Charm City (The Demon Whisperer Book 1)

by Ash Krafton

  She tucked a loose strand behind her ear. "That's the point."

  "Why, though?"

  "Because I'd like to be able to get out again." Her lips stretched with lukewarm humor.

  His heart leapt like it was kick started and banged in his chest, cold adrenaline washing down his legs. "Oh, no, no, no. You are not going down there. That's a death wish."

  Chiara rubbed her hands together and looked away. "I'm fairly sure it isn't."

  "I can't just go marching down there and expect to skip on back out." Simon started to pace, careful not to step in the salt. "I may be, ah, detained."

  She raised an eyebrow in question.

  He shrugged. "I put a few of those folks down there."

  "And that is precisely why you're not going with me."

  Simon grasped her arms and pulled her up to his face. His voice was ragged and weary, lacking all of the iron in his eyes, his set jaw. "I can't let you go alone."

  "But you must." She gently extricated herself from his grasp. "Look."

  Chiara ran her hands over his chest, smoothing his rumpled shirt before tugging down his collar. Reaching into his shirt, she tugged out the chain. His amulet dangled from the end, winking in the sunlight. "I'll wear this, see? You can cast an Extemporanivis spell on this and monitor me."

  His tongue felt thick and dry. His amulet. She wanted to take his essence into Hell with her. "And turning that thing into a GoPro is going to make everything all better?"

  "As good as I can make it."

  His indignation crumpled. That soft voice. So unlike the voice she used when he'd first met. "Why? Just—why this?"

  "Because I don't have anything else to offer you, Simon. And I want to make you better. You deserve to feel better."

  His gaze never leaving hers, he pulled the chain over his head, feeling the weight of the amulet in his palm. He'd never taken this off, not once, since it had been blooded. It was a part of him. It was his protection, his armor. "You can't go running into Hell and back for the sake of a guy's feelings."

  "You're not just any guy. I need you."

  Well. He rubbed his lips with the side of his finger, weighing the words. He'd heard them before, countless times from the most random of people. Something about the look in her eyes, the timbre of her voice, the feel of her. It all added substance to the words that had fallen so easily yet shallowly from the mouths of others.

  Wordlessly, he looped the chain over her head, tugging her hair over it, smoothing it back. If he couldn't go along, he'd send the best part of him with her. There was no one else he could imagine wearing it. "I would protect you with my life, kid. I guess this little piece of me will have to do."

  She positioned the pendant so it lay flat below the hollow of her throat. It glowed with fierce swirls, the magic turbulent within, protesting. He simply lay a finger upon it and pressed it against her skin. The glow settled, acclimating to their common touch.

  "Now." She scrutinized him with an up and down look. "It would have been easier if you'd worn a tie. I think my scarf will make a nice receiver."

  Simon's shoulders crumpled like a sullen teenager and his eyes slid sideways. "It'll look stupid."

  "Good thing no one is watching. Now, get chanting."

  Chanting, he could do. Simon charmed the necklace with a wave of his fingers and a few words in Macedonian while Chiara tugged the scarf out of her hair. He scowled, but charmed the polka-dotted strip of silk when she held it up.

  Chiara licked her lips. "Now, the staircase, if you don't mind."

  What could he do? His hands were tied. As much as he hated—really hated—the idea of her descending, he knew he didn't want to stop her. It had been years since he'd known the taste of hope. It was nearly a dead memory but when he looked at her, straight in the eyes, he saw a light there that could only be described as hope. Normal people didn't have that special light in their eyes. She had to be different. She had to be the one to change this path he was on.

  So what else to do but cast the Staircase? If anything went wrong, he swore he'd go right down after her. It was his fate to suffer. Not hers.

  Even if things went her way, he'd still be the man who opened a hell gate and allowed his friend to walk right through it. It was a new kind of damned for him.

  He prepared to cast the spell. But first...he needed a boost.

  "Close your eyes," he said.

  She didn't even ask why. She only did as he asked.

  It only made him feel dirtier than this part usually did.

