Redemptive Blood

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  He allows a small smile to curl his lips as steam briefly obscures his vision. With an impatient palm, Dark Master sweeps away the hot vapors that always seep from his orifices, continuing his trek down the corridor toward the rooms that hold his most important work.

  The rooms where he perfects his art.

  He moves swiftly for one who walks over crushed hot coals. They burn the flesh of the lesser demonic. Pieces of their charred bits fit between the embers of the ever-burning coals.

  Stalactites, fissured and deep crimson, glow—perfectly illuminating his path. The tips continually drip their burning deposits from the ceiling of rock in the high caves of Hades, growing the cone-shaped formations that Dark Master weaves between as he strides toward his destination with his usual purpose. Slowly melting lava-like crust oozes down the sides of the narrow spires, creating a layer of molten crust at the base of each stalagmite as it meets its mate from the ceiling. In some cases, the stalactite and stalagmite touch, their middles pinched like a wasp's, the two seeming to reach for each other.

  Dark Master typically admires the beauty of his realm.

  But not this day—for this day marks the third day of time Between in which Praile has not communed with him.

  Disquiet has settled over his realm. Not the kind of daily evil that Dark Master thrives on, but the sort that tells him in a deep and instinctive way that something has not gone as planned.

  Something from Above.

  Dark Master shivers. A perfect balance of good and evil shall be maintained. It is the order of things. As it has always been. As it will be forevermore.

  His evil heart yearns for more blackness, spreading like a slick of oil over Between. However, he knows there are too many of the angelic Above to allow for that.

  Dark Master grins. Steam rises in a great plume directly in front of him. He strives daily for that evil to propagate. One can hope. After all, Dark Master is immortal. He has all the time in the realm to execute his purpose.

  He comes to a stop in front of a door of forged iron, contemplating. If one of the fey from Between were to make it to the demonic realm—though that would be unlikely—iron is like a sickness to the fey. Thus, all the doors are fashioned with it.

  Dark Master has always ruled this realm. As the one who shall not be spoken of has ruled Above.

  In all the days of eternal fire and suffering, he has seen only a handful of those from Between traverse this realm.

  And it has come to his attention that the Rare One, or her future offspring, could be such a being—a being of mass destruction. A being capable of ruining all the terrible and beautiful accomplishments Dark Master has already seen to fruition and is committed to continuing.

  He sent Praile to end this Rare One, this perfect specimen who represents hope for so many Between—and those from Above.

  Dark Master carefully clenches his fingers into a fist. He would see her body come to ash.

  Praile enlisted the help of a Lycan who possessed enough blood of the high demonic to be used.

  Dark Master has a brief pang of sadness, touching his talons to his chest wherein a black heart beats. Tony Laurent was such a loss. To have so little of the demonic blood, yet be so supremely and naturally evil? He shakes his head, despairing.

  A waste. What a demonic Laurent would have been if more of their precious dark blood ran in his veins.

  Brushing off his uncharacteristic feelings of regret, Dark Master pushes the door wide with a fingertip, the metal briefly singeing his flesh.

  The whirls of his fingerprints steam, flattening to what a human of Between might interpret as a second-degree burn, only to be absorbed and healed in seconds.

  Dark Master is one with this environment.

  He does not close the door. Even the lowly demons who toil and enjoy only the small fleshy tortures allowed to them will be rewarded with the sounds of his torture.

  For he is master of that, as well. And he is inclined to share his spoils. It is a boon for morale.

  A staked prisoner is splayed atop a stone that is slightly elevated at one end. The rough square holds the antiquated blood of the legion of dead who now inhabit the fine cracks.

  The age of the rock is undetermined.

  Dark Master does not remember a time when his stone torture tableaus were not in use. It's as though they always existed. Their thickness—somewhat less than two feet, but not more than three—serves his intention perfectly.

  His eyes run over the prisoner.

  Dark Master is happy when blue veins like thin lace rise to the surface of this one's flesh in throbbing, painful response to his presence.

