"Surprised?" Belial’s smile widened. She had regained the upper hand, and she pressed her advantage. "I thought you might be. You are nothing but a stupid village lass, after all…or aren’t you?" The queen’s brows rose regally. "You do not even know, do you? No one has ever told you of your heritage, have they? Such a pity."
"I tire of your games," Portia growled.
"This is no game, daughter. And yes, I use that word to you. I have that right. The purity of Nephilim bloodlines is a priority to me and mine. You are our children, our destiny, and our strength. And you, my saucy darling, most in particular. The Nephilim are the progeny of angel and man, but there is no difference between those hosts of heaven and us, their fallen brethren. And you, my child, are not begotten of heaven."
Portia nearly stumbled back, her mind reeling, even the essence inside of her awe-struck with the announcement. "What in the hell are you takling about?"
"Exactly." The queen smiled. "At my behest, we sought out the most pedigreed lines of Nephilim, most of them gone cold, ejecting naught but weaklings from their wombs, but still stamped with the seal of heaven on their brows. It would take but little help to reawaken the blood of angels in their marrow. My brother-beloved, Zepar, went with wine in one hand and roses in the other." She sighed at the memory. "Oh, he was dashing. I could barely contain myself in his presence, and I daresay no human woman ever born could resist him." Belial swept her golden gaze across Portia’s face, apparently seeing something there that pleased her. Smiling, she stroked a talon-like fingernail down Portia’s cheek. "You have the look of him about the eyes, and I am willing to wager few can resist your charms, either. You know, your mother even mended his favorite red shirt. It was silk. Zepar gave her a night that no landlord’s wife has any right to experience, a night that would haunt her dreams even years later and leave her drenched in sweat with her moaning lust unslaked. Can you imagine your mother such a wanton?" Belial laughed, throwing her head back as her silky thighs sighed against one another.
Portia recoiled. The memories of her mother had dimmed over the long years at the chapter house, but she remembered her as a fond but distant woman with a dreamy smile that came upon her when she thought no one was looking.
"You lie," Portia said.
"Do I? How shall I prove that I am in earnest, then? Shall I tell you that I watched your childhood with eager eyes, waiting for you to come of age? Such a pity the erstwhile saint of Penemue, the Prodigal Princess Lady Hester, found you first." Belial clenched her jaws and ground her perfectly sharp teeth. "I was waiting for you, Portia. You were to be placed at my right hand. You were to be my daughter, not that insipid Hester’s. I should have been the one to mold your powers, to raise you to truly understand what you were. Even now, you have no clue. You could destroy me where I stand and yet you bow. Pitiful." She spat. "But neither Hester nor that short-sighted wretch Analise Aldias would heed me one word. Analise refused to give me her precious rarity, thinking Nigel was the only one of his kind. It was Nigel this and Nigel that! And thus I was robbed of both daughter and son." She rolled her eyes. "And what she did to you, that self-serving harridan! You do not need to be bound to any other soul—angel, demon or otherwise—and neither did Nigel! But she went and did it anyhow. You and Nigel were of the same blood. When the time was ripe, your father would have returned to you and awakened the powers within you both. Analise was a damned fool. She held a useless messenger angel in thrall and thought she could bend either of you to her will. She got what she deserved of it. Would it have been me, but Nigel got her first." For a moment, the demoness looked wistful again. "You and Nigel were destined for one another, just like Zepar and I. It would have been a beautiful thing. Now, we can only pick up the pieces and move on. Never try and part an Aldias from something they want, damn the lot of them."
"Just get on with it. I really have no use for this quaint reminiscence."
Belial only smiled. "You are just like your father. Rash, impatient. Pity you will never meet him." The statement hung there as Belial waited for Portia’s question, but she remained silent. "Tell me you do not even want to know why?"
Portia shrugged. "Not especially, but I figure you’re going to tell me."
"Ask Nigel, then, you little minx. He dreamed up this ploy, and Zepar was all too happy to go along." A subtle ragged edge in her voice caught Portia’s attention. "And now they are both lost."
