by Cate Corvin
“Belial put his mark on my palm and gave me a home. He warned me what would happen if I ever went back to Acheron, but I wouldn’t have given up my place in the Seventh Circle for anything. I’d already washed my hands of Acheron. Fighting in the arena became my life. Even my name, Exile, alluded to my origins. Belial played it up, made me a star here, but no one from Acheron would’ve dared come to kill me as long as I was in his employ.”
I flipped Tascius’s left hand over, finding the black mark there. A strange emotion flitted in my chest.
That manic, blood-hungry prince had done something kind for a child. A Nephilim child, the spawn of an angel.
It didn’t reconcile with what I thought of him.
Tascius spread his fingers, also looking at the dark mark on his palm. “I could kill Yraceli ten times over without breaking a sweat,” he said. “But I won’t. Belial saved my life and gave me a home. If he ever calls on me to serve in his army, I’ll be a general at the head of it. That’s why I throw the sixth fight, Melisande. As long as I never pursue the seventh, I’ll always remain under Belial’s aegis and have a place in his ranks.”
“He’s still protecting you.” His skin was warm under my fingertips as I traced the whirling lines of the sigil.
“And you.” Tascius clasped our hands together, sigil to sigil. “I told you to open your eyes, angel. There’s almost nothing in Hell that will touch either of us, if they don’t want to rile the Prince of Wrath.”
I licked my dry lips, wondering what else I wasn’t seeing. “I’m sorry about-” I started to say, but he shook his head, burying his face against my neck.
“What’s done is done. I’ve more or less made my peace with the past. And now… it’s your turn.”
He touched the diamond pattern on my palm and my fist reflexively closed by itself.
I couldn’t help but huff out a soft laugh. “You won’t believe me when I tell you.”
Tascius gently tugged on my braid, forcing me to look up at him. “You’d be surprised by the things I could believe, friend.”
“Fine.” I scooted away from him and swiveled around, draping my legs over his so we both straddled the bench. “You’ll see.”
I pitched my voice low. Even if Lady Savage and Blind Luck were right outside the door, they’d have a hard time making out my words.
“My story starts a lifetime ago, too. I was a human soldier when the Apocalypse began. I almost made it to the bitter end of the End Times, but Conquest wiped out what remained of my Army unit. Gabriel raised my soul as an angel to serve in his new war-choir, Righteous Fury.”
Tascius braced his hands on my thighs, stroking me up and down with soothing motions. It was almost distracting, the kind of movement that would direct my mind towards other things, but I was dreading the end of the story and what he would think.
“So… the end came and went. Old Earth was destroyed and merged with Hell. No one in Heaven understands why the archangels didn’t strike down Satan with the Sword of Light when they had the chance, but they’re too afraid to ask, and Gabriel won’t give them an answer, anyways.
“My choir kept going. We patrolled the liminal worlds, the remains of Old Earth, the steps of Heaven. Anywhere there were demons, we were there to protect the Gates. One of those times, we came across a war-band of ifrits trying to carve into our walls. Gabriel was with us when we descended on them.” I plucked at the hem of my pants nervously, lowered my voice even further. Tascius had to lean in to hear my whispers. “They had a hydra with them. A twenty-headed monster, must’ve been around for centuries to get that huge. Gabriel was taken by surprise. I was right behind him when the hydra came bursting out of the lake and took out a twenty-foot section of the wall. He dropped the Sword.”
Tascius froze, then grabbed my hand, flipping it over. Displaying that series of diamond-shaped marks. “No.”
“Yes.” I gave him a sad smile. “I told you that you wouldn’t believe me.”
“It’s impossible,” he breathed.
“It’s why he pushed me out of Heaven. He was the only one ever prophesied to wield it without becoming a column of flame. Gabriel is the most jealous of the archangels, and he saw me destroy the hydra in a blaze of holy fire.” I shifted my hand, and the scars caught the light, the Sword’s grip forever emblazoned on my flesh. “He wanted me dead because I picked up the Sword of Light, and it didn’t kill me.”
