* * *
The darkness was absolute. Azazel could see things at night or in poorly lit places, but not now. Here, deep in the bowels of the earth, light feared to tread. The shine did not visit. All black, all the time.
A giant slab of hot stone pressed against him. The rock crushed his body and held him motionless, but he could not see it.
The pain was unbearable. His bones, crushed by the weight of the rock, fought to heal themselves. His perfect flesh, seared and torn by the burning and jagged stone, would not die. His body raged against itself-trying to repair something both broken and eternal. A cruel combination no doubt, but he would endure. He must learn to numb himself to the agony, and embrace the hurt. Then the hate could sustain him.
It consumed him; the sting of his brother's betrayal remained fresh. No forgiveness. Not ever. His heart, dark and twisted even before the reckoning, pumped only loathing and revenge throughout every particle of his being. Thoughts of retribution filled his mind constantly—he envisioned those that had put him here, and then he imagined them burnt, dying, and dead. Countless times and in many different ways he had watched their demise. But always just in his mind. That would change though. Of this, he was certain.
Thoughts of freedom calmed him somewhat. A kind of melancholy washed over his tortured body. He even tried to smile, but the rock would not allow such a thing. His face, pinned sideways and distorted by the stone, would not respond to his mental commands. Even the tiniest of movements remained forbidden.
The hate rushed back in. They had done this to him. They deserved whatever they got. And they would get it.
He had not accepted his fate.
Never.
He would not wait here to die.
Like cattle.
He did not know about the others. Who lived? Who died? Who lay imprisoned beneath the desert, discarded and forgotten?
Not forever.
No matter. He would know everything soon enough.
They left him with his mind and his magic—all that he would need. In their arrogance, they had left him with the very tools he would use to escape from here. They had underestimated him. They had underestimated his will. He would get out of this goddamn hole.
It would not be easy. This process would, however, take quite some time and involve no small amount of pain. This pain-new, deep, excruciating-would be a welcome change. He looked forward to the hurt. Most of all he looked forward to seeing the faces of those that had put him here. When he rose up, free and powerful, he would end them. He would end them all.
With only a thought, he began the intricate process of disassembling himself. He could tell nothing at first, but he remained confident. He was certain tiny, individual pieces of himself were leaving his body and beginning their journey to the surface. There were many, many of these pieces. This would take quite awhile.
Time I have. Nothing but time.
The Peacock Angel: Rise of the Decarchs Page 2