  Excellent.

  The prisoner wails, whipping his head from side to side. It is a misery for a being of the angelic to reside in Hades. In truth, though Dark Master would never tell it, the male Singer is exceedingly resilient.

  In theory, he should be dead already. That makes Dark Master ecstatic.

  “Release me, Lucifer!”

  “No,” Dark Master replies, frowning at the use of his ancient name. The name he held before the Fall. Dark Master is more becoming.

  The fool baits me.

  He strolls casually to the tableau, and the high demonic who have restrained this prisoner of Between back away, their battle tails tucked tightly between their legs as their deadly toenails click against the rock floor in cautious retreat, eyes downcast.

  They are naked, as is custom Below.

  Dark Master hisses his displeasure, a forked tongue lancing his lip as he does. The flesh splits, repairs instantly, and splits again.

  The high demonic subjugate themselves before him. Their heavy cocks brush the hot stone floor as their forearms hold their faces off the burning surface.

  Their whimpers of pain are amusing, but Dark Master doesn't take time to relish their fear and agony as he usually does and instead releases them from their prone position.

  As the pair stands, the skin at the undersides of their forearms, their knees, and the tips of their toes blisters. Turning red, they heal as he watches.

  The tips of their dicks bleed in color to a deep red that is nearly black from the oozing melting they endured because they disobeyed him.

  “My instructions were clear.” His voice trembles, sounding of thunder and burning words.

  The high demonic swallow their fear simultaneously, and one has the balls to actually speak. “We could not—his blood is too tempting to be kept in his body, Master.”

  “That is for me to decide!” he roars, spittle flying from his mouth. A few droplets land at the feet of the angelic.

  A single liquid gem falls at the male's ankle. The droplet reacts like acid, sizzling as it begins to burn a hole to the bone.

  The prisoner’s screams are music of the sweetest variety to Dark Master. He sighs at the sound, delighted beyond measure. Lifting a hand, he lets it float as though he's conducting a symphony.

  The high demonic bow their heads, too, afraid to defend their insolence.

  Dark Master watches the angelic’s blue blood soak the stone. Like a soothing river of ice, it crystalizes everything it touches.

  He dips his finger in the blood, and the angelic male Singer attempts to jerk away. Dark master lifts his digit, watching as the blood coating the tip of his finger eats away at his talon like acid.

  When the knife-like talon disintegrates, the azure blood begins on the skin at his fingertip. Like a glittering, flesh eating worm, the angelic blood would quickly consume his body.

  Everything from Above is powerful—even more so in the realm Below.

  That fact angers Dark Master.

  He turns to his two disobedient servants, wishing so badly for Praile that he feels as though a physical burden has been placed atop his chest, emptying his lungs of oxygen.

  “Do you see what one drop of the angelic blood can do?” his voice shakes the interior of his torture room.

  A place he retreats for solace has been violated because these two tho
ught to play grab ass while in his service.

  They back away, and Dark Master presses forward.

  “Do you prize what dangles between your legs?” His voice is filled with his anger, and literal vapor of fire licks from the seam of his lips.

  They cover their pricks.

  Dark Master moves rapidly. To human eyes, the motion would be nothing more than a streak of crimson steam. In the next moment, he stands before them.

  “You thought to bleed the angelic? Even now, his blood poisons our realm.” His black eyes, rimmed in red, sear them in place. “You do not bleed one who has substance from Above.”

  Dark Master takes his left hand and gently cradles the head of the high demonic who is closest, careful not to get caught up in the ebony horn that is nearly at this demon's temple.

  Spreading his arm wide, he takes his right hand and repeats the tender cradle at the right side of the other demonic's head.

  They mewl like a pair of kittens inside a sack, awaiting drowning. Their pathetic eyes widen—one’s black, the other’s pure red.

  He slams their skulls together.

  The shards of bone pierce his skin. But that does not matter. Dark Master has minutes, not hours, to undo the damage wrought by his disobedient servants.