Sharing my darkest secret with Tascius felt like rolling a boulder off my chest. I could breathe again.
He didn’t release my hand, tracing the scars of the Sword of Light’s hilt. “They pushed you out because you picked up a sword.” He said it disbelievingly.
“Well, it’s not just any sword,” I said lightly. “It’s the Sword.”
Tascius raised an eyebrow, but there was no snark behind it. “I don’t understand how you’re still alive. You should’ve been a pile of ash on contact. That thing was supposed to kill Satan.”
“Which brings up so many questions.” I closed my hand, hiding the scars again. Tascius’s hand drifted to my waist. “Not just how I managed to hold it and live, but why Satan is still alive. I have a theory that I could touch the Sword because Gabriel raised me from the dead with his own essence… but if I could touch it, does that mean every angel he raised during the Apocalypse could, too?”
Tascius just shook his head. “You’re fallen now. If you tried to pick it up again…”
“I’d probably become a crispy critter.” I sighed. “I think that’s why he pushed me. No one else saw me holding it, but by forcing me to fall, he ensured that no one else would get it in their head to try.”
“Or,” Tascius said quietly, “He ensured you would never use it against him.”
We stared at each other for a tense moment, and I finally smiled. “I don’t need the Sword of Light to destroy him. I can do it all by myself.”
He leaned in and kissed me, a butterfly’s touch across my lips. The braid with my feather brushed my cheek. “Not by yourself.”
20
Melisande
I brought down my sword overhead, cutting through the armor of the cat-like demon who’d dared to cut my leg. It crumpled like foil under my blade, slicing right into his heart.
The crowd roared for No Saint as I tossed the sword aside with a war-scream, flinging blood and gore along with it. With enough adrenaline to kill an elephant coursing through my veins, even the dull pain of the cut in my leg seemed distant, no more than a pinprick.
My wings shivered and flapped, sending me soaring over the arena.
Hands reached up to touch me, to grab fallen feathers. Several demons lunged for the stone seats where droplets of my blood pattered below, scooping them up in vials or in their bare hands.
I landed on the wall, raising my fists.
“No Saint wins her third!” Belial’s deep voice quaked the arena. “Will no one stop her?”
“NO!”
I shook my fists in the air with a grin, tasting the blood smeared over my teeth as the arena’s response rumbled like thunder.
Over half the spectators were wearing the wire-and-glue raven feather approximations of my wings. Several had painted black streaks from the corners of their mouths, sweeping up to their temples, wearing my symbol as face paint.
I wished Gabriel were here to see this travesty. Barachiel and Raguel would probably cry from the disgrace. There were few things I wanted more than to lick those tears right off their holy cheeks.
And when I was sated, they could kiss my fallen ass.
A slick sensation on my leg stopped me in the middle of riling up my fans. I looked down. A demon with a three-foot-long plum-colored tongue was crouched against the wall, and said tongue was running over my foot, lapping up the streaks of dried blood.
Before I could say or do anything, a hand shot out and grabbed the slippery length, jerking the demon up over the wall.
Belial scowled at the demon. “Did I give you permission to taste my angel?”
&
nbsp; The demon couldn’t shake its head, since it was dangling several feet above the ground. Belial cocked his head, and a second later a blade slashed through the creature’s mouth. The rest of it landed bodily in the bloody arena.
“Get out or fight,” Belial said silkily, and the demon wisely chose to run for the doors. “Would you like the offending appendage, angel?”
He held out the limp tongue like a bouquet of flowers.
“Feed it to your next chimera.” I licked blood off my teeth. Did I really taste that good?
“Bloodthirsty.” Belial tossed the tongue to one of the Overseers dragging away the dead cat demon, then held out his hand.
I climbed onto his shoulders, looping my legs under his arms. Heat rose in my stomach from the thick muscles of his back and shoulders between my legs as Belial paced the arena, letting me reach out to the demons brave enough to lean over the wall.
