Nine Souls: A Nate Temple Supernatural Thriller Book 9 (The Temple Chronicles)

by Shayne Silvers

  “Death is all around you, now. You sought this. You asked for this. But this is only the beginning of the decay, the heartache, the woe.” He said it like a neighbor pointing out patches of petunias in the front yard while bragging about the garden out back. “This is all you can conceive at the moment, but as you descend, your horizons will be… broadened,” he said with a mirthless, rasping chuckle.

  “Tone down the crazy, Death. You know me. No need to impress.”

  Whip quick, his scythe was swinging at my face with the sound of a thousand dying screams rather than the whistling of air. Both Talon and Carl were suddenly before me, but the scythe turned to vapor, whisking right through them before solidifying on the other side of them –right before my face.

  The blade appeared at my neck. I was caught so off guard by both its sheer speed and by its delivery – harmlessly passing through my friends – that I didn’t even have time to flinch. White fire danced in the black sockets of Death’s Mask. The scythe’s razor edge barely touched my skin and I suddenly felt as if my whole body was submerged into the Arctic Ocean…

  “Drop the blade, Rider, or we all die here. We’ve all come to dance, and it looks like you’re the only one in a dress,” Talon snarled, glancing at the Horseman’s death-shroud robe.

  Carl just hissed, holding two swords in a reverse grip as he crouched, readied to leap. His fanned hood rattled, and I knew he was ready to spit that odd venom of his.

  But I could only stare at Death’s skeletal claw holding the edge of his scythe a dozen feet away from me, and the blade itself resting against my throat. But between, where the staff should have been, was only vapor. His scythe shouldn’t have been able to reach me.

  So his scythe was able to reach impossible distances, and grant no harm to those he didn’t intend to die. Which made sense, being Death, and all. Otherwise he might have received a lot of written complaints. My hand was creeping up to my necklace, inch by inch, the only hope left to me. The moment before my fingertip touched the metal coin – my Horseman’s Mask – Death’s scythe evaporated.

  I collapsed to my knees, shivering violently, feeling on fire as the icy sensation left my skin.

  Death grunted. “There are no friends in this place. I warned you. That I could not aid you here. That this was foolish. That…” he waved a hand, turning his back on us. As his robes swirled near the ground, more puffs of the white ash floated up into the air, and I tensed as I saw his feet. Skeleton, not feet. Just bone.

  I stared at his robes, remembering the cobwebbed fabric, like a death shroud, but somehow thick enough to prevent seeing through it. As I stared now, I noticed a faint purple glow beneath the shroud, like light. None of it shone near his hands or feet.

  I climbed to my feet, rubbing my arms briskly. I didn’t retaliate. He was right. I should have known better than to press him. This wasn’t Hemmingway. Not any longer. This was Death in his official capacity. And I was banging on his front door in the middle of the night.

  “My apologies, Pale Rider,” I said, eyes downcast.

  His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t turn. After a time, he waved a hand before him.

  The sound of cracking ice in a silent pond at dawn rocked the world, and the ashes on the ground began floating up a foot off the ground. The vibration of something underneath us began banging as if we actually were standing on thin ice, and a sea dragon was trying to break through to get to us. As the thumping increased, the ash continued to bounce and lift into the air, clearing the space around us to reveal polished black stone.

  The air hummed. The heat began to increase as if we were standing before an open oven door.

  Suddenly, everything stopped and we stood in complete silence.

  Death was perched in a squatting position on the inches long wooden handle protruding from the haft of his weapon, about halfway up the blade. The arced blade rested on the ground, impossibly keeping the weapon upright, but rocking back and forth like a rocking chair along the back of the blade, making Death sway like a spinster on the porch as he stared at us, that white fire in his eye sockets flickering brightly.

  “Don’t use the Mask. I cannot take it from thee, but beware the Horn of Servitude. You’ve heard it twice. Perhaps the third time’s the charm,” he said in a wheezing chuckle, unlike any voice I had ever heard him use. “If you call upon the Mask down there, and it is the final stroke… let’s just say that I wouldn’t recommend announcing a Rider – a Fifth Rider – of the Apocalypse in the depths of Hell, without his Brothers. Some of the… residents have long memories, and were present when the scriptures were written. It might attract unwanted attention.”

