Darkest Heart

by Juliette Cross

  A raucous caw echoed from the hallway, then Puck flew into the room and winged to the shelving section labeled “Horror.” Appropriate.

  “What the devil?” murmured Xander.

  Right behind him strode in a huge black-winged angel in full armor, his midnight-blue gaze sweeping the room. For a split second, I just stared in shock at Maximus. Then I remembered.

  “You!” I shouted accusingly.

  He actually flinched, his darkened frown deepening at the sight of me. “Anya.”

  I stormed closer, my wings twitching to fly and knock him to the ground with a swift kick to the gut, which he probably wouldn’t even feel with the amount of steel covering his body.

  “You,” I repeated, low and menacing, hand-heel punching him in the chest. “Why the hell are you here?”

  In his dry monotone, he nodded in Puck’s direction. “It is precisely because of hell that I’m here.” He took note of the others behind me. “His raven summoned me.”

  I snorted in disbelief. “Have you ever helped him when he’s summoned you?”

  Maximus stared intently at me, realizing I knew his dirty little secret. That his brother was a high demon, the traitor to his own kind, which meant he was on our side. The brother he’d personally cast out of Elysium and disowned. I realized that Dommiel may have deserved his fall from grace, but he’d proven since then and much more recently that he deserved a second chance. Still, his own brother had kept him in low regard, categorizing him as scum like the rest of the creatures of hell.

  “Yes. I know who he is to you.”

  Maximus winced.

  “I know everything,” I assured him. “So why did you follow his raven here?”

  With a quick glance at our party and a sigh of deep resignation, he replied, “Because the compulsion to follow guided me.” His tone dipped into a deeper register. “I had to.” As if it was against his will. It probably was.

  The only compulsion that pulls an angel in such a way is prayer. Specifically, someone’s desperate prayer. I’d known it all my immortal life. When children were in danger or desperate and alone, I’d not just hear their cries, I’d feel it in my bones, the wisp of entreaty pulling and guiding me to the one who needed my help.

  I wanted to laugh, for fate had decided of all angels and archangels to assist us, his brother would be the one to hear the call. The one who cast him out of heaven would help us get him out of hell.

  “Though I don’t know exactly why I’m here if Dommiel isn’t even here to aid,” he practically growled, glancing around the room. “In whatever way I’m supposed to offer aid.”

  The compulsion to answer that call was on him strong. I almost smiled. It was cut short when I realized that the prayer that had guided him here must’ve been shot up from the bowels of hell by only one person. Tears stung behind my eyes, but I inhaled a deep breath and swallowed my fear.

  “He saved Uriel from the witch Lisabette’s lair in Vladek’s territory.” That certainly shocked him. “Then he sacrificed himself so that Uriel and I could go free. We”—I pointed to those behind me and myself—“are going to Simian and Rook’s Black Keep in the underworld and we’re bringing Dommiel back.”

  Maximus was not unlike Uriel in that his expression rarely changed. Whereas Uriel usually wore a mask of serenity and superiority, an archangel who knows his power, Maximus always wore his battle-ready gaze. In the five seconds following my explanation, his expression transformed from surprise, regret, fury, then finally settled into his typical veneer of grave determination.

  “What are we waiting for, then?”

  Xander piped up in his jovial manner. “Aren’t we a motley crew? Two archangels, an angel, and three hunters.” Puck cawed. “Oh, and one demon-spawned raven.” He smiled brightly. “Against two demon princes and their horde of infernal priests. Good odds, I’d say.”

  “And Bellock,” I added. “He was the one who took Dommiel away.”

  Jude grinned, and though he wasn’t a demon, it reminded me of Dommiel when he smiled with his mouth full of fangs. “Excellent,” he growled, his eyes swirling darker.

  Xander ignored him. “Still, we have no way of entry without a demon escort. Any thoughts, lady and gentlemen?”

  It hit me quickly who we needed to call upon.

  “I know someone.”

  All of them stared, incredulous, then expectant. I shrugged.

  “Dommiel introduced us. I know a few demons we can ask, actually. But one in particular.”

