For the Hell of It (Razing Hell Book 1)

by Cate Corvin

  I took a deep breath and stepped around the couch, scowling. “Tascius, I need your thoughts on this. Friends don’t hold back on honest opinions.”

  He looked up from a book, and his mouth fell open.

  I waited for a solid thirty seconds before I clenched my fingers, regretting leaving my room. “So, is it… okay?”

  “I… well…” His gaze drifted from my feet up to all the leg Vyra’s skirt exposed, then to my stomach and the push-up bra she’d packed me in. “It’s…”

  “It’s a showstopper,” Vyra said, practically purring. “See, Melisande? Showmanship is half the battle. Now you go out there and kick ass and let them all know that you look damn good while doing it.”

  Tascius pushed the book off his lap and sat up, still gazing at me hungrily. Just the fact that he was staring at me and not the barely-clothed succubus next to me sent a touch of heat to my face. I brought out that reaction in someone.

  Eat it, Gabriel. Vanity feels pretty good, if you ask me.

  “I need to go discuss something with Belial,” Vyra said, carefully patting my shoulder so she didn’t smear my body paint, but I couldn’t look away from Tascius. He was poised on the edge of the couch like a snake coiled in wait.

  When we were alone in the common room, I shifted in place uncomfortably. “I’m not used to being this exposed.”

  “Well, you’re always covered like a monk.” Tascius’ eyes drifted down my stomach, and his tongue darted over his lips.

  Goosebumps crept over my skin. “Vyra thinks I should do this more often.”

  He nodded slowly. “Mmhmm.”

  “I guess it’s not that bad.”

  Tascius shook his head.

  “In fact, I could get used to it.”

  “You should definitely get used to it. Because of… showmanship. It’s very important, among other things.” Tascius stood up, and I forced myself not to flee and drag a blanket over myself. He touched one of my braids, tracing a line down to my cheek. “I can’t think of what those things are, but I’m sure they matter.”

  His fingers touched the choker, and traced the glittering line of my collar bone. My heart started pounding, threatening to burst free of my ribs.

  “Tascius, may I borrow one of your shirts?” It’d be long enough to cover me down to my knees. Vyra could kill me later.

  He found a swirl of black paint on my shoulder and smudged it ever so slightly, as though he was marking proof that he’d been there first.

  “Absolutely not, friend.”

  10

  Melisande

  The arena sparkled from top to bottom. A thousand glass orbs in shades of rose, violet, and lavender hung from the high ceiling, and star-spangled black gauze curtains were draped around the walls and daises.

  I couldn't help but wonder as I walked onto the arena floor, arms up to take in the cheers, if Belial had purposely matched the color scheme for One Thousand and One Nights to my outfit.

  He was already on his dais of bones, lounging lazily in the throne. Vyra sat on the topmost stair, looking rightfully smug at the explosion of sound when I appeared and twinkling her fingers at me.

  I carefully side-stepped a puddle of blood and glitter from the previous match and turned to face him, bowing like I’d seen the other female fighters do. When I looked up, Belial was blatantly undressing me with his eyes, heated approval in his gaze.

  He mouthed the word, but I could imagine his voice saying it: delicious.

  Pig, I mouthed back.

  Luscious.

  Fuck you.

  You will.

  Don’t bet on that.

  Belial laughed, throwing his head back. Fresh blood from the last match was still speckled across his open shirt and the muscular planes of his chest. I grimaced when I realized I was staring.

  He mouthed one last word. Juicy.

  I raised my chin, turned my back on him, and raised my fists for the crowds, ignoring the fresh heat blooming in my face. My opponent trotted out into the arena.

  She was one of Vyra’s kin, like my new personal manager had claimed, a succubus draped in sheer ivory veils and painted with gold stars. She even wore a halo in her hair, studded with gems that caught the light, and gold leaf painted on her leathery wings.

  Fury erupted in me at this open mockery, but before I could say a single word, the entire arena started booing.

