by S. M. Reine
“I think it’ll take ‘em about an hour to get here,” Neuma said, climbing the ladder to join Elise on the wall. She was armored again. She had found a whip somewhere—probably one of Belphegor’s toys—and carried her favored weapon coiled around her arm like a snake. “The slaves guarding the walls noticed it first, and now Gerard’s arming them. They want to protect the House. Elise, they want to protect us.”
Shock jolted through her. “What?”
It was Gerard who responded as he approached from the nearest guard tower. He was freshly scrubbed and had shaved his hair to the scalp, leaving a militaristic stubble in its wake. “We noticed that you’re doing something here, something big,” Gerard said. “You need an army. That’s what’s going on, right?”
An army, information, Belphegor’s death, an entire Palace.
“Yes,” she said, because it was easier than elaborating.
“We want to fight for you.”
Elise frowned. Jerica had counted the humans on the property, so she knew that they numbered three hundred. It was roughly equal to the number of fiends she would have had if things had gone differently. But there was a huge difference between a fiend and a human. Fiends were naturally tough-skinned and, with a strong master, fearless in battle. They were dangerous with weapons or unarmed.
Humans were soft. They needed armor and guns to present a threat. And guns wouldn’t do anything for a human fighting against a nightmare—not that they were likely to make it that far, considering that a nightmare’s glance could paralyze most mortals.
“I don’t think that would be helpful to me,” Elise said.
“Why, because everyone was too scared to leave the kennels?” He thumped a fist against his sunken chest. “Fear makes you strong.”
“Fear makes you useless. Aquiel’s loaded the Palace with nightmares. You can’t hurt them, and you would be lucky to stay sane under an assault for longer than a few seconds.”
“But nightmares can be zapped,” Gerard said. “Look at this.” He held up the Taser that Elise had left behind with Jerica. She wondered how long he had been carrying it. “Electricity’s not supposed to work in Hell, but this does. It’s got a spell on it.”
Elise tilted her head from side to side, trying to see magic out of the corners of her eyes. The guy had to be crazy—he was a mundane, and there was no way he could know that there was magic on the Taser. And yet there it was, only visible if she tipped her head at a forty-five-degree angle: a flicker of yellow energy. Elise never would have noticed it on her own. “How did you discover that?”
“Tina and Josaiah are witches,” Gerard said. “They pointed it out to me. And they think that they can replicate it.” Now he looked excited. “There were a lot of Tasers in Abraxas’s warehouse—I bet that’s where the Palace nightmares got them in the first place. These ones are drained, but I figure if we can get batteries that are already charged, we can jury-rig some nasty weapons. Neuma said you could jump to Earth and grab what we need.”
Elise glanced at Neuma, whose gaze was fixed on the forces sliding up the streets.
Neuma still wants me to deliver that damn money for her. That was what this was about. Not batteries, but that stupid envelope.
Yet if what Gerard said was true—if they could bring human technology into Hell and have it function—then that could open an entire world’s worth of hurt for the nightmares. The cogs in Elise’s head were turning. “The nightmares could still crush you before you touched them.”
But Elise was already formulating a plan.
If they had weapons, then there might be ways to shield the humans from mental assault. Magic, maybe—if Elise was willing to talk to James again, which she wasn’t. But thinking of James led her to thinking about his angel blood, and what angels could do to men.
If she had three hundred humans immune to nightmares and a handful of Tasers…that could be useful to her.
“One thing,” Gerard said, interrupting her train of thought. “If we fight for you, we need something in return.”
“What?”
“Don’t destroy the bridge,” he said. “There are thousands of slaves in Hell. Maybe tens of thousands, or hundreds, I don’t know. Leave it standing so we can use it to go home, and so all the other slaves in Dis can be free, too.”
Elise pointed toward the peak of Mount Anathema. “There’s a huge army of demons marching around that mountain as we speak. Do you realize what will happen if that bridge is still intact when the army arrives?”
