by Larissa_Ion
“It was necessary to expose his blood to Sheoul air.”
Air? Blood? What had Moloch done to her sister’s child?
“I don’t understand,” she ground out. “Why did you tell me he was dead?”
“Because he was.” He shrugged. “Sort of.”
His gaze turned toward Fearr, the fallen angel in command of a legion of Soulshredders, as she jogged along the battlements toward them. She’d woven poisonous barbs through her ebony braid, turning it into a creative weapon Flail wished she’d thought of. The barbs clanked against her armor as she approached, the axe in her hand dripping with blood.
The battle hadn’t even started.
“My lord,” she said, looking up at the man-sized raptor horrors that patrolled the skies. “I received a message from the Horsemen.”
“What was it?”
“Curson’s head. They said they have Falnor, as well, and they’re coming for me next. Who would have thought killing a stupid Seminus demon would trigger the Four Horsemen like that?” She flipped her braid over her shoulder. “I don’t know how old the message was, though. Falnor could be dead by now.”
“Unfortunate,” Moloch said, and Flail had to disagree. The fallen angel had been as stupid as Fearr was cunning. “Falnor was in charge of executing deserters.”
Fearr grinned and lifted her axe. “I’ve assumed his duties.”
“Well done.” Moloch gave a dismissive wave. “Return to your post and watch your back. If Azagoth is stupid enough to engage me, Thanatos and Ares will be drawn to the battle.”
Flail could only hope. Fearr was a brilliant warrior and evil’s greatest ally. But, frankly, she was a cunt. Plus, she would be competition for the Dark Lord’s affections someday. Flail wouldn’t be sad to see her impaled on Thanatos’s sword.
Just as Fearr gave a bow and dematerialized, one of Moloch’s buddies, an ancient fallen angel who controlled the River Styx passages, landed lightly next to him, his ragged leather wings blasting her with a gust of foul-smelling wind. Expecting her own immediate dismissal, Flail turned to go but paused when Assailant spoke, his voice as serrated as his horns.
“I’ve received reports that Heaven has laid siege to Sheoul-gra.”
Moloch threw his head back and laughed, his delight echoing off the distant mountains. “Good news, Flail. Azagoth is going to be busy for a while. You can take your time killing Lilliana. Spend at least an hour.” A low, erotic groan billowed from deep in his chest, and she caught the acrid scent of his lust. “And get it on film. Azagoth should have a keepsake. And I’m running low on material for my porn collection.”
Chapter 37
When Azagoth first designed the Inner Sanctum, he’d built five levels, sometimes called rings, or circles, in homage to Dante, who hadn’t actually gotten much right about anything. None of the levels were based on sins, but rather on scales of evil as laid out by the Ufelskala.
He’d recently added a sixth level, one for the few demons who weren’t evil at all. Just as some humans were truly, wholly evil, there were demons who were utterly and completely decent. The one constant the Creator insisted upon was balance, and everything Azagoth was tasked to do served the purpose of maintaining homeostasis in the human and demon realms.
The new level was pleasant in comparison to all the others, even though the hellish landscape was still reminiscent of Sheoul. Hades had tried to replicate the human realm atmosphere of Sheoul-gra, but the Inner Sanctum was too close to Hell-proper, the membrane between the realms too thin. Everything Earth-like, from plants to animals, to bodies of water, rotted and corrupted.
Azagoth’s feet pounded the ground on the first level as he approached the center platform, the pulsing heart of each ring. The platforms were all connected, functioning as both the spine and the circulatory system of the entire Inner Sanctum. What was done to one level from the platform, was done to all.
He walked up the steps to the circular, fleshy pad that was large enough to support a crowd of hundreds as its heartbeat thumped under their feet.
But today, there would be only two.
Azagoth and Wraith.
The griminions had laid the demon’s body atop the twisting main artery that fed blood through the pad before they, too, evacuated. The original griminion, Asrael, would join the Memitim on Ares’ island, and the rest would find Hades. He was their master now.