"Nothing can be so lost that even you cannot find it. Really, madame, your touching show of emotion is nothing but a melodrama."
Belial’s eyes narrowed. "You think yourself clever, don’t you? You spoke my name as if it gave you any power. It does not. And you want to condescend to me about theatrics! That wisdom does you no good, Portia, my darling. I know my name and so does the rest of humanity."
"Not so many as you might think. I had no idea until a moment ago. You aren’t Lilith, for crying out loud. Your name was never taught to me in Penemue, where we were schooled on all of the important demons and fallen angels. But yet you think so much of yourself."
"I have been compared to Satan!"
"Really? So have I. Ask my mother."
The demoness pursed her lips and toyed with one of the golden claws that curved from the tips of her wingbones. "Maybe I shall. Or maybe I shall ask another. Perhaps I should inquire with Fereshte."
Fereshte. The word echoed through Portia’s skull and froze her limbs in place. With eyes stretched wide and the breath not stirring in her lungs, Portia’s world reeled.
The convent. She ran through the never-ending hallway, beat upon the brick wall, entered the tiny dim room and heard the voice that sounded so much like her own.
Name? It said to her. I have none. Not anymore. No name save Portia. Portia Gyony, Nephilim of the Grigori. Portia, of the Penemue chapter house. Portia, beloved of Imogen. Portia defines me now, Portia describes me. None other, and nothing further. I am a pitiful echo of all that you are, now, Portia.
The angel within her awoke at the sound of its own name. The tiny essence raged like a bonfire that threatened to consume her as it sought to purge itself from her dingy mortal carcass. No longer simply the pitiful echo of Portia, Fereshte became fully aware.
Two souls staggered beneath the weight of that knowledge, of that name. The sigil on her sternum seared hot and painful, and for a moment, Portia feared she would burn from the inside out.
In the dim reflection of the floor she could see the throbbing light glowing through the flesh of her chest. The likeness gazing back up at her changed, but only slightly: the forehead grew higher and the cheekbones broader, more defined. The angel stared up at her, its face passionless and cool.
"Fereshte," Portia whispered softly. The tide of memory, of knowledge and vision, threatened to overcome her. She pressed her hands to the cold marble floor, leaning her forehead against them. Faces streamed by like shooting stars, faster than she could recognize. Some, she thought she knew: her mother, her childhood playmates in those dim days before Penemue. But others were ringed in white fire and blazed with the glory of heaven. Perhaps these were Fereshte’s family. Nausea churned as she struggled to regain control. Power blinded her then, overwhelming her vision just as it had the night she lay strapped to the altar in the convent with Lady Analise leaning over her. The potency within her was savage and relentless—there was fire in her veins instead of blood. From somewhere outside of herself, she could hear the raw screams that could only be her own. Portia’s stomach clenched furiously, and when it released, she coughed up a mouthful of bile that tasted of blood.
She thinks she has found a weapon, and she has. But it will hurt her far more.
The thought pounded through her skull, and Portia wondered if it was hers or the angel’s.
She breathed through the spasms of her throat and trembled with the agony of one soul struggling against the other. They rubbed together like serrated blades, jarring and jagged.
Don’t leave me, Fereshte.
The
angel’s voice was surprisingly gentle. These are bonds that I cannot break. And even if I could, you are too much of me, and I of you. What would be left of me should I shake myself loose from you? For better or for worse. This weak image is all that is left of me, of what I once was.
[I told you once that I would let you go if I could…]
Do not insult me with noble pretense. I know every intimate thought in your soul. You like this power, this strength, too much. You would never willingly part from me.
[I won’t lie and tell you that’s not true. But Imogen needs me. The world needs me, needs us. You don’t want to help?]
Fereshte sighed. I have no choice and I never did. Were this bond broken, I would cease to be, I would dissolve into nothing, I would become the foam on the sea.
[Were this bond broken, I think I’d die. I don’t think I am strong enough on my own, anymore. You have grown into me, become so much a part of me.]
