by Lori Adams
“Which kingdom are you?” Sachiel demanded.
The demon answered timidly. “Three, sir.”
“And who do you fight on yonder hill?”
“Five, sir.”
“Why?”
The demon frowned. “Why? I dunno, sir. I follow orders, is all.”
Sachiel gave a nod to Axel who stepped forward and kicked Darrow in the face. The demon’s head flew back. He howled and then covered his head, collapsing in on himself.
“I yield!” Darrow cried amid his sputtering. “Have pity, sir! I’ll answer! What is it you want to know?”
Sachiel seemed pleased that their captive was one of the more timid ones. Too often it took hours of torture to get them to talk or work a trade. This one was either too new or too stupid. Or both.
Chief Master tried again, this time leaning over and speaking calmly. “Listen, you little shit, we know something has stirred up the nobles like nothing in centuries. Stop playing games or I’ll let our newest warrior, Michael here, use your back meat for a barbecue. What say you to that, eh?”
Darrow flicked a glance to Michael, who gave him a polite, deadly smile. “I-I don’t know the details,” he whimpered. He was nervous, his eyes watering and jumping from one scowling face to another. “We were invaded a while back, Lord Brutus lookin’ for some rogue Demon Knights who might’ve crossed from five into our lands. Our Lord Giano didn’t like the invasion and…he’s been after more information ever since. That’s all I know, sir.”
“Who is this Lord Giano? How come I’ve never heard of him?”
Darrow winced, knowing that his answer wouldn’t please them. “I don’t know. Best I can tell, he never comes to the surface.”
“He’s new to Hell?”
Darrow shook his head and then regretted it. A headache raged from his beating. “Been there a long time, is the way I heard it. By the power he wields and the legions he commands, I’d say centuries.”
Sachiel considered this for a moment. He thought they knew all the active nobles in the five kingdoms. One so powerful, with the ability to stay anonymous all this time, was unsettling. Made a man wonder what else was going on down there. And what plans they were hatching now.
“I want the names of the knights,” Sachiel said.
“I go back unharmed?” Darrow asked, thinking to define their bargain and keep his limbs. It was bad enough losing an arm, but it also meant he’d be an easy target for bully reapers down below. At least while he regenerated. “I give you the names? And we’re done?”
Sachiel bent heads with Camael and they spoke quietly for a moment. When they broke, Sachiel withdrew, allowing Camael his questions.
“The names?” he demanded.
Darrow swallowed hard and hoped this was a band of warriors he could trust. He would give up the names of the Demon Knights because they were not of his kingdom and could do him no harm.
“Dante Dannoso and Vaughn Raider,” he said, bracing himself for a reaction.
Camael didn’t flinch. The names, of course, were familiar enough. Besides being infamous throughout the centuries, the Halos knew the Demon Knights had recently been in Haven Hurst. They knew, like everyone else, that Sophia had killed the last in the trio, Wolfgang, as she gained her Light. But this business with them down below didn’t sit well with Camael.
“Is Lord Brutus still looking for them?”
“No, sir. They’re back, as best we learned. But…” He babbled on, trying again to secure an easy release. Camael waved him off impatiently.
“Yes, you’ll return unharmed. Now tell me why this noble, Lord Giano, still searches for answers if the Demon Knights have been found. Why send a horde to the Borderlands? What did he hope to gain?”
“I dunno details, like I said. But the underlings spread rumors that the gossipmongers repeat; whatever them knights have done, it set all the nobles gabbing.”
“What does that mean?” Sachiel shouted from behind them. He was infuriated. He’d been hearing the same Intel for days now. All the nobles were in an uproar, things were in a frenzy. But none of the lessers he’d captured seemed to know more than vague rumors. Most often, where there was smoke there was fire, but Sachiel hadn’t been able to dig any deeper than what he was told now.
Darrow wailed. “I dunno know, sir! They don’t tell us!” He collapsed, quivering. He was no more useful than the rest, so Sachiel gave the order and two warriors tossed Darrow over the cliff, appendages still intact. The command to move out was made, and Michael joined the informal march. The warriors maneuvered around the demons’ smoky remains that dotted the ground like green campfires. Chief Master Sachiel pulled Michael aside and they walked apart from the others.