  He slipped his wand out of his pocket and pulled up his sleeve. Clenching his teeth, he mouthed the chant, his voice little more than breath, and pressed the wand into his tattoo. The magic surged through him like a wave of pleasure, one that rolled his stomach and made his arm throb. The pleasure turned to cramping. His mouth watered and tasted like sea water.

  Heroin was probably easier.

  He cast the spell before the world went sideways on him.

  Within the circle, the merry-go-round shuddered and shook and flattened and folded in on itself with metallic clanks. The ground beneath it sank, leaving a stone spiral staircase curling down. A cloud of dust rose, bringing the stench of sulfur.

  She blinked hard when she heard the noise. "That was fast."

  It was easy. Too easy. He yanked down his sleeve before she could see the sullen glow. "Well. I have dabbled, you know."

  She grinned and stepped to the edge, looking in. "One more thing. A Water Wall. Can you do that? Say, the third step down? That will give you enough time to close it if things go south."

  He stowed his wand, his fingers still tingling from the hit. "Did I tell you I don't like this?"

  She didn't respond.

  He closed his eyes and spoke a verse. The staircase filled with water, brimming at the third step.

  He spread his hands, one last plea. "I don't have to say it, do I?"

  "Don't worry." She shook her head. "I will."

  She stepped onto the first step and slowly went down the staircase. Her clothing floated on the water. She kept walking. Her hair floated. She kept on until she was completely submerged and didn't stop. No bubbles, no sound.

  He reached into his inside breast pocket. Instead of a charm or an amulet, he pulled out a rosary.

  Making the Sign of the Cross, Simon began to pray.

  Chiara rounded the final steps and completed her descent into Hell. When her feet hit the scorched terrain, a wave of muffled thunder rolled across the acrid plane.

  Her hair whipped about by chaotic winds, she strode across the red raging landscape. It looked like a battlefield, piles of bodies, mangled and maimed…

  But not dead. Tormented souls, strewn all around, eternally trapped by their choices. Some reached out to her, pleading for help.

  She didn't even look at them. She walked with a purpose, knowing exactly where she had to go.

  Simon stood at the edge of the pit, her scarf tied around his forehead, eyes unfocused, watching Chiara from the view of the charmed necklace. He can see whatever her amulet pointed at, but cannot hear. He doesn't regret that caveat one little bit. Hell was a terrible noise to endure.

  He saw the fields of Hell. He saw exactly what awaited him. He clutched the rosary so hard his hand bled on the Crucifix.

  On a hill stood a monstrous figure, standing like a monument to the decay and the agony around it. As she approached it, the demon's shifting features come into focus.

  And Simon knew exactly who it was.

  Chiara marched up the hill, lesser demons snarling and slinking out of her way.

  Balazog stood like a giant and marked her approach, chortling as she grew near. WHERE IS YOUR PRETTY MORTAL FACE, NOW? YOU STINK OF THE ABOVE. YOU STAYED TOO LONG. YOU ARE SOFT AND WEAK.

  "I am here for the girl."

  Balazog bared his teeth, a lipless parody of a smile. SHE IS MINE. MY VICTORY. MY WAGER. MY WIN.

  "She was not a prize. She was a smash and grab and she doesn't
belong here. Release her to me."

  Balazog crossed his scaled arms over his grotesque chest. AND WHAT DO YOU OFFER IN TRADE?

  "I remind you of your allegiance."

  MY ALLEGIANCE IS NO CONCERN OF YOURS.

  "Is it not?" She paced a circle around him. "My word can find an eager ear. A misdirection, a tiny betrayal."

  LIES ARE NOT THREATS HERE.

  "No, they are tools. Soldiers are tools. You are a soldier. So are they all." She swept her hand around, indicating the ruins of hell, the shadows skulking across its scarred plains. "And those soldiers do not fight for you."

  Balazog spread his tattered wings, the leather vulcanized by eons of purloined power and Hell's arid heat. Every battle, every vanquished foe, every tiny victory—all of it went into his armor, his wings, his hide. He was nigh indestructible. A true general of hell.

  Chiara had no way to physically defeat him. Not on this plane, nor upon any other. And she was the offspring of two divinities. Balazog couldn't even claim that—demons were once mortal men before their damnation.

