by S. M. Reine
Contents
Lost in Prophecy
Copyright
About
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Dear Reader
Lost in Prophecy
The Ascension Series - Book Five
SM Reine
Copyright © 2014 Red Iris Books
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This book is sold DRM-free so that it can be enjoyed in any way the reader sees fit. Please keep all links and attributions intact when sharing. All rights reserved.
Text and cover art copyright © SM Reine 2014
Published by Red Iris Books
1180 Selmi Drive, Suite 102
Reno, NV 89512
THE ASCENSION SERIES
Reading Order:
Sacrificed in Shadow
Oaths of Blood
Ruled by Steel
Caged in Bone
Lost in Prophecy
Torn by Fury (Summer 2014)
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About Lost in Prophecy
Elise Kavanagh is too busy liberating slaves in the City of Dis to worry about what’s happening on Earth. She hasn’t even noticed that more than three thousand people have gone missing—not until an anonymous client hires her organization, The Hunting Club, to rescue them. The man asking for help doesn’t seem to exist. But the trail of clues is too strange to ignore, and she finds herself caught in the investigation.
Werewolf Alpha Rylie Gresham is absorbed in troubles of her own. The pack is disobeying her, and the cult camped out in Northgate seems to be the source of the problem. Her mate, Abel, has resolved to fix it one way or another—even if it means going over Rylie’s head.
Through secrets, lies, and assassination attempts, Elise and Rylie find that they have a new enemy in common. And what it takes to prevail might mean shattering the universe…
One
THE CHILD WAS playing outside when Heaven began to fall.
Marion was sitting in a meadow lush with ice melt. It had been an unusually warm winter, and the foothills were flooding; the fresh growth was taller than her nearly four-year-old body, sheltering her in slender, swaying grass and wildflowers. She smiled widely at a dandelion gone to seed. The wind tugged white puffs away from the flower and sent them drifting into the sky.
She tracked the seeds’ ascent toward the clouds. The gray sky was beginning to churn. Pale blue light, the same color as Marion’s eyes, flashed in the depths of a silent storm.
Even Marion knew that this could only mean trouble. Soon Maman would call her inside. Soon it would be time for Maman and Marion to run again.
But Marion wasn’t ready for playtime to end.
She got up, swatting clumps of dirt off of her skirt. She was wearing bloomers that made her dress stick out. Everything was lacy and ruffled and satin-pink. Her wild brown curls had started the day in braids, but now hung clumped around her shoulders with spring blossoms dotting the tangles.
Marion glanced over her shoulder at the silent, lonely cabin hiding in the shadows under the trees. Maman hadn’t noticed the sky changing yet, but she would soon.
So the girl ran.
She leaped through the grass and ducked into another copse of trees where she wouldn’t be seen. Caterpillars inched down damp tree bark. Dew-damp spider webs hung, suspended, between the branches. Some of the dandelion seeds had been caught.
Beyond the canopy, the sky was flashing harder, faster. Marion grabbed a low branch and braced her foot against the trunk, careful not to smash any caterpillars. She kicked and dragged herself into the tree to watch.
Clouds fell in clumps to bare a jagged white slice across the gray sky. Ash swirled from the gash like snow, and she caught it in her palm.
Marion smelled it. Stuck out her tongue for a taste.
Funny. It sort of tasted like apple juice.
She slithered out of the branches as the wind blew harder, gusting ash and cloud debris over the mountains. She still didn’t return to the quiet cabin. She emerged from the copse on the opposite side of the trees, racing into the last moments of sunlight with her arms wide open.
A shadow passed over her.
The child stopped and looked up at the newcomer, who was not her mother, as she had expected. Her smile faded, and she hooked a finger in the corner of her mouth, dragging her lip down to bare square white teeth.
“Hello, Marion,” said the man.
She had never met him before. She felt shy. Marion’s head dropped, and she wiggled her big toe into the damp soil.
“Bonjour,” the girl said. She didn’t speak English.
He didn’t seem troubled by the language barrier. “You know who I am, don’t you?”
She nodded. Marion understood what he was saying.
He extended a hand toward her. His skin was warm brown, and he wore a thick iron bracelet around his wrist. “Are you ready to come with me, Marion?”
She looked at his hand. She looked at his face. It was the first time that they had met. His features were unrecognizable. But she saw beyond his eyes to what hid within, and what was on his insides was as familiar to her as the sunshine. He was like a puppet. His coarse black hair, round features, and honest brown eyes were only a decoy concealing the hand of the puppeteer within.
Marion had been seeing him in her dreams for weeks.
“Ouais,” she said. “Je suis prête.”
When he smiled, it crinkled the corners of his eyes pleasantly. For a moment she thought his irises were the same color as hers. But that soon faded. She rested her hand in his, and his fingers curled around hers.
They disappeared as Marion’s mother began calling her name.
FOUR MONTHS LATER.