  Their bodies drop, and with a quickness born of his station, Dark Master stabs his wounded finger inside the guts of the dying high demonic. One distended eye rolls toward him, his body desperately trying to heal the wounds.

  He screams, high and piteous.

  The lower demonic stop their petty tortures at the sound of one of their own dying.

  Silence infiltrates the normal chorus of begging, screaming, and shrieking of the realm Below.

  Grabbing an ankle of the high demonic, Dark Master easily drags the two at either side of the stone tableau.

  The holy blood of the angelic drips onto their writhing bodies. One demon bucks hard when the drops land on his exposed torso.

  Dark Master chuckles. The demon can't decide if he has sufficient hands to hold in his brains while also trying to escape the acidic blood of the torture victim above him. The entertainment value of that indecision?

  Priceless.

  Dark Master arrested the advance of the angelic blood's destruction. The tip of his finger heals as the destroyed talon begins to grow back. He raises his hand, inspecting the mess of his finger.

  He glances below him, effectively transferring his wounded digit to the high demonic who dies.

  His body is now shrouded in frozen agony. The normally deep blood-red tones of the high demonic pale to those from Above.

  It is rumored that if a demonic suffers too much blood transference from an angelic, it can turn them.

  Like the vampires from Between, the demonic would become that which he despised.

  Dark Master ignores his dying charge, stepping over bodies that undulate like frantic snakes.

  He leans in to more closely observe the face beneath him. Crystalline eyes in the perfect sky blue of heaven gaze back at him defiantly.

  The angelic are truly ugly. No horns. Pale skin. Light eyes—many have blond or red hair.

  “I do not have my right hand beside me.” Dark Master chuckles. “However, you will have to do.” Dipping his hand inside the slowly oozing stalagmite, Dark Master coats every bit of his flesh with the realm of Hades.

  “I will tell you nothing. Do what you wish. I am a Blood Singer, and clearly, my blood is like poison.”

  Dark Master pierces the male's eyeball, tired of looking at the watery perfection.

  The male from Between arcs his back, screaming shrilly. One after another, after another.

  A low demonic cheer rises in the background. Dark Master ignores their praise.

  He needs no accolade.

  Dark Master dips his hand in the soothing heat of Hades, coating the flesh to withstand the blood of the angelic.

  He stops his torture only when the male passes out.

  Dark Master does not take sustenance. He does not need to feed. His work edifies him.

  In the end, when the Singer awakens. He talks.

  He talks and talks.

  Until he has no mouth left from which to speak.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Jenni

  Jenni feels that other part of her being like an echo inside her, leading her flying footsteps as though there were an internal map.

  “Halt!” the cop behind her yells.

  Scenery flows past her like water; streetlamps are blurred beacons of light that barely illuminate Jenni's racing footfalls.

  Still, her sight is bright, sharp, and perfect.

  Jenni’s purse smacks her hip with every beat of her feet on the pavement like a frenetic drumbeat.

  Rat-tat-tat!

  Blood courses in her ears, and she can't hear anything but the rush of her breaths.

  Not even when Devin steps out of the car, eyes wide.

  A bullet whizzes past Jenni's head—a warning shot.

  Devin screams.

  Jenni doesn't think. She leaps.

  Her legs move like she's on a bicycle midair. She comes down hard, landing smoothly in a crouch. She slaps her palms on the asphalt and stands, scooping Devin around the legs and tossing her into a classic fireman's hold.

  Jenni executes the impossible move as though performing a choreographed routine.

  She flies forward, one arm wrapped around the back of Devin's thighs while her legs carry her easily and swiftly into the heavy forest that blankets the Olympic Peninsula.

  “Hang on!” Jenni screams and jumps, clearing a small ravine in that same leg-pumping, adrenaline-fueled maneuver. She nails the difficult landing, and Devin grunts as she nearly slips on the slick leaves, but with a grace she's never known, Jenni rights herself and gets moving again.