  Oh, no. This wouldn't be hand-to-hand combat, even if Balazog planned on exactly that. She exhaled, opening her mind and beckoning to her father. His power filled her like a scalding wind.

  The Corinthian reared back and slashed at her, seeking the tender flesh he'd rent before. She stood her ground and stared him down.

  And when his claws glanced harmlessly off her, she smiled.

  He roared and struck again. Claws slid right over her, throwing tiny silver sparks. His rage made him lose control and he lunged, grabbing her and throwing her down, throwing all his weight and his rage into it, pinning her beneath his talon-tipped wings.

  Calmly, she gazed up at him, as beguiling as a lover. "You know your place. Your place is below."

  I AM BELOW! he screamed.

  She allowed her father's nature to roll to the surface. It was part of her, half of who she was. Even here in the heat of hell, buried beneath a hulking mass of general-rank demon, she felt clammy and cold. She nodded. "And you will never forget your place. I promise it."

  Balazog sprang off her in surprise. She slid to her feet, fluid-like, serpentine-like.

  The one-track mind of a warrior made him forget his surprise and he scrambled after her, clawing and clutching and gnashing his teeth upon her.

  And she was unscathed. He should have filleted her, devoured her. And nothing. Nothing! His impotent attempts to hurt her infuriated him.

  That was when she saw the first chink in his armor. The breastplate loosened and hung on its hinge. She rolled around him and whispered in his ear.

  "You know your place." She stroked his face, the gnarled misshapen lumps of leathery face.

  He screamed and grabbed her around the waist.

  She twisted and slid free as if she'd been greased. Another show of silver sparks, another crack in the armor as the plate broke free and clattered to the ground. Each tiny defeat weakened him. More plates rattled and loosened.

  "Your place is below. Stay in your place below."

  Time and again he rushed her, desperation wearing through the rage. Each time she whispered his dreaded truth. Each time she evaded him, each time his hard-won armor weakened and crumbled.

  Finally, he turned to her, his armor destroyed, his wings drooping, and he revealed what made him Simon's worst nightmare.

  A small girl huddled, trapped inside his misshapen abdomen. Dirty and wide-eyed, the child looked driven to madness, holding onto the demon's ribs like prison bars. Her eyes peered out, searching wildly about.

  When she saw Chiara, she screamed.

  Simon couldn't keep up with the images that flitted through his Sight, streaming from the Extemporanivis spell. He saw the demon rush Chiara, saw her roll with the demon when he jumped her. But the action slowed and he caught his breath but then demon turned and he saw her, saw the child, trapped and screaming—

  "Release her to me." Chiara closed her mind, feeling her father's influence fade. The heat returned like burning canvas, stealing her breath.

  AND IN EXCHANGE?

  "You survive. I bested you. The Corinthian is powerless against me."

  A TRICK. I WILL KEEP YOU IN HER PLACE.

  "Will you?" She smiled coldly. "I've no use for an empty threat. You cannot touch me. But I will acknowledge your power, general. I will not keep all the spoils. One pass. No more. One pass. By a minion—" She raised a finger, emphasizing the condition. "And no more than one soul. A deserving soul."

  He shifted his stance. No one liked to admit defeat, not even in hell, where all were defeated from the moment they arrived. WHY DO I THINK YOU WIN BOTH WAYS?

  "Because my father makes the rules. Do we have a deal?"

  DO I HAVE A CHOICE?

  Chiara just smiled. "This is Hell, dearie. Choices do not exist here."

  Balazog shuddered and clenched his fists. The ground trembled with the force of power. He shifted, distorted, his very body splaying outward and dispelling the child.

  The girl stumbled to her knees, falling into the acrid dust, choking. Tears streaked her face. Chiara took the child by the hand and led her back to the portal.

  Carefully, she knelt down in front of the girl. Sarah whimpered and twisted her head away, eyes squinched shut. "Don't hurt me. Please. I just want to go home."

  Chiara gently squeezed her shoulders. "Sarah, you are going home. Right up those stairs."

  "I can leave? I can finally…leave?"