  I opened my mouth but gasped as he suddenly leapt thirty feet into the air, directly above us, wielding the scythe overhead like an axe. Black lightning struck the blade, tinged with the red and orange hellfire of the clouds…

  And then he was falling like a comet. Like a Fallen Angel. Straight at us.

  We dove to the side and Death’s scythe slammed into the black stone where we had been standing. Orange and red fire spider-webbed the polished black stone with a sound like the earth had just cracked in half, and the ground shattered beneath us.

  We fell, obviously.

  I stared up at the Hellish world above us, remembering all the decay and destruction, and saw the robed Horseman floating as he stared down at us. He held a black feather in his skeletal claw, and I noticed a red orb at the tip. Then the black glass began repairing itself like crystals growing in fast forward until Death and the hole were gone, leaving only a smoky glass window.

  As I thought about the feather – which had looked just like one of Grimm’s feathers – I managed to wonder what could be worse than what we had already seen.

  I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  Chapter 35

  We splashed into a pool of thick liquid, like mud. I tried swimming back up to the surface, not daring to open my eyes as I stroked and kicked, struggling against the density of the pool.

  I finally broke the surface, and had to kick twice as hard to keep my head out of the muck. The stench of sulfur burned my nose as I eagerly swiped the goop out of my eyes before opening them. Talon and Carl were kicking desperately for the bank, which was only a dozen feet away. I followed after, wondering what the black pool was. I quickly decided I didn’t want to know as I bumped against a few thicker, denser chunks. I bit back bile and pressed on.

  “Pah,” Talon spat, crawling across the surface. “Foul!”

  I nodded as I finally reached them, pulling myself out. Carl was on all fours, blowing out his nostrils and wiping the black filth from his orifices – eyes, nose, ears, mouth. I reached into my satchel and found a spare shirt. I was mildly surprised it was dry, but then again…

  I wiped my face and hands and then threw it at Talon. He wiped off and then tossed it at Carl.

  Soon, we were all more or less clean, except for our clothes, which were drying stiffly in the baking heat, and checking over each other for injuries.

  “What the… why was Death so different?” Talon finally asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. We press on. I guess…” I jerked my chin to the open cavern before us.

  To say cavern leaves a lot to misinterpretation. It was more accurate to say we were in a new world, and instead of open sky and clouds, only the earth’s crust sheltered us from the heavens. Bat-winged figures – too large to be bats – swooped back and forth in an erratic aerial display, snatching onto blue wisps that drifted lazily through the air in condensed figures the size of a man. I shivered as one screamed, snatched up by a bat-thing. Souls. Not blue wisps. Souls. Those winged things were catching souls and… eating them. Or torturing them.

  Talon spat disgustedly, climbing to his feet. He placed his paws on his hips, studying the endless expanse of cavern, the thousand feet of air between us and the earth’s crust. Not too far away stood an arch, and beyond the arch was a thin rock bridge without railings. Below the bridge wa
s only orange light, illuminating the cavern around us.

  “Like a moth to flame,” I muttered, stomping past Talon. Carl was suddenly beside me, inky black teeth visible as he breathed through his mouth rather than nostrils. His ear holes opened and closed as if making sure no one was about to jump us.

  I wasn’t concerned about being jumped. It wasn’t like anyone had to try very hard. There was nowhere to run. They could just walk up to us and overwhelm us. Even the bat-like things just watched us, blinking lazily with their red eyes. I couldn’t get a close enough look to really categorize their details, but I was sure my eyes would see plenty before we were through here.

  As we neared the arch, I noticed the hundreds of black shades drifting over the ground. I had thought they were fog. They moved without hurry. As if just taking a walk. Or a hover. Their bodies didn’t shift as they drifted, so it looked like nothing more than an army of shadowy mall cops on Segways, muttering about the rascal teenager souls loitering near the entrance to Hell.

