Guardians (Chosen Trilogy Book 2)

by David Leadbeater

  She saw Cleaver, already being hit on by a blond vamp wearing a floor-length white dress. She didn’t blame the girl. That Cleaver was a catch, a notch on the bedpost and no mistake. She saw Ceriden talking animatedly with an older vampire that she could only assume was Strahovski. Europe’s king looked a little like Anthony Hopkins to be honest, but the nice version of the actor not the brain-eating one. And like Ceriden he possessed a disarming demeanor, an air no doubt essential for the aspiring vampire.

  Further on, Lysette saw Jade. The elf had positioned herself in a far corner and stared frostily at anyone who approached. Her one concession to the party was the plate of food at her side. Lysette thought she might be allowed into the elf’s circle of one and this was the one person in the room that she’d like to be with. She began to thread a path in that direction, sipping the Dark And Stormy as she went. A nice, happy buzz had formed at the back of her head, easing away the tension. Even the ever-present chatter that comprised people’s thoughts receded to a dull drone. Maybe alcohol was the answer.

  Maybe not.

  She approached Jade, smiling, and then stopped. Quickly, she scanned the room again. Where was . . . ?

  Shit!

  Lucy was absent and so was Ethan. Pure panic surged through Lysette and the drink slipped from between her fingers.

  Jade was instantly at her side. “What is it?”

  “Lucy,” Lysette croaked. “Oh no. No. No.”

  “What?”

  “I think she’s in trouble.”

  They ran for the exit, not caring who saw. Ceriden’s voice floated after them but they ignored his question. Lysette ran down the paneled corridors, going by memory. With every step she berated herself, criticized every move she had made. Lucy had been weakened, already vulnerable, even more so after the battle. Add to that the euphoria of victory, the party atmosphere of the castle, and any sixteen-year-old girl would be impressionable. But this was way past that.

  A door opened ahead and Ethan walked out, laughing. Lucy clung to him, and at first Lysette thought she was still exhausted. Or drunk.

  Her arms were draped around his neck, holding fast as she gazed up at him in delight. Her legs dragged along the floor. Ethan hauled her weight, speaking softly.

  Lysette found her voice. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Ethan’s head spun rapidly. “Oh shit, I—”

  Then Lucy turned and Lysette saw her face, her lips.

  Covered in blood. Fresh blood. Was it her own? Or Ethan’s? A shocking memory hit her—of Lucy covered in blood once before when the Destroyer had made her cut herself.

  And hadn’t Logan said she’d done the same to herself even before that?

  “Lucy?” Lysette hesitated.

  The girl laughed. “I’m so happy. At last, I’m happy.”

  Lysette pulled at Lucy’s arms, taking her away from the boy. Ethan stepped back.

  “What have you done?” Lysette all but screamed. “What have you done?”

  Lucy found some strength and stepped back from Lysette, toward Ethan.

  “I’m happy.”

  “What did he do to you?”

  Ethan then found his voice. “Lucy has become a shade. A thrall. She is protected now. Part of our family. Our love will never die.”

  Lysette’s stomach churned.

  Lucy fell back into Ethan’s embrace. “I let him drink me. And I will do it again. Now, I am part of a family. Now, I will never be left alone again. This is my life, my future. Accept it.”

  Lysette didn’t know that her knees had buckled under her until she hit the floor.

  TWENTY

  Ken knew that with every step they traveled they neared the first circle of hell, the Pit. It was there that the worst fiends that ever existed dwelled in all their fiendish depravity, and where Dementia and her crazy brother awaited, and where the very worst king of demons, Lucifer, lived.

  No longer a terrifying legend. No longer a horror story. The Devil was coming back, and planning to make Earth his bitch.

  So Ken sought out Felicia, already tired of hearing Eliza quiz Lilith as to her origins. The demon Samael was a strong opponent, but Ken refused to be overawed. The odds were stacked against them but he’d faced worse. Admittedly that was mostly in ‘Frisco’s pick-up bars on a Friday night, but it was all the experience he had to go on.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Felicia sniffed the air. “For now we are. We’re fine. Why?”