  I could barely breathe, amazed at the turn of events. Several demons clustered near the arena’s edge shook freshly hand-painted signs, screeching out insults at the succubus that would’ve made Satan blush.

  An Overseer tossed two whips, one white, one black. I reached out and snagged the dark leather handle without moving an inch, and the scowling succubus almost fumbled hers. She clearly hadn’t expected such a shitty reception.

  I grinned at her. She turned her back on me and faced the spitting, hissing crowd before expertly cracking the whip. The snap rolled through the arena like thunder.

  I swallowed, flexing my arm against the heavy length of leather. I could use it, but it’d always been a last resort weapon, more of a joke in training than anything else. My choir had considered the connotations too suggestive to really be considered couth for an angel to use.

  You’re pit fighting in Hell with your tits half-out, how much more uncouth could you possibly be?

  Experimentally, I swung the whip overhead and cracked it, relieved that I hadn’t lost my touch for the dramatic. Then I grinned at everyone like I meant to do that.

  They’d never have to know how terrified I was that it would behave like nothing more than a limp snake in my hands.

  The demons went wild. For a moment I let the heady rush go to my head. I’d always wanted to be the star on a battlefield; having an entire arena scream for me gave me the same breathless exhilaration, their excitement amping up my bloodlust.

  Too bad it was only a fight to the third blood.

  “You all know Angelcake,” Belial shouted. “Your favorite harlot, the Lady of the Sheets!”

  Angelcake ran her fingers over her ass invitingly, and cast me a smug smile.

  “Now, who do you want to beat her ass?”

  The succubus cast a dirty look at Belial, but his glittering aqua eyes were on me. I gripped the whip so hard my knuckles turned white, and his smile stretched wider.

  The arena responded with extreme enthusiasm. “No Saint!”

  I almost dropped the whip.

  I had a real, actual stage name now. Like the champions.

  Belial raised one of his arched brows and mouthed, you’re welcome.

  For once, I couldn’t think of anything rude to say in return. He’d set it all up from the beginning, and even though I was still clinging by my fingernails to the last vestiges of my angelic provenance, there was something about the name that felt completely right.

  There was nothing saint-like about revenge.

  I soaked up the sound of it, reveled in it.

  Then Angelcake’s whip cracked the air, entirely too close to my ear. I spun around, jumping up to catch the air and sailing backwards.

  She strolled forward, rolling her hips with every step. The white whip trailed behind her until she raised her arm again, wings spread wide and glittering.

  I ducked aside and took off in a flurry of down and sparkle, aiming an underhanded strike at her. The muscles in my arm screamed, unused to the momentum needed for a weapon as heavy as the whip, but the iron-studded tip flashed just inches from her face.

  Angelcake was still on the ground when I descended, bringing the whip overhead with a sharp crack. The crowd reacted to every move like a Greek chorus, letting out a low susurrus to accompany the strike.

  A bead of blood welled on her shoulder, mixing with her gold body paint.

  The murmur of the crowd became a storm.

  “First blood to No Saint,” Belial’s booming voice announced over the sound, then became a sultry purr. “Make her bleed a little more, angel.”

  I co
uldn’t look at his face when every nerve in my body was focused on anticipating Angelcake’s next move, but his eager tone shifted something volcanic inside me. He cheered on bloodsports like they were foreplay for him.

  But he was the Prince of Wrath. Of course they were.

  Angelcake snapped her whip, coming at me fast with three quick movements. Several of the veils on my skirt tore free, leaving my left leg exposed, but the tip just missed my skin.

  I slammed into the arena wall in my haste to back away, and lashed out, tangling the falls together. The distraction of having to disengage gave me a little time to put some distance between us.

  The succubus took to the air as soon as her whip was free, spraying bits of gold leaf over the crowd with every flap of her wings.

  I followed in a burst and struck at her, catching the edge of her ankle. Blood spattered back down to the arena floor, and the name No Saint rang in my ears before I heard Belial again.