  The tiny hope that flickered in Sarah's, like a new firefly, was a good sign. Hell hadn't destroyed her spirit completely.

  Chiara smiled and smoothed the girl's snarled hair. "You'll find someone waiting up there for you. He's pretty old now but don't be afraid. You'll know him."

  Sarah hiccupped and nodded. Chiara hugged her and turned her toward the stairs. She lifted Simon's amulet over her head and placed it around Sarah's neck, re-positioning it on her chest before urging her forward.

  The child took each step hesitantly, not quite trusting. Her tenure in Hell had killed her hope, replacing it with despair…and suspicion. Sarah ascended slowly, eyes on the brightness above. She never looked back.

  Chiara didn't follow the child. Instead, she turned back to the landscape of smoke and pain. In the distance lay an iron road. She set off toward it.

  Simon's vision refocused when he saw movement on the staircase. Pressure in his chest squeezed his breath to a standstill when he saw who it was.

  Sarah. She broke the surface of the water and emerged dry, eyes flitting everywhere, shoulders hunched.

  "Sarah." He slipped his lens out and held it to his eye, hand trembling. Through the glass, she appeared normal. Perfectly normal. "No. Can't be. Sarah?"

  "Simon? Is that you? Simon!" Her eyes grew wide and she smiled, ear to ear. She raced to his arms and clutched him, squeezing his waist hard enough to hurt his still-bruised ribs.

  Solid arms, not the phantom of another dream. She was real. Still ten years old, still a smile that could knock a guy off his feet. Still Sarah, here.

  The past had been undone. Almost every regret he'd bourn in his heart, forgiven.

  He pulled her back and knelt, looking hard at her, cupping her sooty chin. She was real. Chiara had saved the child. Saved them both. Not a ruse. Real—

  Then he saw his amulet on her chest.

  Chiara.

  She was still down there.

  He held the child to his chest and stared over her shoulder to the empty staircase, horror stopping his breath.

  Chiara followed the iron road to a great fortress. Stone walls spanned out to infinity, too high to climb, too wide to circumvent. The road had led her inevitably to a massive and heavily guarded door.

  Legions of faceless demons stood in rank before the door. An army that could strike the stoutest heart dead with fear.

  At her approach, they turned and stepped aside as easily as stirring flower petals on the surface of a puddle. Admitted her without a figh
t. Why would they fight her?

  She raised a finger and pushed the door open, the effort using more will than force. The inside was lit by torches in iron sconces. Even inside the windowless fortress, there was more light than had been on the dim Hell plane. Eternal twilight, fear of the dark. Here, hellfire provided the comfort of light.

  Ironic. Then again, Hell had a thing for ironies.

  Once inside, there was only one way to go. She exhaled through her nose and eyed the staircase.

  Down.

  Deep into a winding dungeon, she trudged for an immeasurable length of time. Minutes and hours and days didn't exist here. In Hell, there was only one measurement of time: forever. It always felt like forever.

  Eventually the stone stairs and stretching corridors ended, and she faced a massive iron door.

  She raised her finger again and drew a symbol across the corroded metal. Internal mechanisms whirred and clanked and the door clacked open, swinging wide with a creaking groan.

  Music seeped out, sounds of a string quartet. She stepped into the same room as her own palace, with identical décor.

  Nearly identical. One difference. Instead of a couch, there was a throne.

  A tall man in an elegant suit stood near the fireplace, his back to the door, holding a glass of wine. He turned his head as she walked toward him.

  His eyes lit up, hot white coals, and he smiled. A selfish, wicked smile.

  "So. The Halfling returns and marches into hell, undaunted. Come, let me have a look at all your ruined perfection." He turned, opening his arms. "Welcome home, daughter."

  She scowled at him. "There is nothing ruined about me."

  "Sweetheart, you were born ruined. Marred by humanity and angel stink."

  "I was born perfect. I have always been perfect. I do what I must do, perfectly."

  Lucifer set down his glass on the mantle and walked over to her, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her tenderly on the cheek. "I could make you perfect. I could burn away those imperfections, like purifying precious metal. All you have to do is accept your place here."