  “No. Are you okay? You?”

  “Ha. Oh, Ken, just because we boned doesn’t mean you have to show affection for me. It will never work between us. I’d rip you to shreds in the end.”

  Ken saw that as a challenge, but then a new, emerging, man took over and spoke for him. “You don’t have to be alone. We could . . . you know . . . look after each other.”

  Where the hell did that come from? He clammed up fast before he said anything he might regret.

  But Felicia now eyed him as more than just a previously boned meal. This was curiosity. Even attentiveness.

  “You getting soft on me, Ken Hamilton?”

  He didn’t know. All these feelings . . . these caring, affectionate responsible emotions were as far removed from his normal behavior as black was to white these days. But . . .

  What the hell, he thought. Go for it.

  “I like you. Is that a crime?”

  “Might be.” Felicia shrugged amiably. “Depends what the governments come up with.”

  Ken had to admit that was a possibility. Image the offspring—a surfing, pot-smoking werewolf.

  “I could think of worse matchups.”

  “Oh yeah.” Felicia cast a disgusted glance over at the vampire brethren. “Those guys and their shades.”

  Lilith made her way beside them. “Can you sense a change coming?”

  Felicia squinted and tested the air. “I can smell . . . water? Is that right? A large body of water.”

  “You’re kidding,” Ken said. “All that crap about Charon, the ferryman of Hades who carries the souls of the dead across the rivers Styx and Acheron.”

  Felicia’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wow. Where did you learn that? Not at school, I’m betting.”

  Ken shrugged. “Chris De Burgh’s best. Don’t Pay The Ferryman and Spanish Train. Maybe we could challenge that old Devil to a game of chess.”

  Lilith pointed ahead. “Over the rise there lie the rivers. I do not know their names. They run down from the hills and join to form a great lake. Once over the lake we will find the entrance to the first circle of hell.”

  “And this ferryman.” Eliza had been listening. “Does he require some form of payment?”

  Lilith blanched a little. “Murder.”

  Now Ken lost some color of his own. “What?”

  “Only if he sees you commit murder or even fouler deeds does he allow you to cross. After all, the first hell is not a place for good people, my friends. To get in or out you have to commit the sins that put people there in the first place.”

  “Can we slip across unnoticed?”

  “No. Charon guides the only boat.”

  “So we have a big problem.” Ken said as the continued to walk. “We have nobody to murder.”

  Milo smirked nastily at him. “There is always the weakest link.”

  “Well, that would be you, fat boy.”

  “Be careful with your tongue, little human.”

  “Or what? You’ll eat me?” Ken immediately regretted his choice of words. The vampire was ferocious enough and looked hungry and large enough to do just that.

  Milo showed his fangs. Eliza cowed him with a glance. “Stop your nonsense. Act like the supreme being you are supposed to be and not a ludicrous human.”

  Ken grinned at the abruptly leashed vampire and made a whipping motion. Milo’s expression changed from one of anger to one of condescension, as if now aloof from such trivial concerns.

  Felicia brought their attention back around. “Ken has a po
int though. How are we going to fool this Charon?”

  “We won’t have to,” Lilith said. “The shores of the River Styx and the River Acheron are piled high with the dead, most of whom have been murdered. We merely each place a coin in one corpse’s mouth as is custom and present that body to Charon. Then we accompany it across.”

  “The debt is paid,” Ken mused. “Where do the bodies come from?”

  “They are the souls of the dead. Condemned to dwell in the first circle of hell.”

  “Lawyers,” Ken said with a grin. “Bankers. Dirty cops. People that hurt kids.”

  “No,” Lilith grated. “They have their own pit of fire reserved right under the Devil’s throne. Literally, in the bowels of hell.”

  Ken grimaced. “So hell at least does something right.”

  “There is no place anywhere for those that would abuse the weak. Not even in the first circle of hell.”

  “And again,” Eliza breathed. “I would ask how you come to know all this.”

  “Been here a while,” Lilith said breezily. “Know a lot.”

