Queen of Abaddon

by Heather Killough-Walden

  If she’d wanted to, she could have walked down those second level aisles and chosen any book she desired, flipping through the pages with nonchalance. It was bitter sweet to know that she had no time to enjoy this privilege.

  But maybe that was best. Something told her that her present company would not have appreciated it as much as she would have.

  She wasted little time, then, striding across the landing to the platform across from the first, which led to the second section of winding staircase. A small black stone box carved onto the stairwell at her right meant there was a force field somewhere on the steps in front of them.

  “Do you think it will work a second time?” Grolsch asked, voicing what was surely everyone’s concern.

  “I’m hoping it works six more times,” Raven replied. Then she took a deep breath and placed her right hand into the second box. This time, no one tried to stop her, but no one moved either.

  Every muscle was tensed when the band in the second box slid once more over her wrist, securing her in place. She closed her eyes and bit her lip.

  But moments later, that same warmth from her neck again slid down her arm and pooled in the palm of her hand. A second later, the metal band released her, and the force field crackled away like paper burning to its outer edges.

  The thought of paper reminded Raven of the map she’d hurriedly folded up and slid into the arrow quiver at her back. On a whim, she pulled her now-free hand from the black box and used it to grab the map.

  “What’s that for?” Loki asked, nodding toward the map.

  “I don’t know,” she replied hesitantly. It might have been the amount of time they’d been alone in the Canton of Corpses. It was strange to be moving so freely in such a notorious location. She’d been very successful so far, but rather than put her at ease, it made her more on edge. “Just in case, I suppose. I want it to be handy if we need it in a hurry.”

  “Sound reasoning,” growled Grolsch. This time, he led the way to the third landing, and Raven and Loki hurried after him.

  At the next landing, Raven handed the map to Loki and didn’t hesitate before placing her right hand into the box. Each box had different symbols carved into it, but the result seemed to be the same. Whatever it was looking for – Tanith appeared to possess it. And since she possessed his mark, she had it too.

  The third force field burned away, and the party raced to the fourth floor.

  Again and again, this process repeated. Raven offered up her hand, the mark’s power spread through her body, the box recognized it, and the force field vanished, allowing them passage to the next floor.

  But when they reached the landing that would lead to the seventh and final level, Raven hesitated. There was something different about this box, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. A chill of uncertainty forced her to a stop before the last black container with its round, waiting darkness. Could it really be this easy? Would her association with Tanith truly win her free passage into the exclusive Reading Room of the Canton of Corpses?

  “What’s wrong?” Loki asked. By now, there was a dogged rushing to their movements. Time was passing at an inexplicably fast rate. Raven could tell each of them felt it, this sense of urgency, this desperate need to “get in and get out” before they were caught in the very pit of the last place in the realms they wanted to be caught in.

  “Nothing,” she replied hurriedly. She forced her mind to quiet and clenched her teeth as she bravely shoved her hand into the final box.

  A moment passed, followed by another. Nothing happened.

  Raven frowned. That cold hesitation was back, and after several seconds, she was on the verge of yanking her hand back out.

  But before she could, that threatening metal click sounded once more. Except, this time, it wasn’t a metal band sliding into place around her wrist. It wasn’t a metal band at all.

  It was a blade – and it was embedded in her palm.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  In all of Abaddon’s history, it had only rained once in Nisse. Tantibus would never forget that moment, when he felt something wet upon his cheek and looked up to find the heavens over Hell weren’t spewing ash and smoke, but water.

  It was the moment his king had come to power. And it was the moment she had made her eternal mark on the land that would one day call her queen.

  At the moment, Nisse was quiet. It burned like coal; long and slow. The king stood motionless like the statue of a man he was, gazing out over the land he’d inherited. Tantibus said nothing, not wanting to rouse his sovereign from his thoughts. Instead, he backed quietly into the shadows of the archway leading to Tanith’s balcony, then turned to enter the standing portal that separated the king’s rooms from the rest of the castle.

  On the other side of Nisse, in a red sand clearing amidst trees formed of obsidian and sharp as shards, he exited the portal alone. Its magic recognized only the king and his steward and would one day soon recognize the queen. It was one of the many, many ways a lord or lady of Abaddon managed to stay alive.

  Out here, in the wasteland forests on the outer edges of Nisse’s ring, it was always strangely peaceful. When mortals were brave enough to consider the inhabitants of Hell, they imagined slobbering, toothy maws, monsters without flesh, screaming spirits without form and function, and other atrocities. It was a rare mind and even rarer soul that ever wondered whether any such imaginings were accurate.

  The truth was, Hell was eternal. It was a realm, just as any, with land and sky, and as such, it had been around since the beginning of time. It had stories to tell.

  Some of those stories could be heard, for a price, from the lips of Abaddon’s eldest inhabitants. Others could be read, again for a price, in Abaddon’s oldest books. But for the most part, it could be seen – always for a price – in the layers of time that made up its mountains, valleys, rivers, and forests.

