Sins of the Damned (Fallen Cities: Elisium Book 2)

by Elena Lawson

  Sins of the Damned

  Elisium: Book 2

  Elena Lawson

  Copyright © 2021 Elena Lawson

  Cover by Christian Bentulan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents and dialogs are products of the author’s

  imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events is strictly

  coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  1

  “What happened to your mercy?” I mouth the words along with Fernand, tracing the line of the Count’s face on the beveled screen of the ancient television in Kincaid’s basement.

  “I’m a count,” I say with Edmond Dantes. “Not a saint.”

  I grin as a weight comes off my chest but buckle a moment later as another heavier one settles in its place. There’s not very much resemblance between them, so then why does this movie remind me so much of him?

  It could be the resemblance between him and the character of Albert Modego, played by a young Henry Cavil perhaps? Or it could be the blind fury and singular focus on retribution—the same as the fire that burns at a constant behind the eyes of my Lord of the Underworld.

  “Not this again,” Artemis whines, stepping heavily on the last two stairs leading down to the old cellar-like basement. “If you don’t turn that thing off soon and stop sitting so close to it, you’re going to go blind.”

  “A myth,” I reply dismissively, trying to get him to shut up so I can hear this next bit, eyes fastened to the screen.

  Artemis sighs, and above, I hear the creak and groan of floorboards, signaling that Tori is up in the sitting room pacing…again.

  She doesn’t show how much she’s worried in front of me, but even if I couldn’t see it hidden in her violet-hued stare—which I definitely could—I could also see it clear as the rising sun in the discoloration of her soul. Usually, it’s a steady glow emanating from within her, but her worry has marred it. Made it spotty. Wavering. Pulsating with panic.

  “Well, are you at least going to eat something today?”

  I hold up a half-eaten box of stale crackers and shake it in answer. Then gesture the box toward the empty jar of spicy red pepper jelly I’d polished off for lunch earlier.

  I don’t need to look to see his eye roll. The kid had damn near perfected it in the last four days since Kincaid vanished and didn’t return.

  The shake of the cracker box made Kincaid’s demonic cat lift its sleepy head from my lap, and I settle my hand on its spiny back, stroking gently to soothe it back to sleep.

  The thing had grown on me in the past few days. Taking to sitting with me while I watched film after film, letting The Count of Monte Cristo, Titanic, Casper, and Independence Day push the hours forward. The other VHS tapes I dug out of a wilted box in the corner of the basement didn’t seem to want to work no matter how many times I tried.

  “I wish I never told you about the stupid TV,” Artemis mutters under his breath. “Going to turn into a damned zombie.”

  A little bolt of fear races down my spine at his words, and I dip my head, trying to conceal the emotion from him. I doubt he’s ever seen a zombie, but I have. Or at least, something close to that. The night at Bellefontaine cemetery. The night Kincaid made me curl my hand around that vile spirit scepter.

  They’d tried to crawl from the earth. All bones and frayed, decaying flesh.

  And the smell. I almost gag at the mere memory of it.

  But zombified corpses weren’t the only things we had the pleasure of meeting that night. There had been spirits, too. A few sad ones. A couple guilty. And one very pissed off lord of Hell. Kincaid’s brother Malphas had appeared to me, begged me to tell his brother that he was dead. To warn him of what might happen to him, too.

  Is that where Kincaid is then? In some other spirit plane? Dead?

  Is that why he didn’t come back to me like he promised he would?

  The television isn’t the only reason I tarry my days away in this cold dank cellar. I could just as easily have carried it upstairs. My strength has returned in spades since Tori dragged me back here from the Midnight Court. Strength, I can’t help but notice, that is slightly inhuman.

  But no, the reason I spend my minutes and hours and days here is because they can’t get to me. Upstairs, I’m free game for the spirits to cajole and harass at all hours of the day and night. With my power only growing day by day, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to shut them out. It requires too much energy.

  Down here, though, the whispers are muted. Distant.

  Whoever said basements are where the spooky things hang out have it all wrong. The old stone foundations here seem to create a sort of barrier that they can’t cross.

  As long as I stay here, I’m safe from them. As long as the TV stays on and at a decibel level somewhere above a normal volume and below blaring, I can get some peace.

  Grumbling, I call to Artemis before he can leave. “Since you’re here…”

  Artemis turns, bare feet slapping the cool cement floor as he makes his way over to the television and jabs the eject button on the ancient VCR. “Which one do you want?”

  I ponder my very limited options, lips pursed. “Casper, I think. I’ve only watched that one twice now.”

  A soft sigh leaves his lips, and it’s hard to miss how the aura of his spirit, usually a bright and cheery gold, dims just a little.

  “You could watch it with me if you want?”

  “Pass,” he says as the screen flickers back to life and he steps aside.

  The demonic cat on my lap nuzzles my hand for more pats, and I gasp, prompting Artemis to startle.

