment ago were like ashes in his mind. To see such fear on her face, such terror.

  And what would the Nameless put there? He swallowed on a dry throat. Come to that, what would he have put there?

  “What’s happening in the audience chamber?” he called after the demon king. Asmodeus looked back, laughed and his old confidence returned with a vengeance, making Sam grind his teeth.

  “Come and see, Sammy boy. You really don’t want to miss this.” Then he was gone, down the winding tunnels.

  When Sam turned back to Lily, she slumped back against the wall, her eyes huge and afraid.

  “Did he hurt you?” Sam asked rapidly. “Bespell you?”

  Lily shook her head. She only whispered his name, terrified someone else would hear and know her for a fraud. “Sam?”

  Sam sighed, the demon within him quashed at the thought of her carried off by Asmodeus, turned into something like Lara. Hadn’t the Nameless said Lara had been just like Lily once, bright and innocent, a perfect vessel? His stomach twisted in on itself. And there were worse fates. She could really end up in the hands of the Nameless. Or he could lose himself, as had so nearly happened minutes earlier.

  And what would he have done to her? He didn’t want to think of the answer.

  Sam took her hands, enfolding them in his own in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. He couldn’t say anything that might betray them, and here anything could be overheard, to be used against them. Knowledge was a currency, so was flesh. He drew Lily against him again, gently this time.

  “We must go,” he told her in even tones, while his eyes bore into hers, begging her to trust him a little longer. “We need to find out what’s happening in the audience chamber. Remember, Lily, you have to remember.”

  Her fingers tightened on his briefly and she lowered her gaze once more.

  “Master.”

  The first thing Micah could feel was the cold. It surrounded him, sank teeth into his skin and seeped its poison right down to his bones. Deep in the marrow, he felt it freezing him, and part of him no longer cared.

  Micah came to lying on stone, shivering, naked. He’d always been told that Hell was hot, all fire and brimstone, but this cell was draped in ice from the ceiling to the floor. Ancient ice, black and shining, smooth as glass. Curled in a foetal position, a newborn in a frozen womb, Micah tried to will himself to move. And failed.

  No sound greeted him but his own ragged breath, the breath which misted and plumed in the air before him. Tears slid from his eyes, but they froze as they reached his jaw, hanging from him like tiny stalactites, crisp and sharp in the frigid air.

  Lily was safe. He had to remind himself of that. It was all that mattered. Lily was safe.

  In tackling the Nephilim, Micah had expected oblivion. But maybe his judgement was still to come. It would have been easier, though, to have been wiped out of existence in the moment he bowled Hopkins off the rooftop. To have ceased to be once she was safe. No such luck. The shadows had snatched him from the air, swathed him in darkness and void.

  And now he was here.

  No sign of Hopkins either. Micah was alone. Was this it then? His punishment? To be here for the rest of eternity, frozen and alone, gradually eaten away by the ice, or smothered in it as his own tears sealed shut his eyes?

  But Lily was safe. That sparked a small warmth deep inside his heart. Sam would protect her, keep her from harm. Lily was safe and Hopkins was gone.

  Gone where?

  Micah struggled to move, his body protesting, his skin almost adhering to the ice beneath him, but he ignored that pain. What did pain matter? He stood, holding himself still despite the powerful urge to shiver and let his teeth chatter. A dim light came from a door before him, like something from a dungeon, ancient oak set with a small metal grill. Ice rimed the metal, sheened the door as if it had been frozen shut centuries before.

  He was alone, but outside the door a torch was burning. He stared at the wavering point of light, of heat, wishing it was nearer. As an angel he had never known cold like this. He’d never known the way it ate into the heart and clung there, fist-like, while tentacles of discomfort weaved their way through his limbs, under his skin.

  Outside someone coughed and muttered a curse. Micah stifled his first urge to call out for help. If he was where he thought he was, no help would be forthcoming. Better to keep silent and wait for the inevitable. Because he knew it would come.

  A face appeared in the grill, bright eyes above the flash of a grin like a knife blade. Then it was gone. Micah waited, listening to the sound of booted feet fade away and then return, accompanied by another, more intimidating figure. The keys grated against the lock. Not that they needed an actual lock. This was for show, for intimidation, for in Hell everything was about perception. Fear in the mind was a much more effective tool than anything else, but it needed certain props. And for each mind those props were different.

  So this was his fear?

  He gazed around himself with unexpected interest. It would never have occurred to him that cold and imprisonment could terrify him, and yet it did. He felt the rush of it up his spine, a rush made even worse when the door opened and Asmodeus entered.

  Suddenly Micah understood that this was only the beginning of their exploration of his personal torments. The uncontrolled lust that the demon could instil was another facet he dreaded. So what was he afraid of? He began to fear that he himself was only starting to find out.

  Asmodeus smiled and Micah closed his eyes, waiting. A quick snort of breath and Asmodeus spoke, his voice echoing strangely in the icy chamber.

  “Sammael was right about you. Come. You have an audience.”