  They climbed the sharp rise, slowing as they neared the top. As he walked, Ken heard a peculiar sound. It was the wailing of someone in pain, a man trapped in a dark well knowing he would never get out, a woman lost in the crawling dark. It was the sound of uninhibited wretchedness. The wail intensified as they reached the peak, now splitting as though it came from a hundred throats, a thousand.

  Ken crept over the top. “Shit,” he said. “This is the spookiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Felicia crawled to his side. “Huh. You’ve clearly never been to a Next sale.”

  “A what?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Ken stared at the spectacle laid out before him. An inky black lake filled the horizon, fed by two sludgy rivers that flowed along deep jagged, troughs that looked like they’d been cut with bone saws. There were no waves, no obvious flow to the waters, but a murky rise and fall crept over the beach like heart blood leaking from a dying man. But that wasn’t the worst of it, not by a long shot. Even the vampires gasped.

  Bodies were piled in slovenly disarray all across the beach, reaching up into the foothills. They lay sprawled, slumped and stretched, one across the other until Ken couldn’t tell which torso or which limb belonged to which. There seemed to be no clear path between them, and the stench that rose stung the back of his throat like acid.

  “Oh God,” he said. “Oh my God.”

  Lilith had waited at the back, not wishing to see the beach again, and now he knew why. He turned to her.

  “You’ve crossed this already? How?”

  The young girl shook her head. “Seriously, I don’t know. Desperation.”

  “It’s . . . atrocious.”

  “This is the true pathway to hell. All the rest is wreckage. Junk. The waste of conquered worlds. The first circle is the true hell, where all the bad things live. You think you’ve done well so far? You’ve not even begun.”

  Ken caught her vibe and agreed. The prospect of walking through hell had not been a pleasant one, but the actual act had so far been relatively painless. Yes, they had lost one of their party, they had been attacked by demonic foliage and some kind of fiendish Bruce Lee, but he had imagined worse.

  Again he eyed the bodies.

  “Ain’t going anywhere,” he said. “Until we cross that water. You guys ready?”

  Even the vampires eyed him with distaste.

  *

  Ken led the way down the high hills, picking his way with care. At this point it didn’t matter who saw them. The scene was hard enough to take in anyway, but now a great, high wooden boat or ship had arrived, seemingly constructed from jagged beams and black ichor. It was four stories high, and impossibly clumsy on the water. Its sides jutted every which way, giving it the appearance of a spiny dinosaur. There were no windows, no decks, just the structure itself and a curved, pointed bow. At the head of the bow a figurehead protruded—the carven face of Lucifer. At the tip of every rotten-looking timber sat a human head, eyes flicking from side to side in fear. Thousands of them covered the ship. As it drifted in and came to a stop, a gangplank extended, striking the beach with a thud. The first off were the desolate ones, shambling beings wrapped in robes, staring at the ground and crying out with every step they took.

  “Nails in their feet,” Lilith confided. “Doomed to wander forever.”

  “Crap, I didn’t need to know that.”

  Next off was a variety of terrors. Demons, flying devils. Imps and sprites. Unnamable creatures that lurched forth on many legs, their teeth heavy mandibles snapping at the air. White hairless shapes that somehow managed to ooze forward, tentacles waving and suckers gaping madly. For a few moments the beach was full, busy, then the various creatures began to disperse.

  Lilith held them all back. “Wait.”

  Eliza frowned. “But shouldn’t we—”

  A great gong sounded and Lilith started forward at pace. As they rose many other creatures came into view. All had been hiding and were now aiming for the beach and the great ship. As Ken climbed down to a path that led between bodies, he turned cautiously to Lilith.

  “So we just grab one? And take it to the boat?”

  “Yes. Don’t be squeamish.”

  Ken shook his head hard. Squeamish wasn’t the word. Sickened and appalled didn’t quite come close either. He stared at the closest body, then picked on the easiest one to grab. The white arms were outstretched and pointing toward him as if they were asking him to save the person from drowning. The head hung back at an impossible angle, the mouth was wide open in the rictus of screaming death. Ken started digging around in his pockets.

  “So. Any coin? Are we talking some kind of currency here?”

