Dire Blood (The Descent Series, Book 5)

by Reine, SM

  “Not a chance,” James said, leaning over to fork a piece of her pasta into his mouth. “I can’t imagine keeping any secrets from you, anyway. I don’t want anything to be unsaid between us.”

  She attacked his fork with hers. “Hey, stick to your ravioli. Don’t steal my dinner.”

  “I’m not stealing; I’m trading.”

  Without any further preamble, he set a diamond ring on the table by her plate.

  Hannah arched an eyebrow. “I bet you that my pasta tastes a lot better than that ring.”

  James gave her his very best serious expression. “Sorry. Best I could do.”

  “Fine,” Hannah said, slipping it onto her ring finger. She looked like she was trying really hard not to smile, and failing. She stretched out her hand to study the diamonds sparkling on her finger. “I guess this means you’ll own fifty percent of all of my dinners, anyway.”

  “I’m cleverer than I look,” he said, taking one more bite of her pasta.

  He leaned across the table and kissed her. Even though she had been eating penne with bechamel sauce, she still tasted like strawberries—just the way he liked her.

  James and Hannah told no one about their plans to marry. They selected a date, picked their color theme—blue and gold, Hannah’s favorite—and acted like nothing had changed.

  Landon summoned James to his house a week later.

  The high priest kept an office in the back of his home, which was deep in the forest outside the city limits. His herb garden was unmatched. The greenhouse was almost bigger than the rest of the building.

  James got out of his car and rang the doorbell. It was answered by Landon’s wife—a plump, smiling woman who had no interest in witches or magic, though she had been watching children at esbats since possibly the dawn of time. Holly had even changed James’s diapers, and she never let him forget it. “Hello, dear,” she said cheerfully, stepping aside so that he could enter. “What a pleasant surprise! I wasn’t expecting a visit.”

  He kissed her cheek. She smelled like talcum powder. “Landon asked for me to come. I drove for over an hour to get here.”

  “Did he, now? And he didn’t warn me that you were on the way? That’s just asking for trouble! Good thing I have dinner in the oven.” She waved her hand through the air, as if wafting the odor of cooking meat and potatoes in his direction.

  “Yet another prize roast from Holly’s kitchen, I assume.”

  “None other.”

  “Unfortunately, I have to get back to Hannah soon.” James raised his voice, even though there was no sign of Landon in their foyer. “You know, Hannah. My fiancée. I don’t think I can stay for dinner—but it’s okay, I had a big lunch.” He added the last part when he saw the unmistakable expression of a woman about to attempt to force-feed him leftovers.

  She squeezed his arm. “Nonsense. I have to send some home with you to share with Hannah, if nothing else. You love my roasts. I used to cook them while you played in a bouncer in the kitchen, you know!” Holly waddled toward the kitchen. “Landon’s in his office.”

  James sighed and headed toward the back of the house. He was definitely going to get roped into staying for dinner.

  The high priest was hanging herbs to dry in his office when James entered. “There you are,” Landon said. “You’re tall—hang this rosemary above the top shelf, on that hook over there.”

  He did as he was told. “Is this why I just drove sixty miles to your house?”

  “No, I wanted to talk you out of your impending nuptials.”

  And so there it was, laid out in the open without any attempt at deceit.

  “I love Hannah,” James said. “I’m going to marry her. We’ve already picked a date next summer. I know that the coven had other hopes, but that’s just how it is.”

  Landon sighed as he hung another bundle of herbs. They were so fresh that his fingers were stained green. “Pamela would lecture you on responsibility, but I’m not Pamela. I’m not going to appeal to your sense of duty. I know why you initiated—I know that you’re hungry for information.”

  “Which you’ve never given me.”

  He wiped his hands clean on his slacks. “You’re right. And it’s time for you to know the truth, James. Once you know the whole story, I’ll let you choose whether or not you want to do as the coven asks.”

  That sounded much too easy. James folded his arms. “And when I decide that I’m going to marry Hannah anyway…”

  “If that’s your decision, I’ll respect it. And I’ll make sure that Pamela does, too.” Landon moved around his desk and parted the curtain on the wall behind it. There was a hallway beyond it. James had been to the house hundreds of times before and had never realized there was anything he hadn’t seen. It must have extended into the cliff backing his house.

  And inside that hallway loomed mystery, knowledge—answers.

  He followed Landon, and the curtain swung shut behind them.

  The hallway sloped down into the earth. The air cooled, and the building grew silent, until he was certain that they had to be deep underground. They walked for almost a full minute before Landon spoke again. “Watch your step. There are stairs here.”

  The descent was steep, and every inch made James a little colder.

  Finally, the high priest touched his shoulder to stop him. They stood in front of a door with a sliver of gray light rimming the edge. The floor and walls hummed faintly.

  “Where are we?” James asked.

  “This is my private ritual space. Generations of akashic witches in your family and mine have used it to cast their most powerful spells. To be frank, I don’t use it. I can’t. Some things skip generations, and I just don’t have the right stuff. But you do.” The silver light etched the side of Landon’s face, highlighting the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and the brush of white hair falling over his ears. “Once you see what’s beyond this door, everything is going to change. Everything.”