  Walking through the Brittle Woods as Tantibus did now took a toll upon the spirit. This was the price paid here. It was a depth of melancholy few could imagine. There were mere echoes of echoes remaining here, the voices had disappeared so long ago. There were no buildings, no man-made structures. There was no hint that civilization had ever graced the desolately beautiful surroundings.

  Yet, they had. Tantibus knew first-hand.

  Here, the ground was hard and flat, covered in a fine ruby dust that Abaddonian breezes formed into small, shimmering dunes. Those gentle, warm winds whispered through stone branches overhead, crystalline and hollow. The sound could pierce the strongest mind, and lay waste to the stoutest spirit. Souls bled here. It was why the ground was red.

  But Tantibus had nothing left to give. So it was with a weightless heart that he moved through the deserted woods, leaving a solitary set of footprints behind him. As he walked, the forest parted for him, obsidian leaves curling in, branches lifting away. It knew him, this hollow forest. He and its memories were its sole citizens. It was lonely without him.

  He stopped on a rise where the forest gave way to cliffs, and there he paused for a moment to look down.

  All of Abaddon stretched before him. From here, the Nightmare Lord could see, not only to the ends of Nisse, but to the rings beyond. Here, from this single spot, he could see Caina and Phlegathos, the two lands he had become ruler of when Tanith had taken the throne.

  From here, he could see their rings curve around, luminous edges to the Hell’s universe, impossible physics-defying reality that curled inward, one circle after another, forming the illusion of Abaddon as massive blue-white bangles on an ancient goddess’s resting arm. Tantibus could imagine that goddess yawning, and lifting that arm to stifle it, turning the realm on its head.

  He almost smiled at the thought. There was a ghost of a sensation within Tantibus that hinted at the ability to smile, and sometimes, if he was very tired or very weak, it even hinted at laughter. But he’d been born with a glare, he’d been told, with eyes that burned and a serious expression.

  His life had
followed the path his face set out for him.

  There were countless mortals who were fond of reminiscing their youth, who if given the chance, would turn back the clock and relive the follies, the foibles, and the fun without a second thought. But for Tantibus, turning back the clock would only mean living twice.

  And once was enough for him.

  Which was why he couldn’t allow Raven Grey to find the Phylactery of Souls. It was enough, of course, that she was the destined queen. He’d seen her in action. She didn’t know it; she hadn’t known he was there – watching. But he’d seen the way her power surged and boiled. What she had used of it thus far was like walking onto a beach and scooping up a palm full of sand. Every grain there, stretching to the water’s edge, and sinking far below it, was a bit of magic. She’d used a handful. An entire ocean was waiting for her to claim it.

  And that wasn’t all he’d seen. Tantibus knew what Raven Grey was made of. He knew her. It was true what devils whispered about the eyes of Tantibus and his searching gaze. They said it felt as though he could see their souls.

  Raven Winter would have seen the beauty in the Brittle Woods. She would have paid the price, in that kind of pain that brings both fury and freedom, to know what it had to offer. She was tethered to it like a mother to her babe. The land needed her. It waited for her.

  She’d let it drink from her once, that sweet taste that turned the heavens from ash to rain, that blessed bounty that swore of something more, something different, and that tiny portion of promise that came like a salve… and went like the wind. She was here and gone.

  It mystified him that she had managed to exist as long as she had in the mortal realm. That she’d grown up in it, in fact. She was as strong as Tanith. She was the embodiment of strength, though none of her companions would recognize it as such. She continued to pretend for their sakes, to hide her true nature from them, and from herself. She acted in a giant play, wearing the mask of a part meant for someone smaller.

  Tantibus shook his head. No more, however. Tanith felt the same way Tantibus did, if not more so. The king knew that if Raven were allowed to turn back time, she might stop the murder of Asmodeus, preventing Drake from taking his rightful place upon the throne. She might even choose to evade this war by going to its source once and for all and… destroying herself before it could start. Raven Grey was that strong. He wouldn’t put it past her. Tantibus rested, only, in the steadfast knowledge that Tanith would never allow it to happen.

  The king had much of his father in him, skilled and cunning in the extreme. But he had his mother in him as well. It tempered him where his father’s blood could not. It was, perhaps, his saving grace.

  Abaddon had seen rulers come and go, each more powerful than the last. Tantibus had known them all. But those infamous eyes of his, that now peered past the edges of Hell to the distant and black unknown, knew things that others could only fathom, hope for, or fear.

  He’d known Tanith would one day be king. He’d been there the day the prince was born.

  Unlike those offspring born to Asmodeus’s Abaddonian consorts, young Drake was uniquely bestowed upon a mortal. And a maid, at that. It had been a brief excursion on Asmodeus’s part, a jaunt into the terran realm to alleviate boredom. It had been the first and last time he’d ventured past the Nine Circles without an agenda.

  Ironically, as so many stories begin, the king met a woman in a tavern, and much to his deep, deep surprise – she’d made him laugh. It had been her wit and the gleam in her silver eyes that turned Asmodeus’s head. He’d been in disguise, of course. If he’d wanted, he could have destroyed not only the woman, but the tavern she worked in and the town beyond it with no more than a single destructive thought.