  “What is it?” he says, face visibly paling as he takes in the air around us, wary that there may be malevolent spirits about.

  “That’s it!” I exclaim, lifting the cat so I can look him in his bright green eyes. “Casper. You may not be a friendly ghost, but you are a friendly demonic cat.”

  Artemis expels a disbelieving guffaw and a muttered, “Yeah, right,” keeping his distance. “That thing almost took Tori’s eye out yesterday.”

  “Well, I still say it suits you,” I say, lowering demon kitty until he’s sitting upright on my lap, looking up at me curiously, head cocked. “You’re as white as a ghost in any case.”

  “Didn’t you say Kincaid told you not to name the cat?”

  A sharp pang lances through me at the mention of his name, and I work hard to conceal the pained expression trying to work its way onto my face. “No,” I say carefully. “He said that Casper didn’t need a name. Which is ridiculous. Everyone needs a name. Right, kitty?”

  I give him a pat on his head. “Yours is Casper,” I tell the cat, scratching him on his
horned head. “Such a good boy, Casper.”

  He stiffens; his tail, that had been flicking back and forth a moment before, goes rigid. I wonder if he understands me.

  “You don’t like it?” I ask him, worried I’ve offended the thing.

  Without warning he lifts himself on his hind legs and presses his paws to my chest, leaning in to lick my cheek. I giggle at first, but the sound quickly chokes off as a burning sensation spreads through my chest.

  I take Casper’s paws and lower him from my face.

  “Ugh,” I mutter. “I think you’re right, Art. I do need some real food. I think that jelly gave me heartburn.”

  A sharp pain in the side of my index finger makes me start, jumping to my feet and sending Casper to scuttle away, hissing at Artemis as he goes.

  “He bit me…” I trail off, wiping the tiny droplets of blood onto my sweater. I stare incredulously after the cat, noticing something about him I hadn’t before. A faint aura. The pale green of new leaves.

  I squint to make certain it isn’t a trick of the light, but Casper vanishes up the stairs before I can tell.

  “Told you that thing wasn’t safe.”

  I shake out the sting and push my messy hair back from my face, cringing at its greasy state. A good wash is quickly becoming a necessity instead of a luxury. I sigh, knowing it’s time to brave the whispering voices upstairs, if only for the fifteen minutes it will take to scrub the days of hermitting off my skin and grab something more substantial to eat.

  As I gather my trash from beside the weathered armchair, a familiar smell makes me pause. Sulfur. My eyes widen, and I whirl, finding Artemis staring at me with a brow raised, alarm in his eyes.

  “Paige, what’s wrong?”

  I don’t have to answer him. Not more than a second later, a thud sounds above us and then the shouting begins. Tori’s voice rises above the sound of blood rushing in my ears.

  “It’s him,” I say in a breath, hands shaking as I drop the empty cracker box and jar back to the cement floor, rushing past Artemis and into the stairwell.

  I take the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping in my haste. Around the bend, down the corridor, and out into the front entryway.

  There, hunched, with his skin steaming lightly in the center of the grand foyer, is Kincaid. The relief is staggering, and I have to catch myself on the gnarled wood of the banister to keep myself upright.

  “You asshole.” Tori is seething at him from where she stands in the doorway to the sitting room. She crosses the floor and shoves Kincaid in the chest. The first time, he lets her. The second time, he catches her arms.

  His head lowers to stare into her violet eyes.

  “Enough,” he snarls and then releases her.

  “Do you have any idea how long it’s been? I thought you were dead.”

  She wasn’t the only one.

  Tori shakes her head, catching sight of me from the corner of her eye. She winces and I flush scarlet, wondering just how terrible I must look.

  Kincaid turns, his yellow eyes reflecting a myriad of emotions. Grief. Frustration. Pain. But also, as his gaze meets mine, a flash of genuine relief.

  Then his eyes flit away again and a hollowness burrows into my belly.

  “You may leave,” he says to Tori.

  Tori just glares in response, her slender fingers clenching to fists at her sides until her knuckles blanche.

  “Or you may stay. It matters not.”

  “Dick,” she barks in reply, stomping to the coatrack to grab a jacket to throw over the clothes she borrowed from me. “Thanks Tori. Oh, no problem Kincaid,” she mocks in reply to herself. “My fucking pleasure.”

  She shoved her arms into the jacket and grits her teeth, and she sweeps the door open hard enough that it bounces against the opposite wall.

  “I’ll check in soon,” she promises me, and I give her a nod.

  “Thanks, Tori.”

  She side-eyes Kincaid one last time before departing, and I jump as the door clatters to a close.

  Kincaid makes no move to leave the foyer, even after she’s gone. He stands resolute, his gaze slowly roving the floor near his feet. I want to go to him, but something gives me pause.