  It wasn’t a warning—not really—because Landon knew that there was no way James would be able to resist finding out what waited on the other side.

  Even so, James hesitated, scanning what little he could see of the door in the darkness. It was much, much older than the house above. Much older than any building he had ever seen in any part of America. It was hewn from white stone, almost like marble, with black marks marching up the frame.

  In all of James’s studies, he had never seen such runes. They reminded him of some of the arcane infernal spells that he had found in ancient books, but there was a more elegant slant to the lines, more swirls and swoops. Whatever it was, it hadn’t come from Hell. There must have been so many secrets locked inside of those icons.

  “I’m ready,” James said, his heart speeding with excitement. “I’ve been ready for years.”

  Landon patted him on the shoulder. “Of course you have.”

  The high priest stepped back, and made no move to follow when James approached the door. The humming intensified with every step he took toward it.

  James lifted his hand. Rested it on the silver-wrought doorknob.

  He opened the door, and he saw.

  MAY 1993

  It was an eternity before James went home to Hannah.

  He found her sleeping in bed with a pillow hugged to her chest and another wedged between her knees. James bent down to kiss her forehead. She stirred. Opened her eyes to slits. As soon as she saw that he was there, her eyes shot open the rest of the way.

  “James?” She grabbed his hand. “What the hell? Where have you been?”

  He sat beside her and stroked the silvery-blond hair away from her forehead. The gesture was meant to comfort him more than it was meant to comfort her. “Landon should have told you that I was on a trip for the coven. Just taking care of some business as a favor to my aunt.”

  “Yeah, he told me that, but you didn’t tell me that you were going on a business trip. It’s been two weeks! You never even called me!”

  “I’m
sorry,” James said. “I was busy, and I didn’t have access to any phones.”

  “For two weeks?”

  “I was distracted by studying some very special magic. I’m sorry. You know how I get.”

  She snorted, blowing hair out of her face. “That’s not an excuse. What were you doing? What’s wrong with your eyes? You look different.”

  James turned his head away and focused on the window. “I can’t tell you what I’ve been doing,” he said, massaging two fingers against the left side of his chest. “Coven business. They invited me into the inner circle.”

  “And you agreed,” Hannah said. “Why am I not surprised? You don’t listen to me. You never listen to me.”

  “No, I didn’t agree. In fact, I want to move.”

  That immediately cooled her fury. Her hand dropped to his leg. “Move? What’s wrong with our house?”

  “Nothing,” he said without facing her. “But I would like to leave Boulder. Specifically, I would like to be much farther away from the coven.”

  Silence.

  Slowly, Hannah nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s move out of Boulder.”

  They moved to Denver, leaving behind the house that the coven had bought for them. But they didn’t discuss getting married again, though Hannah still wore the ring. It would have required too much money to organize a ceremony, and moving had drained their savings. James apologized once for the situation, but Hannah was happy enough to have escaped the coven that she didn’t complain.

  Summer came and passed. Months faded into years. James studied, he danced, he slept beside Hannah. Everything seemed exactly the way it had been before his so-called business trip, aside from the absence of the coven’s looming presence. Pamela called him once or twice, trying to get him to make good on his promise to teach Elise, who was visiting again, how to dance. James started avoiding the phone.

  Landon was right. Everything had changed.

  Pamela was speaking to a man. James could see her face drifting through the haze, though he wasn’t sure why—the last thing he remembered was climbing into bed with Hannah, and it had been months since he had visited his dear aunt. But the familiar smell of incense and brass meant that they must have been standing in her office. He had no clue how he had gotten there.

  “She’s still so young. Barely fourteen years old,” Pamela was saying. Her gray-streaked hair was gathered into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck, and she was pacing, twisting her hands, frowning. “I don’t think she’s ready.”

  “Her parents disagree,” said the man.

  Pamela’s lips drew into a severe frown. “Those idiots also sold their morals and genetic material to a mutinous archangel in exchange for being a part of history. They don’t even see her as a daughter. They don’t care what happens to her.”

  “And you do?”

  “Yes. I care for all of my adepts as though they were my own children.”

  “Is that why you surrendered Ariane Garin to me when I requested it?” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to respond. “I have no patience for your human hypocrisy. Tell me where she is and we will leave for the garden immediately.”

  “Ariane was Landon’s choice, and I had no control over any of that. But Elise is my responsibility now, and I say that she’s still too young to be used as—as some kind of tool. At least the other children were guaranteed some longevity, but this—this mission—there’s no way she could survive! Maybe if I could just—”

  And suddenly, there was a pale hand at her throat, lifting her off of her feet. She kicked. Her toes swept just inches from the floor.

  That hand was attached to a long arm, broad shoulders, a tall man with soft brown curls—Metaraon. He looked exactly the same as he had the first time that James had seen him. He was even wearing that same well-fitted pair of jeans and a t-shirt, like a very casual fashion model. And his impassive expression didn’t change as he began to squeeze.

  “Where is Elise?” Metaraon asked, voice calm.

  Pamela shook her head. Kicked harder. Didn’t reply.