“Nothing, if you hold it down,” Gerard said.
“It’s irresponsibly risky.”
His eyes were bright with excitement. “It could save everyone.”
Elise felt that weight again—that awful sinking feeling that meant she was becoming responsible for more people once more. It wasn’t enough that she had plunged into Hell to stop demons from crossing over, sparing as many lives on Earth as possible. They wanted her to be a liberator for the humans, too.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Elise said. She meant it to be a diversion, not a promise, but Gerard looked like he had just won a victory.
“You won’t regret this,” he said.
She highly doubted that.
Fourteen
Nash was patrolling Florida, and he was worried.
In the last few days, Nash had flown up and down the length of the fissure twice. He found no demons spilling onto the Earth, no kibbeths rising from the smoke, no evacuees under attack. The quiet unsettled him.
He didn’t believe that the demons had given up. It could only mean that they had redirected their attentions.
Between that and the metaphorical radio silence from Heaven, Nash suspected that the war had taken a turn for the worse, and he was missing it completely. He was supervising ships heading east toward Europe, but it felt frustratingly unhelpful; there was no conflict here.
“Nash!” someone called.
He turned to see another angel soaring toward him, copper-feathered wings beating at the smoke. It was Uriel, one of the few angels that had been helping Nash since the disaster in Las Vegas. He still looked like the artists that he had been living with in San Francisco, wearing thick-framed glasses, skinny jeans stained with paint. His white hair had been woven into long cornrows. The flaming sword looked completely out of place beside his tattered hipster clothes.
Nash gripped his brother’s forearm and shook it, thumping their shoulders together in greeting. “What’s wrong?”
“The bridge,” Uriel said, “it’s the bridge.”
The bridge. The construction that all of the angels had been watching for some weeks. It was visible from any point in the fissure at seemingly random times, as if the space between the dimensions were folding, twisting, shifting on the other side.
Worry slithered through Nash’s veins. “Is it finished?”
“It’s finished.”
They took flight, sweeping through the clouds.
“Michael told me that he had seen the construction in Quebec, so we thought that it might end up there,” Uriel explained, shouting over the wind so that Nash could hear him. “But the bridge didn’t land in Quebec. It landed in Northgate.”
His heart sank. “What do you mean, landed?”
Uriel didn’t need to explain. They plummeted through the smoke and hovered over Northgate’s familiar streets.
The widening of the fissure had accelerated. Now it was as broad as an entire street, and it was all too easy to see through it to Dis far below. Twisted black metal gripped the edge of the fissure like an infection. It sloped down into the sky of Hell. Only the end was metal; the rest was Hell crystal forged in the heat and pressure of the pits.
Disgust twisted Uriel’s features as they hovered over it. He remembered the First War as clearly as Nash did. He remembered the siege engines that had been built of the same crystal and metal and bone. It looked like a poison because it was.
The demons had grown, rather than constructed, their o
wn highway to Earth.
“I slaughtered a dozen fiends as they affixed the clamps to the earth, but they only sent more to finish,” Uriel said.
“For the love of the Lord,” Nash muttered under his breath, too quiet for Uriel to hear him. It was considered gauche to swear in His name now, especially since His death, but he took comfort in the name. Small comfort. Adam wasn’t there to help them with this battle.
“We need to stop this before they get through,” Uriel said.
Nash couldn’t have agreed on anything more fervently than that.
Motion caught his eye, and he dropped a little lower to look down into Hell. There were shapes on the bridge. Like people walking to the top of the fissure.
Demons were coming.
It looked to be a small scouting party—not an army, not yet. But Nash’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. His anger made flames sputter along its cutting edge. “Shall we bathe our blades in their blood?” Uriel asked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a knuckle.
Nash hesitated. It was a tempting idea, but he didn’t want to waste time fighting. Rylie and Abel needed to see this first. “Stand by for the moment. I’m going to retrieve reinforcements.”