  Xander belted out a laugh and walked over, throwing an arm around my shoulders, then guided us toward the exit. Puck lifted off and flew ahead of us, the rest following. Xander bent low to my ear and whispered conspiratorially.

  “I’m liking you more and more, darling. Are you sure you won’t consider a hunter and forego your demon lover?”

  He toyed with me, merriment dancing on his perfect face. Of course, he knew all along what was going on between Dommiel and I. The damn man.

  “No.” I smiled. “Though your charms are tempting, there is only one man for me.”

  “Aye, love. I can see that.” He winked. “Let’s go get him, then.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Dommiel

  No idea how long I’d been out. Simian was devoted to his attentions. So much so that I couldn’t stand the pain enough to stay conscious. Right now, I couldn’t feel a fucking thing, my skin desensitized to the whip’s sting and the ripping of flesh. Even where the spikes had entered my body, there was only a dull throbbing numbness. If I were to be honest with myself, it was my heart that hurt the most. The pure, raw terror of Bellock finding Anya and dragging her back here was the only emotion I felt at all.

  “What kind of bounty hunter are you? How long does it take to find one little bitch?”

  Simian had stripped himself of his shirt, sweating like a damn pig, bloody whip in hand, while he screamed at Bellock, who didn’t appear to care for his tone.

  “Oh, Simian,” crooned Rook, lounging on the sofa with a goblet in his hand. “Shut the fuck up.”

  I couldn’t agree more.

  Simian snapped the whip in the air, barely missing Bellock’s stonelike face. The angel hunter didn’t move a muscle. So like him. I wished he were dead. Fuck, I wished I were dead. If what he said was true, I’d be free of this “mortal coil” as ole Will would say. My spirit cavorting happily in the House of Souls in Elysium. Without intending to do so, I’d managed to redeem myself in the eyes of the heavens. And here I was, chained in hell and trapped for eternity. The irony. Even worse, I actually wanted to live now. Finally having something to live for. Someone.

  Anya. My beautiful angel. I wished we’d had more time. The aching heartsickness burned in my chest for all the time I’d wasted. For not finding her sooner. Lonely. I was so fucking lonely for so fucking long. And then…her. A damn miracle with a knockout body and a heart of gold. The pain of watching her get dragged down here and put through the torture Simian promised—for I knew he was good on his promises—lit a new fire in my belly. If I was gone from here, he would have no reason to keep hunting her. And there was only one way out.

  To die.

  Determination settled in my gut. Time to piss off the asshat of all asshats. Easy enough, I should think.

  I chuckled, blood clogging my throat and mouth. They’d removed the iron gag so I wouldn’t drown in my own blood.

  “And what are you laughing at?” hissed Simian, snapping his attention away from Bellock.

  “Ignore him,” warned Rook.

  Simian should listen to his brother. But he didn’t. He stalked over and crammed his ugly self up into my space, grinning like the fiend he was.

  “Don’t get too close.” Rook watched from his perch on the sofa, unmoving.

  “Nothing to fear here. Just a waste of demon flesh. What are you laughing at, asshole?”

  Lightning fast, I hauled back and head-butted him, catching him over his left eye. Black blood spurted.

/>   “Lookin’ at a fucking idiot,” I rasped out hoarsely.

  “Told you,” crooned Rook, still reclined and sipping from his goblet.

  Simian backhanded me hard.

  “You’re such a bitch,” I muttered. “That’s all you’ve got?”

  He turned and snapped at one of the priests. “My throwing axes!”

  “He’s goading you, you fool.” Rook shook his head. “He’s nearly bled out as it is.”

  “A few well-thrown axes won’t kill him.” Simian held out his hand as the priest placed one of the sharpened hatchets into his hand. “You won’t need a dick anymore. Let’s do away with that.”

  Sadistic motherfucker.

  I couldn’t even watch, closing my eyes and gritting hard. Unfortunately, my demon senses were still in tune. The blade released, whirring end over end, grazing the flesh of my hip with a sharp sting, but nothing near as painful as the lashes.

  “You need practice,” observed Rook, yawning.

  “Perhaps you’re right. We should bring some of those English slaves down here and show them what real pain looks like.”