“You might’ve guessed,” he began, “we don’t customarily make the death kill on raids like this. When there’s a rise in demonic activity, it’s best we discover what has stoked the fires of Hell. You understand?”
Michael nodded. But he wouldn’t feel bad for killing the demon. They all had it coming, as far as he was concerned.
Sachiel seemed to sense his resolve and agreed. “Yes, it was necessary in this case. I suppose. More than likely, that demon would have taken Axel’s head, and we all hate to have a brother warrior suffer the regeneration of a new head. It’s painful at best.” He pulled Michael to a stop, allowing the others to walk ahead and disappear into the mist. “Now that you’ve made a permanent kill, you’ll begin the seven days of grace to rebalance your energy.”
“Yes.” Michael hadn’t forgotten, although he was disappointed. He couldn’t see the need for seven days of rest just for permanently killing a demon. “I understand, but is it really necessary? I feel fine. Just as I did when I took the demon spines during training.”
“Not the same, is it? The feel of it, I mean? Killing a real demon on the battlefield? No, I didn’t think so. A bit more intense, disturbing to your Light. And yes, you must observe your days of grace. It was a mandate instilled by the archangels themselves. ‘No warrior shall become his enemy, nor take pleasure in his enemy’s pleasures.’ Demons love to kill and to destroy. But you must never find love in killing things. Your Light must remain pure, Michael. Your grace untarnished. No doubt your namesake would be proud of you today. I shall mention your bravery and skill to him, when he and I next meet.”
Michael fought back a smile. He’d never met the archangel himself and would love to hear all about him from Chief Master, but now was not the time or place. Not when he sensed there was something more that Sachiel wanted to say. Something was bothering him.
Sachiel hedged the conversation forward. “And so…you will take your leave in the Sanctus Horreum. Make it your permanent home now.” This was not a suggestion but a direct order.
Michael’s eyebrows rose in surprise. This he hadn’t expected but happily accepted. The holy barn had a series of private chambers off the stone balcony for visiting guests. They were nice, spacious rooms with a second terrace off the back that opened to a wide view of a sprawling countryside. The rooms were rarely used and would be far more comfortable than his room in the farmhouse. Just the thought of returning to his old ways seemed stifling and cramped. His life felt larger than those walls could accommodate.
“When do I begin?” he asked as they began to stroll again.
“Immediately.” Sachiel tugged the black leather gloves off his hands and tucked them inside his belt. “I ask that you take this time of meditation and healing seriously, Michael. I have approved your death kill, but in truth, you will be sorely missed if the kingdoms rise against each other and bring their fight into the Borderlands. Which they always do. So you see, making the death kill has its disadvantages. I need you on the battlefield. I’ve a bad feeling that something is coming. Lord Brutus is true to his nature as a backstabbing son of a bitch. There are other rumors snaking around, something about new weapons that can kill angels. Of course, we’ve heard of such things over the centuries, but when the chatter up the line escalates, we ca
n’t ignore it.”
Michael caught on quickly. These were old stories every angel knew. Like humans with their bedtime fairy tales, angels were always warned of demonic weapons that could distinguish or permanently dim their Light. If a horde of demons, even the clumsy lessers like they’d faced today, were armed with such weapons, it could be the start of a second Great Invasion.
They came to a parting place where Michael would descend back to Haven Hurst and Sachiel would ascend into the next realm to report to his superiors. Chief Master clapped Michael on the shoulder and gave him a grave nod.
“Peace to you in your days of grace,” he said, smiling with sincere affection as a proud father to a son. “And stay out of trouble. We’ll be needing you.”
Chapter 7
Dante
His private chambers had not been left exactly as he’d remembered them. Truthfully, Dante was surprised he had any rooms to return to. He wondered if he would have Lord Malachi to thank for it. Or his father.