  But… instead, he bedded her, then returned to the Nine Hells with his appetite slaked and his mind once more focused on the task of ruling Abaddon.

  Nine months later, Tantibus quietly left Nisse as a force tugged at his soul. He snuck into the young maid’s town, followed the sounds of her screams, and watched from the shadows as an infant son was born to the serving woman.

  Just as she had his father, she smiled at her son despite her pain, and before she died, he smiled back.

  Tantibus then took the boy from the midwife who’d helped deliver the babe, laying waste to any dissent by simply sending her and her apprentice into mental stupors. He returned to Abaddon and, recognizing the child as the ruler Hell had waited for since its inception, he approached Lord Asmodeus.

  The king took one look at his son, and without a word, pulled the infant into his arms. Asmodeus was cruel and cocky, beautiful and brutal – but in that one moment, he became a man. And in contrast to the indifference he’d shown to any of the other children he’d sired, he also became a father. He was not a stupid king. As any true Abaddonian did, he loved his land. He, too, recognized Drake as its rightful heir, and he knew what needed to be done.

  Tantibus thought of the plan Asmodeus had eventually hatched to at last force Drake to take his throne. He’d been successful. Asmodeus was now the Death God, and Abaddon had its lord.

  Soon, Nisse’s thrones would both know their rightful sovereigns.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Raven gasped as it sliced into her, her entire body going stiff with instant pain and regret.

  “What is it? What happened?” Loki asked, his frantic words coming out piled on top of each other.

  He grasped her wrist, but she cried out, “Don’t pull!”

  Their eyes met, and he froze, just as she had, grave understanding dawning in his features. Somewhere in the darkness of that box, a very sharp, very cruel blade had been thrust into Raven’s palm. She couldn’t tell how deep it had gone, but it was deep enough that she could also feel warm blood escaping from the wound.

  A dripping sound brought her attention downward, and out of sickened curiosity, she stepped back, leaving her hand stiffly where it was. On the ground, at the base of the stairwell banister, was carved a second black, stone container. This one was a bowl.

  That bowl was rapidly gathering dark, red liquid. Raven’s blood.

  “By the gods,” Grolsch whispered. Raven agreed with the sentiment. Queasiness welled up inside her at how quickly the bowl was filling. If she didn’t get her hand out soon, she would lose too much, and then she would have to feed.

  And they were wasting time.

  “What went wrong?” Loki asked. “Why didn’t it work?”

  “I don’t know, but it isn’t going to let me go,” Raven told him grimly. She wasn’t certain how she knew this; she just did. “This is the test, Loki. I have to withdraw my own hand.”

  She knew that when she did, that blade would continue to slice into her, cutting cleanly and painfully all the way through until her hand was finally free. It would be agonizing if she went slow. Her only option was to go as quickly and as carefully as possible and have Loki heal her later, when they were out of Phlegathos.

  There was silence between them for a moment as this sank in.

  “There’s no helping it, then,” at last said Grolsch, who seemed more capable of accepting the shocking and the bleak than most people were.

  As much as she hated to, Raven agreed. She bared her teeth and growled in preparation for the pain. She began to pull.

  That growl turned into a scream of outright agony and rage as that blade did exactly what she’d known it would do. She felt it rip apart tendons and scrape along bone until she at last managed to tear her hand free of the bloody box.

  She cradled it to her shirt, gasping and retching as blood soaked the ground beneath their feet.

  “Let me heal you!” Loki yelled, his face white, his eyes enormous.

  “Not here!” Raven yelled back. Her world was filled with so much pain. But she didn’t want him using his magic in the pit of Hell, or the devils would come running for sure.

  “Look!” Grolsch exclaimed, drawing their attention. He pointed to the bowl at the base of the stairs, and t
hey both glanced down to watch as the blood that had pooled within it began swirling. Then it drew together and hardened, until finally, it had formed into an intricate ruby key that glistened in the dim, magical light of the library.

  “A key,” Raven gasped, breathing hard and trembling.

  “Made out of your blood,” Loki added, bewildered.

  With shaking fingers, Raven reached down and grasped the ruby key, taking it from the bowl. It felt warm in her uninjured hand. She wanted to squeeze it, to hold on to it forever. She’d earned that damned key.

  But the force field to their left burned away then, just as all the others had, leaving Raven and her companions standing confused.

  “What the hell does the key go to, then?” Grolsch demanded, voicing the question they all shared.

  Raven growled again, a sort of grunt-scream of mounting fury. She took her key and raced up the final stretch of staircase. As soon as her boots touched down on the landing of the seventh floor, she recognized at once what the key was meant for.

  She heard her brother and Grolsch make it to the top of the steps just behind her. “It’s for that,” she said, nodding to the single book displayed on the single pedestal at the center of an otherwise completely empty and featureless room. It was a massive tome bound in red and black leather, so large it would most likely be too heavy for any individual to carry out of the library without help.

  Adorning the cover and wrapped around the edge of the book, keeping it closed, was an elaborate metal work detail, replete with what appeared to be images of fire, ice crystals, and a variety of precious gem cabochons that all bordered a very obvious keyhole.

  One book. One lock.

  And she had the key.