  He dropped her and said, “Ah, yes. Of course. Thank you.”

  She crumpled to the floor. Metaraon turned to leave, and the witch scrambled on all fours to her desk, grabbing a huge binder off of the blotter. It was filled with thousands of spells. James knew this because he had spent years helping his aunt put them together.

  Pamela flipped it open to the orange tab—the section in which they kept their experimental battle magic—and ripped out a page.

  The word of power spilled from her lips. The room shook. James’s foggy perception shivered.

  Metaraon faced the witch again.

  He didn’t speak a word as he crushed her esophagus in one hand.

  James’s eyes flew open, and he sat up in bed with a gasp.

  He wasn’t in Pamela’s office. He wasn’t even anywhere near Boulder. Hannah was sleeping beside him, curled on her side with an arm flung over her head as she snored softly. The altar was undisturbed. The bookshelves were full. The paperback he had been reading was still resting facedown on the bedside table.

  And Pamela’s strangled cry was echoing in his skull.

  He rubbed the side of his chest as he slipped out from underneath the sheets. Hannah didn’t stir as he stuffed his feet into slippers, padded into the hallway, and shut the door behind him. James called Pamela’s phone from the kitchen. It rang six times, and the answering machine picked up. He returned his phone to the cradle without leaving a message.

  James braced his hands against the counter and stared at the clock on the wall. He shouldn’t have expected her to answer. It was the middle of the night. She would have been asleep.

  It was only a dream. A nightmare. And no wonder—James had been terrified of Metaraon for years.

  Still, he found himself pulling on a jacket, trading his slippers for shoes, and slipping silently down to his Honda.

  It was a long drive out to Pamela’s house, and the nauseating feeling from his dream didn’t fade as he traveled long stretches of highway through flat plains. Dawn was approaching by the time he arrived. All of the lights were off in the house, except for Pamela’s office. It cast a square of golden light on the grass.

  The front door was ajar.

  “Aunt Pamela?” James called, pushing it with a finger. The hinges whined as it swung open.

  The living room stood empty. There was an unfamiliar pair of shoes on the rack by the door—a pair of girl’s sneakers, size six, unlaced and muddy and hanging upside-down to dry. It wasn’t the only new feature of the room. There were history books on the couch, the coffee table, the floor, like the living room had been converted into a disorganized school.

  It was summer, so Ariane’s daughter must have been visiting. Elise. Pamela had mentioned that girl’s name in the dream.

  All of the doors were closed, except for one. It used to be his bedroom when he visited. When he peeked inside, he saw that there was a safe at the foot of the bed, like the kind people used to store guns. Sweat pants and sports bras were piled on the floor. The pillows were rumpled.

  Nobody in sight.

  “Pamela,” he said again as he stepped back, a little louder than before.

  He knocked lightly on her office door before opening it.

  Everything looked the way that it had in his dream. Tidy desk. Open curtains. Pamela’s binder on the floor, opened to the orange tab.

  And he saw a pair of legs protruding from behind the desk.

  James let out a long line of curses under his breath as he rounded the furniture. Pamela was slumped against the wall, her eyes still open, as though she had simply decided to sit down and rest for a few minutes. A few locks of hair had escaped her bun and fallen in her face. She wasn’t moving or breathing.

  So it hadn’t been just a dream.

  He clapped a hand over his mouth and fought the urge to scream. To cry. To shout and beg with God and maybe throw up everything he had ever eaten on the floor
of his aunt’s office.

  In that silence, James heard the floorboards creak.

  He wasn’t alone.

  James turned. Metaraon stood in the doorway, calm and unruffled, arms folded.

  “Hello, Mr. Faulkner,” he said. “Let’s talk.”

  PART FOUR

  Disestablishment

  XII

  Isaac Kavanagh had been in Dis for years, but not once had he stepped foot past the border of the city without several weapons, a guard, and armored transport; to do otherwise was considered attempted suicide by the Palace. So it was with no small amount of trepidation that he took one of the trucks from the Palace’s security fleet and drove into the desert alone.

  He didn’t go far. Isaac drove to the nearest pit and parked a few feet from the edge, where he was fairly confident that the earth wouldn’t sink and devour his vehicle. He double-checked the letter Onoskelis had given him to make sure he was in the right place, and then strolled along the edge of the pit to the other side. Smoke stung his eyes. Screams drifted from the depths of the ground.

  When he was on the north-most edge of the gash, he waited.

  After twenty minutes, Belphegor appeared on the horizon, approaching him at a slow pace. His normally pristine suit was covered in dust. One of his shoes was missing, baring a foot that had no muscle, no skin—only exposed bones connected by raw yellow tendons.

  He skirted the edge of the pit as calmly as though he had been going on his morning stroll, and then collapsed six feet away. A cloud of dust puffed around him.

  Isaac put his hands in his pockets and examined the steward. The desert had done a number on him. His colorless skin was slimy, like he was beginning to decompose.

  “Will you survive?” Isaac asked.

  Belphegor responded in the infernal tongue, and it sounded like it took a lot of effort, though he should have been able to speak vo-ani as fluently as English or Swahili. He spoke every language that had ever existed. “I’m not certain.”