The place was in shambles, to some degree; no doubt Lord Brutus’s men had turned things over the moment he and Vaughn had been discovered missing from the Death Bunker. Dante hadn’t been back to his chambers since the three Demon Knights and Santiago resurfaced with the pastor’s death contract back in October.
Gazing around now, he found some comfort in the large, cavernous room that had become so familiar over the centuries. It had nothing of the grandeur he’d known as a young boy, nothing he’d once enjoyed in his former life on earth. It was painfully typical for Demon Knights: simply furnished with stone benches and stone tables. The floor was the same smooth stone floor of the concourse outside the gate. Varying shades of soft brown and gray were the theme of blocked stones that made up the walls and arched ceiling. Muted censers hung by iron chains in the farthest corners, their soothing incense long gone. His stone desk, which slaves had carved out of the far wall, had been cleared of the stacks of skin parchments that usually occupied it. Flung to the floor, they were scattered among the piles of his clothes.
Dante’s human nature returned in a flood of embarrassment and he glanced at Ka, imagining how it looked through her eyes. “Sophia, I am…forgive the mess,” he said awkwardly. “It’s not my custom to live like this.” His face flushed and he moved to tidy things up but stopped short. There was no hope for it at the moment. He would bring up slaves as soon as possible.
Vaughn let out a bark of laughter and patted Ka roughly on the shoulder. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Didn’t realize you’d be living like a Hobbit?”
“Vaughn!” Dante snapped. He hated this crude new attitude Vaughn had adopted. Aside from the surface language that was beginning to grate on his nerves, Dante didn’t care for Vaughn’s callousness toward Sophia. Over the centuries, their friendship had been built on a vague sense of loyalty and Vaughn’s sympathy for Dante’s tormented circumstances. Now that Sophia was finally in Hell with them, things with Vaughn seemed to be changing. It had been less than a day but Dante sensed Vaughn’s hostility. It must be curbed, and quickly. Dante would not allow his old friend to treat his beloved like some common lesser he’d dragged back to his chambers, which had too often been the case with Vaughn. No doubt he was still irritated for losing Bailey. But he would not aim his anger at Sophia. She was special, and if Vaughn needed reminding, so be it.
Dante calmed his temper and spoke carefully. It would be the first mention of Bailey since they’d returned and he wanted to convey his sympathy. To both of them.
“I am sorry we were unable to bring Bailey along,” he said, directing this to Vaughn. “But you need not make things worse for Sophia.” He offered a soft smile of apology to her.
“Oh, it’s okay,” Ka said lightly, moving into the room. She brushed her fingertips over the walls and around niches where sheer alabaster bowls flickered with soft light. Her eyes took in everything. “It’s just…not what I expected.”
“How do you mean?” Dante asked, falling in beside her as she followed the trail of clothes across the main room and into the adjoining bedroom. The mess continued there with bedding, clothes, scrolls, and personal items strewn everywhere. A mirror was tilted on the wall. Alabaster bowls were doused and upended. Dante quickly lit them using the flames from other bowls. The dim lamplight helped soften the edges around the stark room.
“I don’t know.” Ka laughed offhandedly. “It seems more…” She searched for the right word. “Civilized? I guess.”
Vaughn leaned against a wall, crossed his arm, and scoffed. “Don’t kid yourself. We’re all cave dwellers down here. Once you’ve been around for a while you’ll see—”
“That’s enough.” Dante threw him a warning look. Apologies were categorically useless in Hell. Dante should have guessed they would mean even less to Vaughn now. Losing Bailey had soured him more than Dante had realized. He would have to find a way to make amends. It was important that his closest companions got along. But first things first.
He motioned for Vaughn to wait in the other room and was met with a stubborn scowl. Eventually, Vaughn stalked away and Dante turned his attention to Ka. “Sit here.” He guided her to a stone bench beneath a tall marble statue of a Roman warrior with a spear and a shield. If Michelangelo’s statue of David had been armed to the teeth, this would have been a fine reflection. It was elegant and lethal, two qualities that Dante found admirable.