  No need to ask with whom. Only one thing in this desolate place could demand an audience in that manner. Asmodeus turned away, not even waiting to see if Micah obeyed. When he didn’t move, he heard the sound of other feet, the ring of metal against metal, but he kept his eyes closed, willing this to be a dream, unable to admit his own place in it. Asmodeus laughed, a low, dangerous chuckle that crawled over Micah’s flesh.

  “It’s going to be like that, is it? Passive resistance? I don’t think so.”

  Metal snapped shut around Micah’s wrists, weighing down his arms. It only took seconds. He didn’t even feel the hands securing him, but at the tug of the chain attached to the manacles, his eyes flew open. His feet slipped on the ice and he fell heavily, his hands dragged out before him. When he looked up, Asmodeus held the other end of the chain, a thick length of shining metal. The bands around his wrists gleamed like silver.

  “Get up, Micah. Or I will drag you there on your pretty face.”

  The chain slackened for just a moment, enough for him to get some purchase and struggle to his feet. Asmodeus rolled his shoulders, watching his discomfort with undisguised pleasure.

  “Better,” he growled. “Now, follow.”

  Without another glance back, he strode off out of the cell, and Micah had to follow or fall again. He had no doubt that if he tripped, he would indeed be dragged the rest of the way. Asmodeus was a King of Hell. He’d have no qualms about provi
ng that in every way possible.

  Eyes followed him as he was tugged down the corridors, demons and damned alike watching him with the same hunger. He could feel their thoughts slide over him like a molester’s hands. He was beautiful to them, and here, beauty was a thing to be corrupted, defiled. Not for the first time, his fear edged a little deeper into his heart. This time it lodged there like a cancer.

  The corridors wound around like a labyrinth, twisting and turning, leading him past more doors, more chambers, through areas with air like molten gold, and areas even colder than his cell. Micah kept his eyes trained on Asmodeus’s back, not wanting to look at the beings which leered at him from all directions, not wanting to acknowledge the ever-growing group that followed behind him, like a pack of wild dogs scenting fresh meat.

  The walls opened up and they entered a vast chamber, high-domed and lit with columns of burning fire. It was full of beings—great and small, terrifying and pathetic—but all of them paled into insignificance before the one seated at the far end. Enthroned on a dais, the Nameless lounged, his eyes as beautiful as they had always been, his face the image of the angel brought before him. But his mouth formed a cruel and mocking curve and when those hazel eyes latched onto Micah’s, his grip on the arms of his throne tightened, his nails gouging into the ancient stone.

  The Nameless leaned forward, dismissing Asmodeus with a negligent flick of his hand. The chains crashed to the floor at Micah’s feet, where they weaved back and forth like snakes, waiting for their Master’s command. The Nameless said nothing, but rose slowly to his feet, stepping down from the dais to approach his prisoner.

  Disgust crawled through Micah’s stomach, but he kept his peace, clinging to calm like a drowning man with a piece of driftwood. The Nameless walked around him, inspecting him, and then came to a stop before him. With a grip like a vise, he caught Micah’s chin and wrenched his head up so that their eyes met.

  “Greetings, my brother. It has been far too long.”

  Micah’s eyes stung. Yes, brothers. They had been brothers, and much more. Twin souls, duplicate spirits, created together and forged directly from the Divine Will.

  “Lucifer.” A gasp of fear and excitement flew around the assembly of the damned. He dared to name the Nameless. And why shouldn’t he? He shocked them, surprised them. But what did it matter what they thought? They would have him eventually. All of them. Micah understood that. Might as well face it.

  “Beloved,” said the Nameless, in a twisted version of the voice that once Micah had known as well as his own. The music in it was gone, and yet lingered on the edges like a ghost. Was he surprised to be named, to be acknowledged for the being he had been? “He’s betrayed you too.”

  “No,” Micah said, filling his gaze with the riot of colours in the eyes that beheld him. “No. I chose this. I knew what I was doing.”

  “For a mortal? For that woman?”

  “Yes.” There was no fear in saying it, no regret. Lily still lived. Hopkins had not taken her and that was all that mattered. And knowing she yet lived, that Sam was with her and would protect her, was enough. A seedling of renewed strength stirred in his soul. “It was worth it,” he assured them all.

  Lucifer smiled, not the derisive curl of before, but one tinged with pity. Endless pity, such as he possessed in the first days. This was the soul that wept for grief even as he had taken up the knife forged to kill the Creator, the knife he still wore at his side. This was his brother, and his brother wanted to weep for him.

  “Poor Micah. Sammael will just bring her to us anyway. You’ll see.” When Micah tried to shake his head, Lucifer held it still, his grip tightening.

  “And Hopkins?”

  “Hopkins?” Lucifer gazed at him uncomprehending for a moment, then understanding flashed in his eyes. “Oh, the Nephilim. Already ransomed.”

  The cold reopened a hole in the pit of Micah’s stomach, and fear came pouring back in, along with betrayal and bile. “Ransomed?”

  “Yes. Someone wanted him back. They left us you.”

  “But I—” But what could he say? The Nephilim had but been true to his nature, however twisted that had been. Micah had known what was forbidden and had ploughed on anyway, with Lily, with Sam, with Hopkins.