“Lock the gates!”
The cry rose from the opposite shore of the Amniosium, carried on humid air to Cornelius’s ears. He sought out the source of the shouting and spotted Rowland, a skeletal nightmare draped in linen and bones, waving his arms wildly over his head.
“What?” Cornelius shouted back at him. They had more than a quarter mile of roiling fluid between them. A bubble swelled and popped. Black steam momentarily obscured their view of one another.
“Lock the damn gates!”
The only part Cornelius understood was “gates,” but that was all he needed. That, and the panic in Rowland’s twisted face.
He scrambled up the face of the rotten hillside. The Amniosium was nestled in a decaying pit at the literal heart of Malebolge, and Cornelius had to dig his hands into the fatty tissue to get enough traction to pull himself out.
It was a painfully difficult climb to the top, where the gates stood unguarded. Cornelius wheezed as he struggled higher.
Nightmares had been dying and rebirthing in the Amniosium in record numbers, so Cornelius had left the gates open to accommodate the sometimes dozens of newly born demons wafting from the pits daily. The safest place in Hell was that pit within Malebolge’s chest cavity
, since few outsiders seldom had cause or courage to venture there. In all of Cornelius’s centuries as birth attendant, he had never dealt with an attack, or even the threat of one. It seemed silly to secure the gates.
Yet Rowland was not a paranoid creature. He was the very spirit of the fear of falling, the fear of tumbling and striking the earth and having one’s bones pulverized by the sudden stop. He, like all nightmares, reveled in terror.
If Rowland was truly afraid, there was reason to fear.
Cornelius lifted himself onto the breastbone. A spiked barrier rimmed the chest’s borehole and jutted toward the roof of the cavern containing the city. Beyond the spikes, the cracked and spread ribs of Malebolge formed a series of arches sheltering the mass of the city. The buildings below looked like oozing warts grown from the meat of the cadaver.
Today, those warts were seething. They were twenty, thirty, fifty stories high in places, and they were covered in activity. Demons poured from the windows and scrambled down toward the streets of bone.
Those crowds were climbing, ultimately, toward the borehole.
Close the gates, indeed.
Cornelius seized the open gate and heaved with all his strength, teeth gritted, bones creaking. The metal was heavy but not beyond his ability to lift. Unfortunately, something white and hard had grown around the gate since he opened it, ossifying into a solid mass.
It wouldn’t budge.
The masses were approaching, scrambling up the ribs. Shouts filled the fetid air of Malebolge.
Cornelius took several steps back, whipped the hatchet off his belt. “Damnation above and below!” He hated to injure Malebolge. He always felt like the damn cadaver that formed the city might sit up and slap him down.
He hacked and sawed at the gate. Bone chipped away. When he began to cut into the flesh, the ground underneath him groaned, rolled, trembled.
But the gate was free. It wobbled where it had held firm moments earlier.
He tossed the hatchet aside, braced both hands against the metal, and shoved.
The leading edge of demons crested the hill carrying cudgels and blades. They were screaming obscenities in vo-ani, the infernal tongue. Cornelius heard enough to know that they were shrieking of an attack.
Not just any attack, but an invasion from a higher level.
An army had, apparently, descended from the City of Dis.
The residents of Malebolge had feared such a movement ever since the coup in Dis resulted in a new administration in the Palace. A powerful demon had risen from seemingly nowhere to seize control, and her radical ideas rankled at every demon’s sense of tradition, honor, and chaos.
Unfortunately, she also seemed wily enough to avoid a well-deserved ousting. She had been occupying the Palace for more than half a human year now. Worse, she had the strength to force some of the most ancient Houses to bow to her unconscionable demands.
Once the Father had taken Dis, it had been a matter of when she would attempt to force Malebolge to kiss her feet—not if.
Tension had been rising for months. There had been threats from small insurgent groups and requests for protection sent to Coccytus. None of the nobility had risen to take charge of Malebolge’s security. Even The Dark Man had only moved to secure his home, closing it to all travelers.
Now the brewing fear had given way to this.
The Father had arrived, and Malebolge was rioting.
The gate screeched as Cornelius shoved it. It was more than five meters wide and stiff with age; even with strength unbound by the limitations of muscles, he struggled to close it.
Demons pounded toward him, feet squishing in the rot over the breastbone.
He forced the gate into place. Cornelius fumbled with the lock, dropped it, and then clicked it shut. Ancient warlock wards blossomed around him with a crimson glow, fortifying the iron fence encircling the borehole.
The rioters slammed into the other side. Flesh sizzled. They shrieked at the contact.
“Get away!” Cornelius roared, brandishing the hatchet. “Do you hear me? I will sever the fingers of those stupid enough to reach for me!”
A megaira gripped the gate in both of her hands. It must have burned her—he could smell cooking meat and the serpents dangling from her skull thrashed—but her eyes were crazed. She didn’t care. “If you shelter the invaders, we will starve you and shove the unforgiving light of day right up your ass!”