  I sickened at his nonchalant reference to the humans they were enslaving on earth. Though I wasn’t long for this world, I still hoped Xander and Cooper found a way to stop the maddening torture of innocents. I laughed inwardly. I was a soft teddy bear now. All due to Anya’s influence, I suppose. She made me want to be better. She made me…hope.

  I’d never see her again, unless it was because she was chained and in the control of these two assholes. No. Fucking. Way.

  I glanced down at where the cleaver had grazed my hip, now trailing dark red blood down my leg. Then I laughed at Simian.

  “You throw like a fucking girl.”

  “Simian,” warned Rook.

  But Simian was an explosive hothead—who happened to enjoy inflicting pain and torture. Perfect combination for a demon like me who wanted to die.

  Simian snatched another cleaver, aimed a split second, and let fly. Focusing all my senses on the blade, I shifted my leg and body to the right at the perfect moment. The hatchet embedded mid-thigh. The blade was as razor-sharp as I’d expected, slicing through flesh to the femoral artery.

  Blood, viscous and hot, sprayed and poured from my leg.

  Yes.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” said Rook. “You’ve broken your toy.”

  Simian stared as if he couldn’t believe what had happened. There was no saving me now.

  Chuckling darkly, I shook my head. “Too easy.”

  “No!” screamed Simian. Like a petulant child. “You can’t die! I’m not done with you yet!”

  “Fucking prick,” I mumbled, closing my eyes and glorying in the sweet bliss of my life force ebbing away.

  Finally. I would have peace. I wanted Anya more, but if I couldn’t have her, I’d settle for the House of Souls. Anything to get out of here and possibly keep her safe from these two.

  “No!”

  While Simian cried out his obvious displeasure at being tricked, I let my mind wander to her. My true heaven. Such a sensitive soul, she wrapped me around her finger with nothing but kindness and her belief in a better world. I was so jaded, I couldn’t accept that such a place existed. But then, she lit my world from the inside out, spread her flame into the darkness of my heart, and chased away the shadows.

  “Anya,” I murmured, the cold sweeping over me. The prince’s cries drifted farther away as my body felt light. I focused on pulling away and leaving my shell, trying to sever that last thread of my life force.

  “Anya,” I whispered again, wanting her name to be the last word that left my lips as I crossed over into paradise, hoping I’d one day see her again. Yes. Hoping. It’s true what they say, I suppose. No soul is too damned to be saved. And no heart too black to beat again. For mine pounded like a drum with the vision of her floating before me.

  Like a mirage, white light glowed from the cavern entrance. I must be hallucinating, like they say you do on the verge of death, because the vision I saw next was impossible. The throaty caw of Puck echoed in the chamber. The memory of my poor bird had come to say goodbye. How good of him. Damned bird.

  Anya, daggers in both hands and fully armored, stalked with long strides up the corridor, her blue wings half open. Flanking either side of her was Xander and George—mirror images of avenging golden-haired hunters. The source of the ethereal light was Uriel himself, glowing with power like a phosphorescent butterfly. A butterfly who looked really pissed off and wanted to fuck shit up. Striding next to him—all of this in seemingly slow motion, whirring in my head to the tune of Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song”—was Axel, wearing a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt and wielding a Glock, alongside Woflrick and Gustav, both of whom carried the barbaric battle axes of their Visigoth days. Finally, bringing up the rear was the demon hunter Jude next to my brother, Maximus. Now I knew I was hallucinating. Neither of them would ever come to save my ass. This was the most surreal but most satisfying mirage to send me off to the afterlife I could possibly imagine.

  Bodies started flying, moving with extraordinary speed, which only seemed to make things move slower in my vision. No. Not my vision. I was sluggish, barely comprehending the fact that this wasn’t some dreamed-up mirage of my dying, fevered brain. This was real.

  Red priests launched in all directions, attacking three at a time. Xander fought Simian, holding his own as he sliced with the Bowie knife I’d traded him once for a carton of brimstone. He used the jagged edge to slice at his neck. Simian screeched like a girl. Such a wuss.