  But they didn’t seem to bother – or even acknowledge – us.

  Which was creepy when several drifted right past us. One actually went through Carl. He froze, completely motionless, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up in fear. Had they just fucking killed fucking Carl? We just got here!

  Then he turned his neck to me very slowly, licked his lips a few times and grumbled. “That tasted delicious… So much anguish while that one lived…” He stared after the soul as if debating jogging over for another quick nibble of his life memories, which gave Talon and I enough time to glance at each other in horrified disgust.

  “Fucking Carl,” Talon finally coughed, nose wrinkling at the sulfur permeating the air. Although foul, I had gotten kind of used to it already. Then again, I had anticipated it. I reached into my satchel and pulled out a small unmarked tin. I handed it over to Talon. He opened it curiously and sniffed. Then he greedily scooped some out to smear around his nose.

  Carl turned back to us, a forlorn look in his eye as he gave up chasing down the specter. Talon held the tin of mentholatum – like what coroners used when working on cadavers – to him. “For the smell.”

  Carl leaned in to sniff it and instantly snorted, taking two hurried steps back, shaking his head. “I think it smells refreshing here.”

  Talon rolled his eyes and handed the tin back to me. Knowing that sulfur was likely going to be a bouquet of roses compared to what else our nostrils might encounter down here, I wiped some around my nose anyway and closed the tin. As I continued on to the arch I felt an itch at my shoulders. Remembering Death’s advice about not putting on the Mask of Hope, I began to ponder if he had meant using my white magic as well, since it was tied to my powers as a Horseman in training. I could always rely on my wizard’s magic, but sometimes the white flavor had a mind of its own and washed over my magic without conscious thought. I began regretting I hadn’t chosen a weapon for myself. Not that I was that great with any of them, but a blade wouldn’t have gone remiss right about now. I could always grab one of the extras I had stowed away for Talon or Carl, but they had picked them out themselves, and with these two crazy fucks, there was no telling what ancient powers were imbued in their backup weapons.

  I shoved the tin can back in my bag, studying the arch. My hand brushed against something inside the satchel but I skidded to a halt, jerking my hand from the bag as I heard the sounds of Talon’s spear crackling into existence and Carl drawing twin bone daggers as long as his forearms.

  A human stood before us. He wasn’t decayed, disheveled, or remotely zombie-like. He did look tired and pale, perhaps a smidge hungry, but he was human. And he was staring at us.

  I shared a look with my companions before slowly approaching the man. He didn’t look threatening or imposing and had no weapons. He just watched us. Expectantly. Was this a gift from Death? Our guide?

  “Greetings,” I said politely. “You, uh, don’t seem as dead as your roommates.”

  He nodded. “I am dead inside.”

  I smirked weakly. “So is this guy,” I said, pointing a thumb at Carl.

  No one said anything so I let my hand drop.

  The man nodded at Carl. “I’m well aware of Elders.” He glanced at Talon, seeming to focus on the scars over his eyes as if he understood what they signified. “It is an honor, Faeline,” he said, dipping his head. I frowned, shooting Talon an inquisitive look. Was it a mix between Fae and feline or a title? With only his eyes, he managed to tell me I have no fucking idea.

  “Okay. Do we have to answer a riddle or something to use your bridge? Because I already know my answer.” I was going to pull the old Monty Python on him. He definitely wasn’t dressed like he had been around when that movie came out.

  “A riddle? No. That would be a different entrance. Luckily for you. This is a… side door. If you would have me, I am your guide.”

  Different entrance? How many doors to Hell were there? And, wait… guide? I studied his clothing more intently. He wore a tan robe and sandals, nothing else. And I’d read a book or two recently. “You’re Virgil!” I said, recalling the poet’s name. “The poet who guided Dante through Hell!”

  Chapter 36

  The man didn’t even blink. He didn’t react at all. Had Death been lying about this not being like the Divine Comedy? Because Virgil had guided Dante through Hell, giving him a… Hell of a tour, so to speak.

  But I was playing it safe. Always wear protection. “How much do you cost?”