Ka sat with an amused grin while Dante hurried about, snatching up clothes and bedding from the floor. After he’d tossed them into a secondary room, he turned in the arched doorway and smiled at her.
Dante was flushed with excitement and his chest vibrated with laughter. He felt foolish. No, he felt young again. Alive! Having Sophia here at last had made him nervous and strangely self-conscious. He’d planned this for so long, and now that she was here, he didn’t quite know where to begin. Their return had not gone smoothly, and they would have to be cautious, but she was safe in his chambers. She was here!
They watched each other for a long moment, trying to read the other’s thoughts. Then Ka’s eyes slid across the room to the stone platform where a large mattress was situated. Disheveled and slightly askew, it was stuffed with some unknown material that gave way to lumps. The explanation was obvious to Dante: The guards had mangled it in their search. But to the casual observer, it looked nearly destroyed after a punishing night of sex.
The back of his neck grew hot. He shifted nervously as prickles of heat awoke his body. Places he’d rather not concentrate on at the moment. He was a mix of fire and humiliation; this was not how he’d envisioned their arrival. Sophia was his beloved and she deserved a more dignified homecoming than what appeared to be the lewd aftereffects in a brothel.
“I have…” Dante began and then changed his mind, unbearably edgy. Provisions had been made just for this situation, and with any luck they remained undisturbed.
Striding across the room, Dante swiped a fire bowl from the niche and then took her hand. Down a short corridor, he led her up to a door. It was locked, and several crude puncture marks led him to believe that others had tried to break in and failed. Dante carefully rotated the set of tumblers above the handle and listened for the final click. The latch was freed and the door opened.
It was pitch black inside. He stepped through the doorway and cautiously poured the contents of the bowl into a trench carved high into the wall. Once lit, it spread into a ring of fire around the room, illuminating a familiar scene.
Dante moved aside, allowing her to marvel at his efforts. He held his breath, savoring the moment. How many sleepless nights had he spent envisioning this moment? How much bargaining and killing and betraying had he done to procure every item needed? He had all but whored his talents in exchange for each particular possession. So much so that it became the source of his loathing of materialistic pleasures. But it would all be worth it, if it pleased Sophia.
“I recognize this,” Ka whispered in a breathy voice. With an expression of sheer wonder, she
gazed around the beautiful pink bedroom; the elegant four-poster bed draped in white lace, the dressing table and gilded mirror, the small dresser, and the oil lamp of pale pink glass. Because wood was relatively nonexistent in Hell, the furniture had been meticulously carved from stone by the most talented slaves Dante could find. He had wanted it to resemble the familiar, and the exactness was impressive. Heavy brocade curtains hung around a gilded picture that depicted a glorious sunny morning in the country. A rich tapestry, smuggled in and adorning the opposite wall, was an intricate weave that displayed deep reds and bright yellows of a Tuscany hillside.
Dante moved around to face her, eager with hope. “You remember, cara mia? You remember from the old days?” His eyes flashed brightly at her but eventually softened with understanding. He looked away, crestfallen.
“From the mansion. It’s that pretty pink room you set on fire,” Ka murmured in clarification. Dante had tried to replicate Lovaria’s bedroom, on the surface and in Hell. But his efforts, once again, had failed to stir any memories. Cupping his face, Ka forced his head up. “Oh, Dante! I’m so sorry! But I’m sure the memories will come faster now that we’re here. Won’t they?”
He nodded sadly. “Not fast enough, I’m afraid.” He took her hands and gently kissed each one. “I hope you will be comfortable here. Now, I must speak to Vaughn. You will find everything you need through that doorway.” He indicated the dressing chamber behind him. “If there is anything you require…I am happy to please you.”
—
“Your father?” Vaughn growled low, keeping his voice away from whom he’d assumed was Sophia. He’d been pacing for the past few minutes while Dante showed her around. In that time, Vaughn’s mind had worked over everything they’d been through. News of Dante’s father had come out of the blue. At least to him. “Did you know about this? Did you send word to him before we left? In case we needed backup?”