  “Second blood to No Saint. Are you even trying, Angelcake?”

  My opponent bared her teeth at me, lashing out frantically now. Her desperate need to land one blow made her sloppy, and as sexy as whips were in theory, she clearly had no practice outside of her one showy display of whip-cracking.

  It was almost too easy to drop beneath her and rise up fast, smashing her against the ceiling. She spiraled down, wings flung out to catch her fall, and I plunged after her like a meteor, ignoring the pain streaking through my bicep to bring the whip down in one last, harsh stroke.

  A long red line appeared across her shoulder blades, and sluggishly began seeping blood.

  Angelcake landed on the arena floor and I followed, panting with exertion. A fine sheen of sweat made my skin prickle.

  “Third blood to No Saint!” Belial clapped his hands. He’d leaned forward, biting his lip, and I hesitated for only a second before striding forward and tossing my whip at the foot of his dais. It caught on a rib and swung there, the tip still red with blood.

  Made her bleed, I mouthed.

  His grin was crooked, and he swiped a thumb across his mouth like he wanted to wipe it away. Loved it, angel.

  I caught myself grinning back at him and quickly dropped the smile, putting my nose in the air, but Belial had already seen it. I told myself I could just chalk it up to the high of another victory, with two down, five to go.

  Not because I shared Belial’s unrestrained enthusiasm for combat.

  Angelcake tossed her unblooded whip aside. “I concede to the victor.” She got to her feet, walking in her six-inch heels like she’d been born in them, and offered me a hand.

  I took it, surprised to find that she wasn’t a shit-talker despite her showiness.

  “You look good,” she said, still gasping for breath.

  “So do you.”

  “Go show them some love.” Angelcake released my hand, wiping away sweaty face paint. “They’re fickle bastards, play it up.”

  They were still chanting my name, waving the signs painted with black wings. I flew to the edge of the arena, balancing on the chest-high obsidian wall that separated the floor from the stands.

  The demons crowded forward, hands reaching out to touch my ankles and smearing my paint. I saw now that the signs read my name, declaring their support for No Saint in sparkly black letters.

  My breath caught in my throat when I saw black wings sticking up over several pairs of shoulders. The little fake wings were made of wire and glue and raven feathers, smaller approximations of my own.

  A demon shouldered his way to the forefront of the crowd, carrying a small bundle on his shoulders. Bright yellow eyes peered at me, and I recognized the little demon girl from my first fight in the arena. She still held her tiny bone sword.

  Someone had painted violet streaks in her hair, and she had a pair of the tiny raven-feather wings tied around her shoulders with ribbons.

  When her father was only separated from me by a foot, her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open in a perfect O. Even though she had tiny horns, there was a perfect innocence on her face that melted my heart.

  She tentatively held out one tiny hand.

  I knelt down, spreading my wings to hold my balance, and reached down to touch her. I almost expected the sensation of cold scales or prickly thorns, but her little hand was smooth, still as soft as a baby’s.

  There was nothing horrifying about her at all.

  My heart twisted. I snatched one of the glittering veils off my skirt without thinking twice, because half of them were gone anyway, and draped it around her neck.

  “There.” I tied it off so no one could snatch it from her. “You get the only one.”

  Her father looked up, too, right up the damn skirt. “She’s a huge fan,” he shouted. “Never stops talking about you!”

  The little girl still hadn’t said anything. She looked frozen between glee and terror. I twinkled my fingers at her and prowled the edge of the arena, taking in the sheer amount of demons with fake wings and signs, how many of them reached out to touch me. I let my fingertips trail over theirs, unable to hold back the wide smile spreading across my face.

  It was everything I’d ever wanted. The freedom to lay waste to everything in that dark circle, the adoration, the unrepentant celebration of victory. My choir had never celebrated the heart-pounding thrill of war. A battle was performed in cold, numb silence, like machines honed for one thing, and there was only austere acknowledgement in the end.