Azagoth stepped onto the two-foot-diameter ruby eye in the very center of the pad. Almost instantly, energy infused him as he, along with Wraith, dropped through each level, traveling like a blood cell through an artery. He was connected here, his body becoming part of the Inner Sanctum’s life support system, his mind aware of every individual soul.
He could mindfuck them all right now. He could put nightmares into all their heads. He could make every one of them cut off their own feet with dull knives. But today wasn’t about fun.
On the last level where the worst of the worst were housed, he slammed onto the pad, sending a shockwave through the land like a nuclear blast. Waves of malevolent energy rode the blast, calling demon souls toward him like moths to a flame. They wouldn’t resist. They couldn’t.
Inside the leather pouch on his sword belt, the feathers he’d tucked away there began to burn.
Very carefully, he removed them.
He’d lifted the white one, shot through with thick streaks of golden glitter, off Reaver. The black one, its silver veins forming a delicate, lace-like pattern, had belonged to Revenant. In the human or demon realms, they’d be considered objects of unimaginable power.
Here in the Inner Sanctum, they were the ultimate power.
Let’s fuck some shit up.
He released the feathers, letting them float as they wished. They hovered in front of him, spinning lazily, expectantly.
“Infileus ehni slurnjia,” he barked in Sheoulic. “Seek your power.”
Abruptly, they began to glow, one surrounded by white light, the other crimson as they drew energy directly from their owners.
Yes.
The light surrounding each expanded, growing bigger and bigger until their energies mixed and engulfed him. Fire sizzled on his skin as he was lifted off his feet, his body arching so violently, his spine cracked.
“Giarneri insa oriendi vestilo, iom ango du ensiliu tob unt tobu, holi unt unholi. Jal gia giarneri plaxionus!” he shouted, aware that this could go horribly wrong. “I am a vessel of the universe, fill me with the balance of good and evil, of holy and unholy. Give me what I deserve!”
The feathers began to spin, faster and faster, shooting out bolts of lightning that struck far into the distance, shearing off tops of volcanoes and turning stagnant lakes into boiling pits of steam.
Suddenly, the feathers poofed away, and a burning, searing pain settled between Azagoth’s shoulder blades. His world exploded in fire, pain, and ecstasy until he couldn’t stand it anymore, and he shouted at the sensory overload.
And then it was over, and he was kneeling on the ground, naked, smoke drifting from his nostrils. Ash floated in the air that was now thick with the stench of charred flesh. He looked around, but there were no demons nearby, none except Wraith, and his body still lay there, all kinds of dead.
It was me. I burned.
The ash floating in the air was his skin, his organs, his bones.
He staggered to his feet and looked down at himself. He looked the same…but different. Years ago, when he’d been unable to feel anything, he’d taken tattoos from Thanatos, tats that were laden with emotion he wanted to experience. He’d burned several out, and many had faded or disappeared. But now, they were completely gone.
So was his sword. But his scythe was at his feet, and when he picked it up, a whoosh of eternal hellfire consumed the blade.
That was fucking awesome.
Power assailed him, shooting along every nerve ending. It was as if his entire body were a conduit to both Sheoul and Heaven. Their energies were mixing inside him, creating a well of
fuel that was ready to detonate.
Demons began to drift toward him, drawn to his power. The massive crowd parted as Sarnat, the brother of the Charnel Apostle who had helped him release his soul army, strode toward him. He was big for an Apostle, and unlike most of his species of sorcerers, he’d been a warrior in his physical form. Here in Sheoul-gra, he chose, like most demons, to take the form and identity of his last life, and he even dressed the same. Armor, weapons, boots with blades in the soles, and a leather duster with a hood that concealed the wearer’s face so nothing was visible but an inky black hole.
Sarnat pushed the hood back, revealing a long, gaunt face and pallid lips peeled back from tiny, sharp teeth. “Your back, my lord. It’s smoking.”