Uriel looked surprised. “Reinforcements? An appeal to Leliel?” She had taken charge in Shamain since Metaraon’s death, and she was the reason that the angelic army wasn’t on Earth in full force. She claimed that it was unnecessary. The mention of her name made Nash’s lip curl.
“You’ll see,” Nash said. “Hide yourself and keep watch. I’ll return shortly.”
He soared away quickly enough that the trees bowed under his passing and the air whip-cracked.
Nash descended on the sanctuary within moments. It was early morning, which meant that everyone was at work; some wolves labored at the greenhouses, while others patched roofs and still others reinforced the fences. There was always much to be done, but the wolves worked as a team to do it—quickly and without complaint. He wished he could say the same about the angels.
But even though the air was filled with the warm buzz of productive energy that Nash typically liked to bask in, he couldn’t take time to enjoy it. He swept over the streets in search of Abel.
Nash found him digging irrigation from the lake to the greenhouses. Abel was shirtless and drenched in sweat, his scarred face twisted into a furious scowl as he dug. Nash almost pitied the soil under his shovel.
“Abel!” He landed beside him, wings flared at his back. “You need to—” He cut off when he realized that Abel wasn’t alone. Rylie stepped from around the tree with another shovel, looking equally sweaty and miserable. The pack might have been working together happily, but the Alphas were not.
“What is it?” Abel asked. He spoke in a constant growl now, like his human skin was only a veneer over the wolf.
“You should see the fissure,” Nash said.
Abel thrust the end of the shovel into the earth. “I’ll come.” He turned to Rylie. “Stay here.”
Her eyes widened. “And wait here, worrying about you?” She tossed her shovel to the ground. “No. I’m coming, too.” She peeled her sweater off, making her hair stick up in every direction. She wiggled her jeans down her hips.
A low growl spilled from Abel’s throat, but he didn’t argue. He glared at Nash as he unbuckled his belt with a rattle of metal. “Do we need to rally the others?”
“Not yet,” Nash said. He coughed into his fist. “I’d prefer to attempt to handle it without Summer.”
He didn’t need to explain why. Abel was clearly thinking the same thing about Rylie.
The Alphas shifted quickly. It was an impressive thing to behold, watching these two mortals become mighty beasts that could rival even an angel in battle. Abel was the larger of the two of them, yet Rylie was equally intimidating; sleek and gold and muscular, she looked much like Nash’s flaming sword in the heat of battle.
“To Northgate,” Nash said.
They climbed out of the valley to look down at the fissure. Nash landed on a road that gave them a perfect view down into town. The wolves stopped beside him, sides heaving with exertion. He couldn’t see Uriel, but he knew his brother was there; he could feel the warmth of his presence nearby.
Northgate used to look like a greeting card, but now it was little more than a smoldering crater. The fissure had visibly widened even in the minutes that he had been away. The clamps of the bridge looked even fouler from such a distance, like a predator’s teeth sinking into the town’s carcass.
Abel and Rylie shifted back. The instant that Abel had a human mouth with which to speak, he said, “What is that?”
“A bridge,” Nash said. “It leads into the City of Dis. We’ve been watching the demons construct it for some time, but we didn’t know if it would eventually lead to Earth, or even where it might emerge. But they’ve apparently chosen Northgate as their primary entry point. This is an act of war.”
“Why?” Rylie asked. “Why Northgate?”
“We can only guess.”
“Who cares about why? I’m going to tear it down,” Abel said, baring his teeth in a snarl. “They aren’t going to invade my town.”
He shifted in moments. All four paws hit the ground, and he streaked toward the center of town.
Rylie took a step to follow, but Nash barred her with his arm. “I’ll look after Abel,” he said. “You need to prepare the pack for evacuation.”
She gazed longingly after Abel. “I can fight, too.”