“No more bloodthirsty than you.” On a whim, I grazed my fingernails through his dark hair. A purr rumbled through him. He was like a lion trapped in a man’s skin, but with all the simple pleasure of a cat. “Will you fight me now, Belial?”
He turned his head and pressed a kiss to the inside of my thigh, sending shivers through me and making my wings rustle. One of his fingers pressed against my injured leg and I couldn’t hold back a hiss of pain. “Not tonight, angel. I want you at your best for both fights.”
“I fought just now. I’m still ready.”
“I should’ve said three. Two in the arena, and the one in the bedroom.”
A faint flush rose in my cheeks. I was getting better at hiding my reactions to both his thinly-veiled innuendo and overt come-ons. “In two days, then. You did promise, demon.”
“And I’m a demon of my word,” Belial said, his lips still brushing my thigh.
He waited until after my fourth fight, three days later.
I should’ve guessed when Vyra whipped out another costume that made me cringe in a corner until the shades dragged me out and forced me into a chair.
“It’s not fair to use puppy eyes against me,” I grumbled. Vyra had impressive puppy eyes. It was extremely annoying, especially when I wanted to flee for the sake of my modesty.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” she whispered, shaking the garment and making it rattle. “I know that deep down you love me, but I can be patient while you work up the nerve to say it.”
The costume was tiny. And silver. And while some of the mesh was thick with beaded embroidery, that embroidery was strategically placed to only cover the bare minimum of my essential parts.
I flinched when one of the shades began dabbing silver paint on the tips of my wings.
“It’s so small.” I was trying not to whine, really, but it made my clothes from One Thousand and One Nights look downright demure in comparison.
“Yup.” Vyra held it up and looked at me through the mesh. I stared back in horror. “I’ll have to sew you into it. It’s one-time use only.”
Which she did, whipping a needle and thread around my sides and shoulders. Silver concentric rings were painted around my arms and legs, and instead of shoes I was given ankle bracelets with little bells that tinkled every time I took a step.
“Melisande?”
I made the mistake of looking at her. The puppy eyes were back in full force. It made no sense that a creature of lust could look so adorable. “Ye-e-e-s?”
“When you kick Yraceli’s ass and win your freedom, you’ll take me with you, right?” Vyra’s lower lip trembled. “Because you can’t dress yourself. You’ve already proven that you think potato sacks are haute couture, and I don’t think my heart could bear knowing that you’re out there murdering Gabriel while wearing a cardboard box.”
“What, you think I’m going to kill him in this?” I asked indignantly.
“I was actually thinking of a dress-armor hybrid-” she began, her eyes lighting up, but the familiar rumble of the arena filling up vibrated through the stone. “Oh! You’re on. Knock ‘em dead.”
She might’ve said knock him dead, but the shades were already hustling me to the door. Vyra twinkled her fingers in farewell, looking smug as usual.
I took several deep breaths as I made my way through the corridors. The costumes were beside the point.
From what I’d seen, after the third fight, Belial really started to ratchet the pressure up. These were the big leagues. My head needed to be in it if I wanted to win.
The Overseer in front of the gate held out an arm to stop me, waiting for the cue.
My prince’s voice echoed to me through the stone corridor. “From the middens of Irkalla, a Gallu demon!”
I clenched and unclenched my fists, heart thundering in my chest, wondering what monstrosity Belial had trotted out now.
“Give your love to No Saint,” he called, and the Overseer let me pass.
I grabbed a spear from the weapon rack before I fluttered into the arena, dropping to the obsidian floor right in front of a small, twisted creature to thunderous applause.
It was vaguely human, but its face was taken up almost entirely by one huge, pitch-black eyeball. The Gallu stood upright and unfurled six spindly arms, each clutching a knife coated in old blood.
I rested the butt of my spear on the floor, and the Gallu bared sharp, clear teeth at me. It might be small, but it was vicious.
So was I.
“Are you going to cheer for your-” Belial’s voice cut off as I launched into the air, hefted my spear over my shoulder, and threw it right into the Gallu demon’s head.