What Belial tells you is true. Zepar is your father and you could live very nicely without me. The power of your blood is your own.
* * * *
They still grated roughly against one another, like a cog slipped out of gear. From somewhere beyond herself, Portia could see that the herders had released her and stepped away, but Belial hovered over her, watching and waiting and smiling. Portia returned her attention to Fereshte.
* * * *
[That doesn’t change what you are to me: a piece of my own soul. Without you, I’d bear a loss not even Imogen could fill.]
I might as well comply, the angel said with great melancholy. I have everything to lose and what to gain?
[Am I such a burden?]
Yes.
Portia’s vision cleared and she regarded the reflection before her. She drew on her strength, that which was hers alone.
[Fereshte, you are a debt I will never repay. I cannot make this up to you, I cannot undo it. You agreed to this once and I ask you to do so again. Please. Allow me to subsume you. Become my soul. Even before, when I had let your light out, it was like opening a door to another room of myself. You weren’t fully part of me.]
I would not allow it. You did not know how to control the power. You would have destroyed us both.
[If we are to succeed, we can’t be as two like we were in the beginning, or one-and-a-half as we have been.]
Fereshte blinked back what looked like tears. I know. But I am afraid. Regardless of either outcome, I will die.
[No, you will live. We both will. What was Portia and what was Fereshte will become something else whole and entire. We will be together what neither of us could have been alone.]
The angel managed a smile. I suppose it is the only way. For after having been wedded to your soul, I love Imogen as you do and could not bear to be parted from her. Or from you, Portia.
Portia kissed the reflection. "Come home, then, Fereshte. I bind you to me. I command your essence. Come to me, Fereshte, I am your home."
Portia defines me, Portia describes me. I am nothing else, I am nothing further. "I am Portia Gyony."
She rose, wings spreading wide, and the herders fell back. They did not attempt to restrain her again. The conflagration that had threatened to destroy her before now filled her veins with a simmering power.
Belial had returned to her throne, where she sat watching, amusement clear on her resplendent features. "How charming," she drawled.
For weeks, the angel’s voice had been her own and the angel’s thoughts had been her own. Now, the angel’s memories belonged to her as well, an eternity of existence. It could hardly fit in her mind, yet she carried it effortlessly. Fereshte was no longer, but with the power of the angel’s name, the essence was unlocked. This of course meant only one thing: Belial had to die.
—8—
PORTIA STOOD facing the demon queen. The herders cowered away from her, scuttling to the edges of the hall, but she could hear their telescopic eyes whirring and clicking softly and the echoing wheeze of their breath as they watched and waited.
"So, my dear Portia, what do you mean to do now?" Belial hooked one leg over the lavish arm of her throne, toying with the shadow-gold with her toes. One of her fleshy wings draped down across her shoulder and her lap; the delicate webbing clung to her every curve.
"What do I mean to do? It was you who brought me here, at a dear cost, I might add. Those clockwork men of yours must be expensive. And for what purpose? To toy with me for your own dreadful amusement?"
"You infiltrated my world. You dared to bring your beating heart into the land of the dead. And now you dare mock me. I do not take kindly to that. Any of it." The herders tick-tick-ticked and Belial rose like a cat waking from a slumber, stretching languidly as she strolled down the steps to where Portia still stood. Belial slunk to Portia’s side, pressing her body against her. "But I am sure we can find a way that you can make it up to me."
"Oh, really?"
"Perhaps, I should not have implied that I was unhappy at your presence here, my daughter-that-could-have-been. Because I think it could serve both of our purposes."
Portia froze. The demoness’s breath was warm on her neck and smelled like cinnamon. Belial crushed her breasts against Portia’s arm and back, grinding her hips against the worn cotton of Portia’s full trousers.
"Portia," Belial whispered, "you could be anything here. You have brought your power and your blood with you. You could be a queen. Would you like that? You could be my sister-sovereign, my heir-apparent. Your power would be limitless, my darling, and then you could have any ghost in this realm that you desired."