  Thumping footfalls chase after her, more bullets whistle harmlessly past her head, behind her.

  They're either the shittiest shots she's ever witnessed, or she's avoiding the bullets with her new senses.

  The cops, men who should easily overtake a sick woman carrying another over her shoulder, are not fast enough to catch Jenni.

  Their yells and commands fade behind her.

  Jenni tries to focus on one thing.

  Her condo.

  But now she knows there will be police there, hunting for her.

  And she must be their prime suspect—the dying nurse who killed enough people to leave a bloodbath behind.

  Yeah, that's so me.

  “Jenni!” Devin yells, and Jenni slows to a jog, sides heaving.

  She sets Devin down.

  The young woman turns, slapping her palm against a tree trunk, bends at the waist and vomits.

  Jenni wants to cry.

  With a shaky hand, Devin wipes strings of puke from her mouth. “What the fuck?”

  “I'm sorry,” Jenni says.

  Devin's petite jaw slides back and forth as she loads up her mouth with saliva and spits the entire load to the ground. “Gross—shit.” She gives Jenni an incredulous stare. “Why are the cops shooting at you?” She feels her side. “I think you bruised my ribs!”

  “How come you threw up?” Jenni asks.

  Devin rolls her eyes. “Because it's three-thirty in the middle of the freaking night, I got assaulted by my ex, met a—whatever the hell ya are, and just got chased and shot at by Port Townsend's finest. I'm fucking dandy!”

  “Please don't yell,” Jenni says quietly, scanning their surroundings nervously.

  “Right,” Devin replies, folding her arms and nodding vigorously, “because the cops might come and kill our asses.”

  Jenni winces. Agonizing gnawing begins in her stomach again. She supposes all the physical theatrics come at a price. She puts a hand against her belly and can't help the small groan that escapes.

  Devin's face crumples, searching Jenni's body for signs of the problem. “What? Are ya sick?”

  Jenni shakes her head. “I don't think so—not anymor
e.”

  “Just tell me what the fuck is going on, and don't hide shit. I've had enough of that to last me a lifetime.”

  “We're going to have to go to your place. I think the cops are probably at my condo.”

  Devin laughs. “No shit? I had that figured out when I got a load of the crime scene tape.” She snorts then her face flashes to serious. “I need to get to Ella. I got a neighbor lady who sticks around my place until I come home. Best I can do.” She blows a stubborn piece of fried hair out of her face and wrinkles her nose at her own breath. “And I'd give anything for a toothbrush.”

  “I need to eat,” Jenni admits, her stomach folding in on itself.

  “What? Again?” Devin's eyebrows hike.

  “Yeah,” Jenni answers, dejected. “How far do you think your place is from here?”

  Devin looks around the woods. “You can thank your lucky stars I grew up here. I know every square inch of PT.” She drops her arms and points to a vague circle of light shining through the dense forest.

  “My apartment complex is a dump—built in the 1970s. But there's no crime, and the spaces are bigger from then. And I like the way the forest is right behind us.” Devin sounds like she's trying to convince herself. But Jenni doesn't care at the moment.

  Thank God there's a stopping point.

  Jenni begins to walk toward the patch of illumination ahead, and Devin follows. “Listen, I know I said I was trying to help you back there... but I gotta be honest. I got a kid and that—I can't risk Ella for whatever strange shit you've got goinʼ on.”

  Jenni stops, looks up at a sky unsullied by light pollution, and exhales. The noise of the air rushing out of her sounds as defeated as she feels.

  “I get it. I totally do. Can I just get some food, grab a shower, and sleep on your couch? I'll figure my own life out. I'll leave money.”

  Devin folds her arms, tensing. “I don't need no charity.”

  Jenni turns, looking at Devin closely. “I'm not giving charity. I need someplace to be for a few hours. My life is a disaster. I'll go away tomorrow.”

  Devin walks closer, takes Jenni's hands, surprising her.