  Before his brother died in front of us…

  Before I accidentally piggybacked on his ride to Hell…

  He’d kissed me. And I’d be lying if I said that between nightmares of Ford and of all manner of terrible things happening to my lord of Hell, I didn’t dream of him doing it again. And again and again.

  My thighs clench, and I swallow hard, at war with my desire to go to him and my rational mind telling me that would be the last thing he wants. I am the one who proclaimed his brother to be dead. I brought scrutiny down on him by somehow miraculously surviving the trip to Hell and back.

  At least, it seems there is no Diablim brave enough to come for me at Kincaid’s house, but word on the street is they are watching for a chance to corner me.

  I overheard Tori telling Artemis what her contacts passed on to her. It isn’t good.

  “Have you…” Kincaid trails off, and I watch as the inky blackness of his demon form begins to creep up his fingers, coating his knuckles, then his wrists, before he is able to stave it off. “Have you heard anything?”

  I know what he means. He’s asking if I’ve heard from Dantalion. Or perhaps anything else from Malphas. I bite my lower lip, dropping my head in shame as I rub a scuff out of the marble floor with my bare foot. “No. I’m sorry.”

  His lips press into a thin line, and he draws a breath through his nostrils, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

  “Not even a whisper?”

  I can’t tell him I’ve been actively doing everything in my power not to hear any whispers at all. In fact, this is the first time I’ve been upstairs for more than a few minutes to use the bathroom in three days, and already I can hear them.

  Not Dantalion or Malphas but the others. The indeterminate word sounds scratching at the inside of my skull, trying to find purchase in the divots and grooves there. Trying to burrow. To stay.

  “No,” I repeat, but watching how his face falls is like a rock on the windshield of my heart and the next words trip out of my mouth before I can stop them. “But if you want, I can try?”

  He lifts his head again, eyes searching mine. It’s so hard to hold his gaze. I’m worried he can see right through me. I know for a fact he can sense my emotions, and I work overtime to lock them down. He doesn’t need to know I’m terrified he’ll make me use the staff again. Or that I’d give anything to feel his arms around me.

  He looks like a man on the edge. Utterly spent and staring down into an abyss that he knows there’s no escaping.

  “Don’t fret, Na’vazēm. I’ll not leave you again. It’s no longer safe here without me.”

  A spike of ice penetrates my core at his words, but he’s mistaken. He’s reading my emotions all wrong. The fear I feel is not for my own safety. The worry creasing my brow isn’t for myself at all.

  I take in the tattered mess of his fine clothes, realizing with another twist in my gut that they are the same ones he wore that night at the Midnight Court. He hasn’t changed. And judging by the darkness forming hollow pits beneath his eyes, he hasn’t slept, either.

  Trying to exude strength I do not feel, I don’t hesitate as I step forward and tug his hand into mine.

  Kincaid glances down at our twined fingers. He brushes a thumb over my knuckles, and I shiver.

  “Come with me,” I tell him, cursing the way my voice wavers.

  Artemis hovers near the end of the hall, and I try to communicate with a sad smile that I’ll be busy for a while. His eyes spark with a knowing gleam, and my smile turns sour. I roll my eyes at him. The little shit.

  Kincaid lets me lead him upstairs. He doesn’t protest as I push open the door to his bedroom and then shut it behind us. His room smells of him. Like hickory and warm musk.

  To our left, a bed with tall wooden p
osts of the darkest mahogany languishes with a mess of silken sheets and thick blankets atop it. At the end of the bed is a wide, cushioned bench, and I tug him to it, gesturing for him to sit.

  He falls onto it with a sigh and scrubs his wide palms over his face.

  I kneel, busying my hands with the laces on his boots.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, and I peer up to find him watching me.

  “You need a bath. And rest.”

  He quirks a brow, and I try not to die of embarrassment when his gaze washes over my hair and the crumbs littering the front of my wool sweater. He says nothing, though, and I’m able to pluck what’s left of my dignity from the floor.

  I remove his boots and socks before standing to push his jacket from his shoulders and then unbutton his dress shirt. My fingers fumble on the third button from the top as a smooth expanse of golden chest is revealed beneath.

  I curse at myself internally, almost ready to give up when Kincaid closes his hand around my clumsy ones and removes them from his torn and soot-streaked shirt. I drop them to my lap and a ball forms in my throat.

  Hell-warmed fingers press gently against the bottom of my chin until we’re at eye-level with one another.

  “I didn’t think you were coming back,” I blurt before I can help myself and condemn the tears stinging in the corners of my eyes.

  Without a word, he releases my face and I’m in his arms. He pulls me tightly to his chest, and I grip the remains of fabric still clinging to his skin, burying my wet cheeks into him as his hand moves to grip the back of my neck, holding me in place against him. Somehow, I’ve ended up on his lap, and I have no idea how it happened. I hold him tightly, hating that I need this.

  That I need him.