"I only want the one. And then I want to take her home."
"Your Imogen. Waiting for Portia the savior, Portia the beloved, Portia who is hope embodied."
Portia could feel by the change in her voice and the shift of her body that Belial had taken on her beloved’s image. She shut her eyes. "That’s been tried before, madame. And it didn’t work very well. I had much more cause to believe it then than I do now. So, do us both a favor and drop it."
Belial sighed, dramatically. "So like your father," she muttered. "He took joy in denying me my pleasures nearly as much as you do." She did not step away, but instead clung to Portia’s body, running her hands over the blood-soaked corset. Belial bent forward and ran her tongue up the length of the busk, trembling with a sigh. She smacked her lips. "There is nothing so sweet as raw human blood spiked with the vintage of angels." She kissed Portia’s collarbones insistently. "Portia, you are a better match for me, for my plans, than Nigel ever was. I was a fool to allow those damned Aldias to convince me of Nigel’s worth over yours. All I have ever wanted is you, the daughter of my soul, my beloved. You, Portia. Only you. Do I dare ask your price? I already know it. Imogen. Swear yourself to me and she is yours."
"She is not yours to give."
"Oh no? I beg to differ. All creatures on this island are mine to control; all of them, even you."
"Then why offer me a choice at all?"
Belial ignored her. "Swear to me, Portia. Swear to me and I will hold you above all others, you will be at my right hand, you will rule beside me always." She stepped away, her hands gliding down Portia’s arms until they entwined into Portia’s fingers. "Let me bring you downstairs. Let me show you the rift engine. This world is too small for me and I grow weary of waiting on souls to happen past my lair. When the machine is engaged, I will be able to reach directly into your world and pluck the ripest fruits. Can you imagine what we would be, then, you and me? Limitless in power, that is what."
"What are you doing?" The shrill question ricocheted off of the broken-down columns, but to whom it was directed was unclear. Both Portia and Belial looked up to see Kanika standing beside the throne with a small, unobtrusive door standing open behind her. She had Portia’s satchel slung across her shoulder and the axe in her left hand, along with a peculiar copper key that looked like it could have wound an enormous clock.
"Oh, darling!" Belial pulled away from Portia,
taking several steps toward the throne.
Kanika drew back, raising the axe between them. The coin wavered toward Portia momentarily, then hung still. "Don’t come any closer!" She was angry, her coal-black brows pinched together in an unflattering scowl.
The demon queen eyed the large key suspiciously. "Where did you get that?"
The girl twirled the key between her fingers and pushed it into the waistband at the back of her skirt. "This was not in our plan, Belial. I thought you were going to kill her. I thought I was the one to share your limitless power. I thought I was the daughter you had pined for all these years. And to think, I went right along with this addlepated idea right from the start. I brought her right to you, just like you asked me to. That was stupid of me. Had I done what I ought, Portia and I would be making this same offer to you, O Queen. Join us, love us, obey us, and all of this power and splendor we will share with you." The girl scoffed. "And it would have been just as false as the lies that ooze from your mouth like poisoned honey."
"Kanika!" Portia sputtered, but the girl did not so much as acknowledge her. She strolled down the steps haughtily, her curls bouncing.
Kanika faced Belial, her shoulders squared and her jaw set. She looked imposing, even though there was a distinct height difference between them. Belial looked down upon the girl and roared with laughter.
"And what have you been about, my little pet? Playing with my things again, I see. Give me the key."
Kanika smiled and tossed the axe to Portia. "No. I think I’ll decide what happens next. I’ve grown tired of your tutelage."
Portia caught the axe awkwardly and there was a long moment of silence as the three of them stood staring at one another. Somewhere else in the palace, a quiet, mechanical hum began to resonate through the stone floor.
Belial glanced between the two of them as if weighing her options, then turned toward Portia. "I do not want to harm you, Portia." Her voice was as smooth as butter, but she advanced with malice in her eyes.
The Labyrinth of the Dead Page 8