He knew it was truth, even though she trembled when she said it. Rylie was strong—as strong as her daughter, as strong as anyone in the pack—but losing Seth had broken something within her. She would be hesitant in battle. Abel was right trying to keep her out of the fight.
“Just because you’re strong doesn’t mean he can’t protect you,” Nash said as gently as possible. “Think about the pack first. We will take care of this. Trust in us.”
Finally, reluctantly, Rylie nodded.
Nash took flight.
Abel had a head start, but Nash reached the fissure first. He landed on the clock tower of city hall and clung to its back, watching three dark, human-like figures milling around the bridge. The demons were inspecting their handiwork. The scent on the air was of nightmares—a weak species that was nearly impossible to kill.
The nightmares were clustered around the pylons thrusting from the end of the bridge. Nash wasn’t sure what they were doing to it, but he was certain it couldn’t be good; they were bustling with activity, and it certainly wasn’t to dismantle what was already there.
His eyes skimmed the rooftops, and the shape of another pair of wings behind Poppy’s Diner caught his gaze. Nash lifted a fist to acknowledge Uriel, who returned the gesture.
Abel’s black-furred form sprinted down the road.
The nightmares hadn’t been expecting something like Abel to strike them. He hit them at full-speed.
A furious werewolf was like quicksilver. It was impossible to follow the blur of his motions as he ripped into the first demon. Its entire side was shredded in Abel’s massive jaws instantly, sending ichor gushing over the pavement.
The nightmares hadn’t even drawn their cleavers to defend yet.
Abel hamstrung the next nightmare, and then tackled the third, ripping apart its throat. The black fluid within the sacs of their bodies splattered on his face. His fur stuck out in thick spikes.
But just as quickly as he felled them, the nightmares stood again. And now he didn’t have the element of surprise.
“Werewolf,” one of them spat.
They drew their knives and circled around Abel. He slunk back, growling, and they followed. He was drawing them away from the fissure. The nightmares didn’t even notice when Uriel and Nash landed behind them on the edge of the bridge, just inches from the precipice.
The blades of the cleavers sliced through the air as the nightmares attempted to dismember Abel. They went for the disabling blows—his limbs,
his throat. But he was too fast to hit. He dodged right, dodged left, bit down on the first nightmare’s forearm. The moment when he worried it with hard shakes of his head left him open to attack. Another nightmare cut open his side.
They weren’t armed with silver. The gouge opened, it bled, but it began to seal itself almost as quickly.
Abel scrambled to his feet and lunged again.
They had him surrounded, but Nash was confident that the Alpha could hold them off, so he and Uriel focused on the pylons. They were mechanical in nature, with exposed gears and springs and metal tendons, and that machinery had driven the spikes deep into the ground. The gears whirled as new legs extended from the base of the pylon, crawling across the earth to bury more roots into the pavement.
“It’s still growing,” Uriel said.
He raised his blade over his head and brought it down on the smaller appendage.
Sword struck metal. Fire flared at the contact, and Nash felt an invisible hand shove him in the chest. He sprawled on the ground. His sword flew from his hand and skittered across the ground.
The light was bright enough to attract the attention of the nightmares. The first turned from Abel.
“Reinforcements!” she barked, sprinting toward Nash.
He seized his blade, rolling to his feet. Nash thrust his blade into the belly of the nightmare and let the fire flare. It was so bright that it should have made the demon’s corporeal flesh peel away, but she only jerked back with a groan, face twisted in pain.
She was already injured by Abel, missing an entire segment of her torso—it should have dropped her. These nightmares were stronger than usual.
He stepped back, reconsidering his tactics. He couldn’t cut them down. Could he drive them back into Hell?
“Uriel, flare!” he shouted.
His brother snapped his wings to their full length and let loose his energies. The light blazed through the town square.
To Nash, it felt like being welcomed home—that warmth of being engulfed in ethereal light. He had gone so many millennia without being in the glow of another angel like that. His wings burned the brighter for the company. To the nightmares, it should have felt like agony.