  His lips peeled back into a faint smile. Almost as if it wasn’t a smile. Nothing nefarious, but as if he had forgotten how to truly smile and was doing his very best.

  “Before we get to that, you must state your purpose.”

  I realized that every single shade around us had frozen still. “I’m sure you already know that, Virgil,” I replied warily.

  “It must be stated. Witnessed.”

  I studied him, watching his eyes. Not a flicker of deceit hung there. Nor fear. Just… acceptance. Whatever happened to me here would not impact his schedule tomorrow. For better or worse. He was already having one eternally-long shitty day.

  I glanced at the Arch behind him, wondering if we were even supposed to be here since he had mentioned other gates, other entrances. The corners of the arch held carvings of stone faces screaming in torment. As I looked closer, I realized they were moving. Not carvings… they were alive. Well, relatively speaking. I watched as one took a deep, silent breath and then continued to scream without sound, his eyes stretching wide. I averted my eyes to the arch itself that spanned overhead. This close, I noticed worn words carved into the stone.

  Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. In English. I frowned. It had been written in Italian according to Dante’s book, but perhaps it was seen from the eye of the beholder. Made sense.

  Can’t have only Italian signs in Hell. That would be discriminatory.

  I read it again. The direct translation had been hotly debated. Not the words, but the order.

  All hope abandon, ye who enter here. Or…

  Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. Semantics. At least now I could consider myself an authority on the subject when I returned. I began to laugh. Talon shifted uncomfortably, leaning my way. “Stop!” he hissed. His tone added, you fucking lunatic!

  I wiped at my eyes, careful to not smear them with the mentholatum. And I let my laughter fizzle out. Still amused, but more resigned.

  I thought about my answer to Virgil’s offer. Very carefully. Death had made it obvious that the reason I had been allowed to see my parents the first time was because I sought nothing of interest from them. Nothing valuable. My sacrifice – dying briefly – had been enough to grant me a brief meet. Death had even been allowed to offer my parents a figurative couch to crash on in the Armory for a time, but the price to that was paid by them. They apparently hadn’t been allowed to bring up anything that they knew. None of the secrets that I hadn’t even known existed at the time. Also, in repayment for
that brief hall pass they were to spend the rest of their existence down below. At least that’s what Death had told me – only recently – the dick.

  They had chosen to live in Hell for eternity – just so that they could spend a little more time around me. Not even so they could do anything to help me. Just… get to see me the few times I had deigned to visit the Armory.

  Which, in hindsight, made me feel like a moldy asshole. I should have spent more time with them. I should have simply hung out with them rather than—

  I cut off that thought abruptly. That would do me no good down here. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if self-pity could be fatal down here. Like a cancerous poison to the air, slowly seeping my will to live out of me. Killing me with guilt.

  I took a deep breath. What was my purpose here? What was true, yet vague? What would have a price I might be willing to pay? I was pretty sure Virgil knew exactly why I was here, and the act of me stating my intent was somehow an act of futility, but that it might have consequences down the line. But there was really only one reason I would risk everything to come here, and whoever was in charge had to know it. Had to have expected it, or he never would have required my parents spend the rest of their eternity down here.

  This meeting had been put in his books long ago, even though I never knew my parents had made the appointment.

  I met the dead poet’s eyes. “I come bearing a gift. In return for granting a request.”

  Virgil nodded after a very meaningful pause. My answer had… surprised him. Intrigued him, perhaps. “So be it.”

  “Are you going to take us through the Nine Circles and everything? Because I would rather take the elevator if possible.”

  “You’re more than welcome to wander the Path of the Nine, but I wouldn’t recommend it. You would do so without a guide, and…” his eyes grew distant for a good ten seconds, “it wouldn’t end well for you.” He said that with… conviction, as if he had just checked his future calendar and read about my death. It was enough to make me shiver coming from that dead poet’s mouth. “Everyone who enters Hell must see things, but no two people get the same path. Not that we have many visitors, you see. But the path to Hell is paved with good intentions. Quite literally. And I fear the Nine Souls would destroy you,” he said directly to me.