  Axel, Wolfrick, and Gustav fought in a circle. Axel yelled a nonstop stream of vulgar curses in German while blasting the heads off the priests. His partners whirled at his side, slicing limbs off anything that got close enough. Wolfrick laughed maniacally as black blood sprayed in multiple arcs with each hack of his battle-ax. It was beautiful.

  Anya battled two priests at once, fending them off and cutting them to ribbons with preternatural speed. She impaled one in the chest, whispering an incantation, for I could see her lips moving from here. The priest cried out, exploding into cinders mid-scream. Damn, I was so in love with her. I wanted to marry her in a little white chapel with flowers and a white dress and find a fucking house with a little picket fence. God. What she did to me.

  Then there was Jude, hacking at the fallen Bellock with the biggest goddamn sword I’d ever seen. Must’ve stolen it from Conan the Barbarian, for I’d not seen the like since I’d engaged in battle against a Highland clan in the middle ages, the clan kings swinging claymores and crushing their enemy’s skulls with one blow. Jude was doing the same to Bellock, not casting him out and ridding this place of his soul, but crushing his bones with blow after blow of the behemoth blade.

  I think I was in love with him, too. Surely, I was slipping into madness. Some feverish dream. This couldn’t be happening.

  Jude stood over his gory mess, his sword embedded in the angel hunter’s chest, and whispered an incantation. The air and sound seemed to suck out of the room, slowing everyone’s movements as a creature emerged from the cavern wall. This was the Black Keep. No one could move through walls except one creature. A Soul Collector. One of the five of the underworld, who roamed and feasted on souls. They enjoyed the taste of the damned more than any other.

  Draped in a Grim Reaper–style cloak, which lifted in an invisible wind, the Collector called Acheron tilted his giant skeletal head of black bone that was too long and too angular to mimic anything from heaven or hell or earth. It was other. And that was all. His liquid-red eyes set deep in his skull swept the room, everyone frozen at his entrance, then he found Jude.

  “Acherontis pabulum.” Jude gestured to the mess of meat on the floor, pulling his blade loose with a slick zing.

  Food for Acheron. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard that Jude had summoned a Collector to feed him a demonic creature. Whispers of it had actually kept me from venturing too far outside the lines when I ruled
New Orleans. No one wanted to spend eternity in the bowels of a soul eater.

  With black-boned skeletal fingers, the creature swept to the floor and began inhaling his meal—flesh, bones, blood, and all. Jude lifted and pointed his claymore at Simian.

  “You’re next.”

  Rook hissed and grabbed his brother, flashing in super speed up the cavern entrance. The red priests that were left followed in their wake in streaks of black.

  Anya ran to me, and smiled. Falteringly. Something light and beautiful was pulling on my chest. It didn’t hurt at all. Actually, it felt rather nice. Kind of like a child must feel when his mother lifts him into her arms. But it wasn’t my body being lifted. It was my soul, trying to tug right outside of me.

  “No.”

  She was crying again. I didn’t want to see her cry anymore. She trembled, tried to pry my arms and body loose from the spikes I’d been impaled upon. My brother was there, helping her. But the tug on my spirit was greater than them pulling my body free. A soothing balm whispered such serenity to me that nothing mattered anymore. Not blood or death or sin or regret or all the wrongs I’d committed in my too-long life. Only peace. Unending peace.

  “Don’t you dare leave me, Dommiel.” My angel’s voice pierced through me, jerking me back. “Not now. Please, Dommiel.”

  I snapped my eyes open, finding myself on the floor, my head in her lap. I didn’t remember that happening. I tried to lift my right arm, but the muscles and tendons wouldn’t obey, so I satisfied myself by just looking at her.

  “I love it when you say please,” I managed to mumble.

  She burst into sobs again. I frowned.

  “I hate it when you cry, baby.”

  The pain was sweeping me under again, but then my brother—my own brother whose rejection hurt the hardest—knelt beside me and put his hand on my chest.

  “No, brother.” His fierce expression broke with a sad sort of smile, one that looked almost apologetic. “Today isn’t your day.”

  Then he began to whisper the old words to recapture someone’s spirit trying to break free. Another ten seconds, and it would’ve been too late. There was a fleeting blink of time where I yearned to keep moving ahead, but then my gaze shifted to Anya.