Azagoth willed a mirror into the air behind him, and when he looked over his shoulder, his breath caught. Wisps of smoke curled upward from an intricate glyph that had been burned into the skin of his upper back and shoulders.
A sword—his sword, he realized—swept down his spine, its pointed end reaching to the small of his back. Between his shoulders, two wings formed graceful arches on either side of the hilt. Each feather on each wing featured exquisite detail, but two feathers stood out in spectacular brilliance. On the right wing, a primary feather of glittering gold. On the left wing, a primary feather of sparkling silver.
Reaver’s and Revenant’s feathers.
It'd worked. It had fucking worked! No one had ever done what he’d just attempted—and accomplished. There’d been no blueprint, no testing. Just a lot of research into similar spells. He could have killed himself with what he’d done, or he could have burned out all of his powers.
He’d demanded to be given what he deserved. He could have just as easily been drawn and quartered.
Now, to put the results to the test.
Clothes. Clothes would be good.
And there they were. The clothes he’d put on to come down here. Except they looked as if he’d worn them to an apocalypse. His leather pants were faded and streaked with bloodstains that had to belong to him. His shirt was torn, his sword belt frayed, his gloves as stained as his pants.
He willed them clean and new.
Nothing happened. He tried again. Tried putting on different clothes. Nothing. He couldn’t get jeans and a T-shirt, a suit, or a damned hockey jersey. All he could get was naked. Seemed his new powers had come with some weird restrictions.
Apocalypse chic, it was.
Now, he had to see what else he could do.
He turned to Sarnat. “Time to deliver on my end of the bargain that I struck with your brother.”
“You’re going to release me, yes?”
“That was what I agreed to when he helped me release the others.” He summoned a trickle of what seemed like an endless vat of the silkiest, purest, darkest power. It flowed through his body like a drug, and he understood instinctively how to use it.
He just had to think it and then channel power into the thought. It was how he’d summoned the mirror. His clothes seemed to be on a separate circuit that he’d play with later. Right now, he wanted to make Sarnat a corporeal being in the demon realm, but without using reincarnation or by making him possess a physical body. Basically, he wanted to poof Sarnat—
The Charnel Apostle poofed. Gone. Only his armor, weapons, and clothing remained.
Shit. He’d have to work on that. It had never been that easy to destroy a soul.
Not that he gave a hellrat’s ass. The guy had been so evil that he’d practically run the fifth ring. He’d have made a valuable ally but a relentless enemy.
He had excellent taste in coats, though, and Azagoth scooped up the duster from the ground, its buckles clinking. The hood might come in handy.
Demons had pressed in closer, and he was done wasting time. He needed to get this shit figured out.
He locked on to the closest demon, a Soulshredder whose snout was stuck in a perpetual sneer.
Take form.
The demon grunted and staggered backward. For a moment, it looked as if he might puke, and then his form flickered like a dying bulb. He held up his clawed hands and stared as his body went completely transparent.
Fuck, yeah.
Azagoth couldn’t stop a fist pump of success that Journey would have been proud of. The Soulshredder might now be a ghostlike figure here in the Inner Sanctum, but in the demon and human realms, he’d be corporeal.
Azagoth did a repeat, this time with a group of ten demons. Then a hundred. A thousand. After a hundred thousand, he figured he was good to go.
Hear me.
His voice sifted through all the levels, to every corner and inside every cave in the Inner Sanctum. He felt the awareness of billions of souls, all tuned in to what he was going to say.
The walls between worlds are about to fall.
Storm clouds roiled overhead, and lightning sizzled between them.
I’m giving you form so you can once again live life in Sheoul. Take revenge on the ones who put you here. Find mates you left behind. Kill. Eat. Fuck. Do whatever makes your depraved selves happy.
All around, volcanoes erupted, the lava spewing into the clouds and lighting them on fire.
But first, you’re going to destroy Moloch’s armies.
Spreading his wings, he punched power into every cell of his body and plugged into the barrier between the realms. He held his scythe over his head, drawing on the eternal hellfire that fueled Sheoul-gra, the heat of it igniting the blood in his veins like gasoline.