  Lilith glared as if he was mad. “Just put a coin on the tongue, close the mouth and walk with it.”

  Ken grumped as much as he dared. “I was only asking because I know some people just hate those Scottish pound notes. Can’t get rid of ‘em anywhere.”

  Felicia tapped his shoulder. “Can I borrow a quarter?” She tapped her pockets. “Don’t have any money.”

  Ken half-smiled. “Ha. Bet you wish you cared a little more about materialist things now, huh?”

  Ken rattled out some change, and tentatively reached up and dropped a silver quarter into the cavernous mouth. Then, with the stench of bodies and the constant, disembodied wailing surrounding them, the little group pulled their chosen corpses from the countless piles and hefted them across their shoulders. They trudged toward the lake.

  Weighed down, disgusted, Ken felt more wretched than at any time in his life. This wasn’t heroism. Glory. This was nothing short of utter torment. Each step caused the dead body to rap against him, the dangling hands striking the backs of his thighs. By the time he’d cleared the rotting heaps he was totally freaked out.

  He reached the beach, and the great ship sat silently and motionlessly before him. The gangplank was already full of creatures, all carrying different forms of the dead. The procession onto the boat was also made in silence, in despair. Ken halted, and wavered.

  “I . . . I don’t think I can do this.”

  Milo smirked and hefted his own body, but said nothing. Eliza stared at him with pity. “It is not for you to decide. You do this for your people. Their children. You are a soldier now and only you can help them.”

  Felicia patted his arm. “I’m going,” she said. “Me. The girl that would rather die than be trapped. I love my liberty, the freedom of the run, but I am going through with this.”

  Ken bit his lip. “Why?”

  “Because I know that my friends back there,” she gave a nod of her head, indicating Miami and beyond, “are fighting and dying and struggling to save us too. And I will not fail them.”

  Ken felt a glow develop somewhere inside, a feeling unknown to him. “How do you know they’re not dead already?”

  “In here,” Felicia touched her heart, “I know th
ey fight on.”

  “They sacrifice everything for other people?”

  “That’s part of what being a soldier is, my friend. Being prepared to sacrifice all you hold dear to save another human being. A stranger. It is one of the great traits of the human character.”

  Ken took firmer hold of the corpse’s waist. This was the hardest thing he had ever done. With a nod to Felicia, he stomped on. Down the black sand beach they walked, treading not on a soft shore but on pulverized cinders and ashes, accumulated over thousands of years into a hard, grizzled-edged shingle. The constant crunch of their feet was loud, even louder than their apprehensive breathing.

  They arrived at the gangplank. Ken saw a single plank of wood about twelve feet wide, itself jagged, splintered and creaking under the weight of eons, arcing from the beach to the front deck of the ship. He had his first sight of Charon, the ferryman, and his heart gave such a lurch that he almost balked again.

  Charon stood at the head of the gangplank, staring down over the trudging line of new passengers. The figure was impossibly tall, clad all over in chainmail and light garments of leather. A peaked helmet sat on his head, making him appear even taller. A mighty broadsword lay across his shoulders, supported by both arms. Whips, chains, scythes and other implements of pain hung from the chainmail. Even a chainsaw. The face that peered down was craggy and set with determination; bearded, dark-skinned and as grim as a million-year-old rock face that has stared at nothing but utter darkness for its entire existence.

  Ken looked to his toes, counting the steps, studying the gangplank, keeping his corpse’s feet from swaying, but never, ever staring up into that dreadful countenance.

  No one spoke as they approached. The gangplank flexed and wobbled. The eager waters whispered quietly below as if beseeching chance to throw them an offering. As they neared the mythical gatekeeper, Ken realized that the vampires had somehow managed to slip to the back of the group, clearly using the others to test the waters. Rather than annoying him this realization increased his courage, giving him an insight into how low and callous they were.

  He saw the beast in front of him—a wreck with tentacles for a face and tree-limb-like arms but, crazily, wearing a strong pair of Doc Martens—heave its body onto a growing pile then bow its head. Charon glanced the beast over, stared at the offering, and nodded. The beast passed through.