“I shelter none but the young of Malebolge.” The Amniosium was the only place where nightmares could incubate; they had no breeding alternatives. He and Rowland were their sole protectors.
“But the army is within!”
“I have seen no such army.” Cornelius waved his arms. “Go, run! Find somewhere else to vent your furies!”
The megaira’s hiss was lost underneath the shouts of the other demons surrounding her. They were a thrashing mass of limbs. Weapons slammed into the iron bars. Even as the wards burned them, they struggled to break through.
His entire body hummed with sweet fear as he slipped toward the borehole again, riding high on the mob’s panic. The taste of a demon was not as satisfying as that of a human, but mortals were rare in Malebolge; he enjoyed his thrills where he could get them.
On his way down the slope, smoke flashed in the corner of his vision.
Cornelius was not initially worried by the sight of it. The death of so many nightmares meant the rebirth of an almost equal number; he believed that glimpse of smoke to be another birth and nothing more. The wards were impenetrable, though. That soul would simply have to wait until the mob subsided to be released.
Climbing down to the Amniosium, he approached the brink of the pit, letting the fluid lap at his toes. It was pure, liquid fear cradled within a vat of bone. Every atom of sludge was a living creature. Truly, it was a single living creature—all nightmares sprouted from the same root. Even Cornelius had.
“We are well,” he called across the Amniosium to Rowland. “The gates are closed!”
Rowland didn’t look well. He was still shouting and flailing his bony arms. Cornelius couldn’t hear him, but the other nightmare seemed to be pointing at the hillside.
Cornelius turned and found with a sickening wash of disappointment that they had been invaded, but not by the army the rioters had feared. Not even close.
It was a pair of females.
They looked similar enough that they could have been sisters. Both were pale-skinned, black-haired and -eyed, and beautiful by mortal standards. Both wore the livery of the Palace of Dis’s new administration: leather body armor with red darts at the hips and shoulders. One of them was slight of figure and carried a whip coiled around one wrist, while the other stood as though she were ten feet tall with a holster under her arm.
When they spotted Cornelius, the second woman drew her handgun.
He stopped in mid-step, though he was entirely unconcerned by the unspoken threat. A gun couldn’t do anything to him.
“It’s a nightmare,” said the one with the whip, addressing her cohort. The speaker’s body armor was unzipped to her navel, baring ample swells of cleavage. Clearly a succubus. Dull creatures obsessed with pleasures of the flesh. “Birth attendant, I think.”
The other woman lowered her sidearm. Her eyes had bled to black, from her pupils all the way to the edge of the sclera. “Okay, birth attendant. I want you to pull a nightmare out of the pit for me.”
“No,” Cornelius said, punctuating it with a yawn.
“Let’s try it this way: Pull a nightmare out of the pit for me, or I will end your miserable existence.”
He remained unconcerned. The rioters above were far more a threat than these two scouts, and he had thwarted the chaff of Malebolge easily enough. He’d expected worse from the Father’s invading forces. “You intend to end me with what weapon, exactly?”
She responded by advancing on him until they stood nose-to-nose. She was not tall—she only came to his shoulder—but her power butted against his, surging
and swelling and curving to surround him.
He ached at the force of it. Cornelius wavered, sinking to one knee in the mire.
But this was his domain. The place where he had originally spawned and now reigned as protector. He would not be cowed by an idiot with a gun, of all things.
Cornelius pushed back with all his will. Nightmare thrall usually wouldn’t work on other demons, but here, near the bottom of the borehole, standing on the brink of the Amniosium, he could have struck fear deep into the heart of a dumb rock if he wanted to.
This woman was far dumber than a rock for facing him here.
He thrust the power into her belly and watched hungrily for the fear to overtake her. Cornelius made images dance through her mind: the idea of burning to death, the choke of cloying smoke, the way that flesh peeled and melted from the immense heat. He summoned the images of fires more vast and terrifying than any that burned in Hell or on Earth, and he made his opponent see it all.
The woman’s eyebrows knitted. Lines bracketed either side of her mouth as she frowned, marring the smooth perfection of her skin. He felt a dent in her defenses and pushed at it, preparing to enter her mind to conjure darker fears.
Soon, the weeping would begin. And, soon after that, the begging.
Cornelius grinned.
But the woman flicked her hand, dismissing the images.
His thrall fragmented. Shriveled.
“Are you done?” she asked, and she shoved his power back at him.
The fires licked at his mind, consuming him with dreadful, immense heat. Worse, she had somehow changed the flavor of his fears, coloring them with images of the burning pits of Dis. She summoned the images as though she had deep, intimate knowledge of those fires, where many mortal souls burned.
Through it all he saw her eyes, black and all-consuming.
“No,” he whimpered. “Please.”
He could feel the fires. They had never burned him before, but now he was smothering, scorching, melting…
