Silence in the Flames (The Traitor's Shadow Book 1)

by Ryan Talbot

  “Lady,” I held up the venom. “If I have my way, you'll be denied a lot more than just your fucking prize.”

  The spiders charged forward, a black blur against the dull gray of the cavern. I screamed a Word of force, hurling the decanter to the ground at my feet. The air around me spun in a violent spiral hurling the venom away from me in a wave. The spiders recoiled instantly, as my sigil transformed the toxins in the venom into burning napalm. I turned and ran for the tunnel. It was a dead end, but I could make it there, I could limit the spiders' access and fight them one at a time. Abbadonna forced my flesh to its limits, but the burning spiders were faster still. They darted through the shadows, appearing in front of me.

  Spreading themselves out in a half circle, they blocked the tunnel entrance and advanced on me as one. I slid as my bare toes struggled to gain purchase on the slick stone floor.

  “They are toying with us, Emissary,” Abbadonna warned. “Trying to frighten you...”

  “Yeah?” I mumbled. “It's working. I fucking hate spiders.”

  “Find your manhood, Emissary,” Abbadonna snapped. “They are but shadows.”

  My blood boiled with the shame of her insult, and my adrenaline surged. “I'm fucking naked here,” I snapped.

  “You are unfocused,” her will clamped down on me. “You've lost sight of the threat. The tunnel is a trap!”

  I took a step back from the spiders. My brain fought to retain control of my thoughts. “The Widow,” I breathed. I looked over my shoulder. There was no sign of her. Without thinking, or even breathing, I dove to the side and rolled back to my feet.

  The Widow slammed down where I'd been standing, her sharp, chitinous legs driving into the stone. Her fangs leaked a steady stream of venom, as if she were salivating.

  “Thanks,” I whispered.

  “Focus,” Abbadonna pushed her will at me again. The shadow spiders moved in behind the Widow, flanking her.

  “I gotta ask,” I stared into the Widow's horrid eyes. “Why bother killing me at all? Why not keep me around awhile?”

  “The moment I turned my back, you would bury a blade in it,” she sneered. “You are as treacherous as a scorpion.”

  My eyes scanned the cavern, the only way out was the tunnel back to the fire pit, which Abbadonna had so eloquently reminded me was a trap. Aside from that, I doubted I could make it past the spiders even if I wanted to.

  “You can't escape, Liar.” She spoke matter of factly. “This is the end.”

  “If you kill me, Satan won't rest until you've been torn apart,” I warned.

  “Empty threats.” She laughed. “I've seen your fears, even you doubt the affection of your lord. No one will mourn your passing, and all life shall be the better for it.”

  She was right, of course. Satan wasn't going to tear anyone apart for Jason Beckett. But I wasn't just me, I was his Emissary.

  “Test me,” my entire body shook. Abbadonna's rage was overtaking what little reason I had left. I ached like hell after taking the beating from Thorne, not to mention being fucking incinerated, reborn, then poisoned, and nearly killed again.

  The Widow surged forward, and her phalanx of shadows followed. I shoved away from the floor, my muscles, straining, ripping under the force of Abbadonna's strength. My leap took me far higher than any human had a right to fly, and my head clipped one of the low-hanging stalactites, ripping a furrow in my scalp. I stumbled as I hit the ground, falling to my hands and knees. The shadows came for me.

  Abbadonna screamed a Word, I thought it came from my mouth, but for all of the volume, I think it may have shattered my skull and blasted directly out of my forehead. Light bloomed around me, as if the sun poured directly into the cavern. Screeching, the shadows were torn apart as the hellish brightness illuminated the entire cave. I staggered back to my feet, unwilling to waste any advantage. The Widow stood abashed, her bravado disappearing in the face of Abbadonna's onslaught.

  Biting my cheek as I hard as I could, I spat blood into my right hand. I quickly sketched a sigil on my palm with the blood.

  “Parlor tricks, Liar,” The Widow strode cautiously forward. “And there is nowhere else for you to go.”

  “You're right,” I conceded. I closed my eyes and pictured the ice-white flames of Perdition, drawing their energy through my Mark. I held the flaming Mark over the curled fingers of my right hand. Catching her soul-filled eyes, I asked quietly. “Are you sure you want to push a cornered scorpion any farther?”

  “I will have what I was promised,” she shrieked.

  The flames in my palm spiraled into a blade, and my curled fingers moved like tiny spider legs. She didn't need to see the sigil in my palm to know what it was. She let out an inarticulate cry as I slammed my hands together, the blade of my fire striking the center of the tiny, god-slave sigil in my right palm. There came a sound like thunder as the stalactite overhead shattered and fell. I whispered a prayer to Hekate as the Widow's cry was silenced. Like I said, the Chthonic gods ask for more than empty words, but they return devotion with devotion.

  53

  “The Harbinger is dead?” Satan stared out over Pandaemonium.

  “Iblis is dead,” I confirmed. “Thorne is dead.”

  “Were you able to ascertain the extent of his treachery?”

  “Other than that he managed to infiltrate both Churches?” I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. “No, my lord.”

  “Then it must be assumed that more traitors remain at large.” His wings shuddered in agitation. “Track them, find them, kill them.”

  “Yes, Master.” I bowed my head. I turned back toward the central stair.

  “Emissary?”

  “Yes, my lord?” I looked over my shoulder at him.

  “The Widow was mistaken,” he said.

  I woke instantly, my sweat covered body shivering in the cold apartment. I threw aside my sheets and sat up, hanging my legs over the side of the bed. I rested my elbows on my knees and lowered my aching head into my hands. Leave it to him to throw me out of the dream so harshly.

  “What now?” I wondered aloud.

  My phone rang. I stared at it for a second, silently hating it.

  “What?” I snapped, as I answered.

  “So proud, so vain,” the voice sounded like broken glass over gravel. “You were supposed to be our salvation, the end of our agony.”

  “Simon,” I said.

  “We were promised you would make us whole again!”

  “I told you that fucking book was a lie,” I frowned. “Come in, say the words, take the Traitor’s Oath again. If you honor it, maybe he'll grant you a swift death.”

  “Now you offer me forgiveness?” He laughed wildly. “Where was your mercy when the entire fucking world needed it?”

  “That doesn't matter,” I said. “It’s done, and there’s no going back. Just come in, Simon. There’s still time. Don’t make me find you. I’m not nearly as kind as he is.”

  “You have no idea what you've done, what you've started!”

  “Tell me,” I said quietly. He was right, I had no clue what Thorne's boys had for contingency plans. Based on what he'd told me, my ascension was the only acceptable outcome.

  “The end,” he said. “The last door has been opened, and we are the only sentries left, we who guard the gates.”

  “Who?”

  The line went dead. I rolled out of bed and threw my closet door open, pulling out a fresh suit.

  “Game on, motherfucker. Game on.”

  THANK YOU

  To those of you who have waited patiently for some word that Beckett lives. To those of you who sent me kind words of support when you understood the nature of my publication delays.

  To those of you that read The Eye of Eurydice and made my world explode with profound gratitude.

  To those of you that share this journey with me. I am nothing without you.

  I would be remiss without special mention for Shawn McCartney, whose appreciation for my words ha
s been a constant bulwark against defeat.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born in raised in New York’s beautiful Hudson Valley, Ryan Talbot retreated to the shore of Lake Superior after spending a soul-crushing decade in the embrace of the burning American South. An avid reader, and lover of all things dark and awful, it was natural for him to turn his rudimentary talent to spreading the gospel of rebellion.

  Time, many marriages, and the birth of his beautiful children have stilled the rage, and left wonder in its wake.

  Except when he drinks.

  He never stops drinking.