  “You were betrayed. Just as I said. Poor Micah.” The stone grip softened, became a caress. Hands flowed down his neck, across his chest, while Micah stared at the floor, at the weaving chains, and tried to shut out the growing darkness all around him, creeping through the cracks in his pitiful defences. “Come. Be one of us now. Revel in the power to which we were born, brother.”

  And why not? a dark insidious voice within him asked. Lily was gone, Hopkins was free, and he was trapped here, at the mercy of the Nameless and his hordes. Creatures like Asmodeus, like Sammael. Micah’s eyes burned with tears he could not shed.

  “I cannot.” His throat felt scorched and barren.

  The aura of friendship bled out of Lucifer’s voice, his brother and friend no longer, the Nameless again. “But you will. Eventually.”

  He stepped back and the chains shot upwards, wrenching Micah’s arms out to the side, holding him above the ground, helpless. Micah hung from them, his whole body exposed. All Hell roared its approval.

  The Nameless circled him, eyes no longer sympathetic. “Where to begin though?”

  Several voices called out vile suggestions, and Micah’s skin shrank back around his frame with the images they conjured in his mind. Images no doubt aided and made more vivid by the powers of the Nameless and his minions.

  The Nameless stopped behind him. He smoothed one perfect hand up Micah’s back and down again, nails scraping in his wake. “No. First a reminder. Of what he was. Something that will stay with him for eternity.”

  The hand came to a rest between his shoulder blades and then lifted until only one nail remained. Long and sharp, it picked the spot right in the centre of his back, where his spine stood out stark and prominent, shoulder blades flaring on each side.

  “A gift to mark you, Micah. A gift to turn you. A gift you will never erase.” The Nameless sank his nail into Micah’s back, deep through skin and bone, burrowing between his vertebrae. Shards of darkness, of demonic energy seeped from it like poison, worming their way through his skin, changing everything they touched.

  Light began to slip away from him, but Micah clung to his consciousness as the shards did their work. They trailed lines across him, back, up and down beneath his skin, coils and whorls of shadows that stretched and burned, chilling and killing as they went. The pain grew, like acid inside him, and the dark point in his heart began to unfurl. Micah cried out, in spite of his resolve, his head thrown back to give voice to the agony.

  Abruptly it subsided, still there, but muted.

  “Get him mirrors,” said the Nameless in a bored voice. “I want him to see.”

  They were brought at once, two huge mirrors in ornate baroque frames that should have flattened the frail figures porting them. The slaves worked in silence, aligning the mirrors on either side of him. The chains lowered him enough so that he could stand, though he was still held in place, his ordeal far from over. Micah’s chin dropped forward to his chest, but the Nameless was there again, lifting him, stroking his cheek and wiping away the involuntary tears of pain.

  “Look,” he urged.

  And without wanting to, Micah obeyed. His sight swam in and out of focus for a minute and then fixed on his image, a reflection of his reflection. His arms outstretched, his back knotted with straining muscles, his buttocks clenched, and now reaching across his shoulders and down his spine, a tattoo drawn in something that simmered like oil, black with a rainbow hue. It was stylised yet detailed and there was no denying what it depicted.

  Angel wings.

  Micah stared at the ink beneath his golden skin, the way it writhed and coiled, still moving, still consuming him. The pain had dulled now to a constant ache, designed to be eternally there, beneath the surface of his suffe
ring body. Lifting his eyes, he found the Nameless watching him.

  “Want to see what it can do?”

  “No.” The word was a breath, a plea and—he knew it as soon as he said it—a mistake. The sweeping curve of the smile returned, slicing through the handsome face before him.

  “Ah, Beloved, how I adore it when you deny me,” he said and planted his hand on Micah’s chest.

  The ink on his back flared to incandescent agony, searing through his flesh, white hot and relentless. Micah screamed because there was nothing else he could do. His voice bounced off the ceiling and the walls, broke against the watching assembly, who laughed and jeered and lusted for him.

  When the pain subsided and he slumped in his chains, he opened his eyes to find himself looking at the crowd gathered around, at the way they reached for each other, hungry and aroused.

  “Asmodeus,” said the Nameless. “Time for your gift too. Perhaps both together. And then we’ll see the mighty of Heaven crawl for us.”

  Asmodeus stepped before him, but Micah couldn’t tear his eyes off the crowd, off two faces in particular who gazed on impassively as Asmodeus took his face in his massive hands and bent to kiss him. The spell of lust ignited within him, pumping through his body, seizing it and shaking it like a terrier with a rat. Micah gasped as the demon released him, and his flesh responded as if a thousand lovers kissed and caressed him. He writhed in his chains, his body aching to be touched, to be taken.

  A figure fell against his legs, thrown there by unseen hands, a woman, small and fine-boned, with large dark eyes. At a glare from Asmodeus, she reached up her shaking hands, taking his cock tentatively. Her golden hair fell down her back and she smiled up at him. A small, frightened smile.

  “I had an angel once.” She stroked his balls, tracing a fingernail up the pulsing vein to the head. “He loved me so much he told me what he was. I bore him a child. I adored him but he wouldn’t come when I needed him and so I fell. He even looked a bit like you. I loved him so.”

  She took him in her mouth, swallowing him while one hand cupped his balls.