The realm trembled. Massive claps rent the steaming air as cracks in the realm’s structure expanded, fissures that had formed recently. Ruptures Azagoth had told Hades not to repair.
Even before Moloch abducted Lilliana, Azagoth had known something big was coming. Something he needed to prepare for. He assumed he’d been prepping for an apocalypse. Not the Apocalypse since he hadn’t released Satan. But your standard, everyday kind of apocalypse that seemed to happen a lot.
Break apart!
A tremor shook the ground as more hairline fractures, visible only to him, began to form in the shimmering barriers. Explosions blew through the realm, drowning out the terrified screams of the demons.
Take form! he commanded as the barrier began to shatter. Take form and take out Moloch!
The barrier blew apart like a pane of mirrored glass, revealing a new realm of craggy, blackened mountains and expansive valleys framed by a dark sky and a roiling, twisting, crimson glow on the horizon.
Azagoth found himself standing on the drawbridge of a castle flying Moloch’s flag, exactly where he wanted to be. Demons were swarming, setting up defenses, preparing for battle.
They didn’t know the battle was already here.
He shot skyward, flying high to look out over the land. For as far as the eye could see, no matter how high he went, billions of demons were engaged in a bloody, violent battle. His army was pressing inward in a wave that would be here within minutes.
The gargoyles who had lived as statues for eons in his war room shot high into the sky before plummeting down to skim the top of a distant perimeter wall. Moloch’s archers couldn’t avoid being rammed right off the walls by the dozens.
Azagoth was free, and both Heaven and Hell were going to learn what that meant.
Chapter 38
Something was happening.
Lilliana wasn’t sure what, exactly, but there was an electric buzz in the air, so strong that she could taste it as a metallic tang on her tongue.
She watched from her spot chained to the skull throne as demons charged through Moloch’s main chamber, their armor clanking, and their weapons glinting in the flickering light from the massive hearth. A gray-skinned rhino-fiend nearly clocked her with a mace as he lumbered by, and she wished he could feel her glare on the back of his head.
She also wished her stare was a laser beam that could explode his skull.
She’d blast them all for what they’d done to her. To Journey and Maddox. To Wraith. To her
daughter, who shouldn’t be without her mother.
She’d never fully appreciated the bond between a mother and her child, but she got it now. The pain of being separated like this was more intense than anything she’d ever experienced. It went well beyond the physical ache of full breasts or the strangeness of an empty womb.
She didn’t even know if her baby was okay. Flail could have been lying.
Someone shouted, and she forced herself to set aside her grief for now. There would be time for despair soon enough.
The demons bottlenecked near the doors, but a group of them parted and made way for Flail’s entrance at the rear of the great hall. She looked ready for battle, her raven hair pulled back, her body protected by some sort of supple black leather armor that, no doubt, was a lot tougher than it looked. Fallen angels had a habit of fabricating their armor from demon hides, giving them various special protections depending on the species of demon that had been unfortunate enough to lose its skin.
“What’s going on?” Lilliana asked as the fallen angel mounted the platform, her boots clomping on the steps.
“Moloch says Azagoth’s attack is imminent,” Flail said, and Lilliana couldn’t help but shout a silent, Yes! “He’s preparing for a couple million souls to swarm the land.”
She cleared the top step, and the hair on the back of Lilliana’s neck stood on end. She wasn’t sure why. It might have been the way Flail was walking. Or how she looked at Lilliana. Or it could be the dagger-shaped bulge under her long, black cloak.
“It seems,” Flail continued, “that Azagoth has made the foolish choice to not release Satan.”
Lilliana wanted to sob with both relief and terror. It was good news. Amazing news that would preserve all the realms for almost a thousand years.
But it also meant that she was, most likely, going to die now.
And Azagoth…how would he handle her death? Would he revert back to what he’d been before she came along? Could having their daughter in his arms be enough to ward off the malevolence that had marked his thousands of years of existence?