It blasted backwards and the spear embedded itself in the bones of Belial’s dais, the remains of the demon flopping like a rag doll. Yraceli glanced over at it, her porcelain mask impassive as she turned it back to me.
I landed lightly on my feet and dusted my hands. Mission accomplished, and I didn’t lose a single bead off Vyra’s costume.
“Was that all?” My voice was loud enough to carry through the silent arena.
They burst into cheers, holding up signs for me.
Belial slowly stood up, unbuttoning his shirt, and took a step down from the dais. The bone stairs creaked under his heavy tread.
“That’s not all, No Saint.”
All sound died away again as Belial stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. I tried to keep my eyeballs in my skull where they belonged, but it was almost an impossible task. His deeply-tanned skin was silky all the way down to the waistband of his pants, and he was just as broad and bulky as Tascius.
Of course Vyra had given me nothing but a scrap of mesh and embroidery for my fight against the Prince of Wrath.
My mouth was unnervingly dry as he descended to the arena floor. I couldn’t tell if it was from anticipation at getting my ass kicked, or because he looked so much more delicious than any Prince of Hell had a right to.
Judging from the growing murmurs of excitement, Belial didn’t often fight in his own arena, much less against someone he owned. I circled him, grabbing a new spear from the rack, testing its weight and balance.
Anything less than the perfect weapon was going to lose me this fight, but I knew Belial wasn’t going to go easy on me. I’d asked for this, and he was going to deliver.
My heart pumped faster. I felt hyper-aware of every drop of blood in my veins and how easily Belial could spill it.
He didn’t bother with a weapon of his own, rolling his massive shoulders and cracking his knuckles. His forearms flexed enticingly with the movement.
I was fucked. Literally, no matter whether I won or lost.
It was very appealing.
The spectators suddenly seemed torn between their choices. On one hand, my supporters were still waving their banners, their raven-wings bouncing as they jumped with excitement. On the other hand, no one seemed to want to cheer against their prince.
I smirked up at the crowd and raised my hand, beckoning them to call for me. Everyone wearing my symbols yelled back, shaking their signs to raucous applause.
&n
bsp; “I’m going to put you on the floor, Prince,” I called, earning another cheer.
As long as you’re on top, he mouthed before spinning to face his side of the arena.
Their screams were so loud the floor shook. Dust spiraled down from the ceiling, and I delicately flicked my wings to clear it off.
I licked my lips as Belial faced me. The moment stretched out between us, tight as a rope about to snap, and everything else faded into the background.
This was true war, only me and him. The universe outside the two of us ceased to exist for that interminable moment.
Belial grinned back at me, tossed his head.
Then he changed. One moment he was a man, and the next, his limbs were warping, face stretching, smoke gushing from his nostrils as he grew. My mouth almost dropped open as he stretched, luxuriating in his new form.
It was extremely clear why it took an entire war choir to bring down a single Prince of Hell.
A lion the size of a tank prowled across the arena floor, switching a tail tipped with flames. He still wore that grin, but now he showed incisors the length of my hand, and the fires of Hell danced in the lion’s aquamarine eyes.
“Oh, you sly motherfucker,” I breathed.
I launched towards the ceiling as he pounced, landing where I’d been mere seconds ago. The only tell was a ripple of muscle under the lion’s glossy golden hide.
He tipped his head back and roared, the sound so loud it buffeted me through the air. I gripped my spear with suddenly-sweaty palms, heaving it over my shoulder, and launched it as hard as I could.
It hit him in the flank and bounced right off, the point bent out of shape.
I could practically read the look in his eye: are you even trying, angel?
Hell yes, I was trying, but there was no weapon in this arena that was going to break through that hide. That left me either fighting him face to face, which would probably end with me taking a faceful of claws, or…
I swooped around the breadth of the arena, building up momentum. Belial’s eyes followed me, his flaming tail nearly taking out a crowd of demons who’d clustered by the wall for a closer look. The acrid reek of singed hair hit my nose from twenty yards away.