  This was a revelry in the art of combat. An entire arena of people who appreciated every aspect of the blood and sweat it took to climb to the top.

  Spearheaded by a prince who was the embodiment of war, but the complete opposite of Gabriel.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Belial, unable to hold back the joy of the moment and wanting to share it with one person who truly understood, but the top of the dais was no longer visible.

  It was cloaked in a swirling, glittering veil of shadows.

  11

  Belial

  I gritted my teeth when she turned her back on me. She leaned over the edge of the arena, hesitantly giving the fans what they came for.

  The downward curve of her wings framed her ass, the tiny shorts Vyra had dressed her in riding up and showing off each cheek. The only way it could look better was with a few red handprints on either side.

  She was the perfect star for my show. Flawless technique, a glory of black wings and rage, and brutal as fuck.

  It was the last one on that list that made me hard as a rock just watching her beat the asses of every fighter I pitted her against. Most of the females who entered the arena knew they were beautiful, and the adoring crowd ate it up; many relied more on that than on how well they could fight.

  Melisande didn’t seem to realize she was beautiful, which made her even more so.

  Even in the potato sack she’d insisted on wearing all week.

  “You did good work,” I murmured to Erisvyra, watching Melisande touch a little girl’s hand.

  Vyra fanned herself. “Naturally. I always do. It didn’t hurt that you gave me excellent raw material.”

  My angel stood up, surprise and happiness taking over the look of hesitance on her face. Satisfaction curled through me.

  That prick Gabriel called himself the archangel of war, but he didn’t understand shit about it.

  Everything was war. The entire cycle of existence was war. Being born was a war to climb into the world, and dying was a war against the inevitable. War was what made your blood run so fast it felt like it would jump out of your veins, your heart pound and explode in your chest.

  It was pure fucking joy to still be alive.

  Melisande understood that, but Gabriel had repressed it so deeply she couldn’t even take happiness from knowing she’d been forged into a flawless weapon.

  I rubbed my chin with my knuckles, contemplating ripping out his wings and making her a featherbed of them. His screaming face would make a nice lamp once it’d been bronzed.
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br />   “My brother asked me to pass on a message.” Vyra turned her face towards me, finally tearing her eyes away from admiring her handiwork.

  “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “It wasn’t really a request, Belial. I offered you my services, so you’re listening whether you like it or not. Also, I plan on staying here to prevent my subject from living in rags and biting off her fingernails again-”

  “Satan help me,” I muttered, and she smacked my leg. Vyra was one of two people in Hell who could do that without having their arm separated from their body. Melisande was the other.

  And I needed Vyra’s arm intact if I wanted to keep my angel out of the potato sack.

  “You wanted to make her a star,” Vyra reminded me. “And she needs a female friend. It’s not in my nature to leave my sisters to fend for themselves.”

  Damn succubi and their female support networks. You couldn’t put a woman in front of them without the whole group inducting her into the fold and dressing her up like a doll, but Satan help the poor bastard who raised a hand against them. They’d turn into a pack of harpies, complete with tooth and claw.

  “If you insist.” I eyed Melisande’s ass. Having Vyra around meant more of that, so I could probably find it in my heart to let her live here for a while, annoying though she could be.

  “I do. I’ve got my seamstresses working on the next outfits. Also, if you could send someone to the Elysian Fields, I’d like to boil the forget-me-blossoms into a new dye-”

  “What was Azazel’s message?” I interrupted. Vyra could go on for days when she had a vision in mind, and I just wanted to grab my star and take her to bed.

  Vyra tilted her head towards the ceiling. “He’s here, he can tell you himself.”

  Lovely. I was going straight to my training room after this, painting Azazel’s face on a dummy, and splitting it right through the groin.

  I kept my eyes on Melisande, who paced the arena wall and reached out to touch her new admirers. Unless I was totally mistaken- and of course I wasn’t- she was liking this.