Dire Blood (The Descent Series, Book 5)

by Reine, SM

  “Bad luck,” Isaac said. “I’m going to touch you. Fair warning.”

  Belphegor nodded, so Isaac stooped and pulled the steward’s arm over his shoulder. Lifting him from the ground, they staggered together toward the truck parked on the other side of the gash in the Earth. “How did you find me?” Belphegor asked.

  “The spell that flung you into the desert left residue. One of the security witches tracked it and reported it to the librarians. They record everything.”

  The demon nodded. “I owe you.”

  Isaac shrugged as best he could with Belphegor’s arm still over his shoulder. “It’s my job.”

  “Your jurisdiction doesn’t extend beyond the city’s borders. You have gone out of your way to help me, and I’m grateful.”

  “Good for you.”

  He helped Belphegor into the truck. The steward sat against the side of the bed, pulled his exposed foot into his lap, and began brushing dust off of the bone with delicate fingers. “Isaac Kavanagh,” he said in that strange, awkward, too-formal voice.

  “Belphegor.”

  “I have served the presiding judge in Dis loyally for decades. His secrets are mine. So I hope you understand that I don’t tell you this lightly.”

  Isaac’s brow lowered. His hands hesitated on the door of the truck bed. “If you’re meant to keep secrets, then you’d do well to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Hear me, Isaac Kavanagh. I walked into Judge Abraxas’s private rooms at the Palace of Dis, where I have been discouraged from visiting for some months now, and saw Ariane Kavanagh emerge naked. The air smelled like sex and blood.” He said it matter-of-factly. His words were flowing more smoothly now than they had before.

  Isaac finished latching the gate of the pickup. He stepped back and faced the mountains.

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “Judge Abraxas has no interest in mortal women—as lovers or as slaves. Yet he has purchased almost every human that has crossed dimensions to enter Dis this year. The House of Abraxas is filled with mortals. They are not kept as food, or intended for any service I can identify. They are confined to kennels, fed, and exercised.”

  Isaac understood that Belphegor was trying to tell him something, but he wasn’t sure what, and he couldn’t seem to think of anything other than his whore of a wife naked in the bed of the judge.

  The steward went on. “I serve the presiding judge. His secrets are mine.” Belphegor gave him an impassive look. “I can’t tell you any of the presiding judge’s secrets.”

  Belphegor’s intended meaning dawned on Isaac.

  Onoskelis had complained of records going missing, and she claimed that they were likely being held in private rooms. Now Belphegor had said that he was not allowed in Judge Abraxas’s quarters. What was worse was that Belphegor was telling him at all—because he shouldn’t have been able to tell the judge’s secrets.

  Which meant that Abraxas was no longer the judge.

  “I believe my debt to you is repaid,” Belphegor said. He picked a rock out from between two bones and flicked it over the side of the truck, and then he added, “My apologies about your wife.”

  “Thank you,” Isaac said. The leaden weight of certainty filled him, making it hard to step away so that he could approach the driver’s seat. His words fell flat on the air. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  Isaac entered the Palace of Dis, took the hydraulic lift to the private quarters of Judge Abraxas, and walked inside.

  The doors were guarded by a pair of fiends, which openly gaped at him, as though questioning whether or not they should permit someone to enter Abraxas’s rooms. Or maybe Isaac was reading too much into their dumb shock. Thinking wasn’t really a fiend’s strong suit.

  He waved his wrist in front of the door. He didn’t hear it unlock.

  The time it took for him to consider his options was more than enough time for the fiends to finally decide that Isaac didn’t belong there, Inquisitor or not.

  Feet shuffled on the floor behind him.

  Isaac evaluated the situation. Two fiends, each armed. Flanking position. No obstacles. No witnesses. Easy.

  He spun and punched the nearest fiend in the eye. When it shrieked, he grasped its writhing tongue and jerked it free. It felt like trying to tear through an undercooked piece of steak with his fingertips. Ichor gushed over its jaw, and it loosened its grip on the blunt sword.

  He took the blade from its hand and plunged it into the gut of the other attacking fiend. He twisted, dragged, and pulverized the heart.

  Once that one was dead, he finished the first, and dropped the sword.

  Isaac returned his attention to the door. His heart wasn’t even beating quickly.

  He passed his wrist in front of the lock a second time, but again, there was no responding click. Isaac frowned. As Inquisitor, he should have had access to all of the private rooms—it was his privilege to arrest anyone he wanted, at any time. Even judges.

  On impulse, he grabbed the handle. The door swung open.

  Isaac stared into the empty foyer, eyebrows lifting. “So it’s true,” he muttered, stroking a hand down his beard. The wards would have been bound to Abraxas when he took office, so if he wasn’t living there anymore, the wards wouldn’t work properly. Easier for his whore of a wife to get inside, he supposed.

  He searched the foyer, but he found no records. No surprise there. The foyer was where the judge would have met guests—he wouldn’t leave contraband so easy to find.

  Isaac stepped into the bedroom. It had tall windows overlooking the courtyard, and a massive bed encased in an iron skeleton. Belphegor had said it had smelled like sex. All Isaac smelled was blood. He walked up to the bed, jaw trembling from being clenched so tightly.

  It was hard to see the blood staining the sheets, but there were other, more obvious stains. It must have been a long time since the so-called judge had allowed anyone into his quarters to clean. That wasn’t the kind of mess left behind from a single tryst, or even a handful of them; they were the marks of a long, deliberate affair.

  “I’ll kill her,” he told the pile of pillows. It didn’t make him feel any better to say it aloud.

  He knelt and looked under the bed’s rails. The floor was empty, but when he slid his hand underneath the mattress, his fingers came up against something hard. Isaac extracted a ledger—the kind of ledger that belonged in the library—and paced to the window to read it using the light from outside.

  The first page was more detail on James Faulkner’s indictment. Despite what had been said at the trial, the witch wasn’t being accused of being a demon. He was being accused of being ethereal Gray. A smear of blood on the next page—a thumbprint—had apparently been used as evidence to issue the arrest warrant.

  James Faulkner couldn’t be ethereal Gray. The idea was ridiculous. Anyone with half a brain should have realized that the most powerful witch on Earth had to be human, through and through. It was completely impossible, by the laws of the Treaty of Dis, for anyone with angel or demon blood to perform magic.

  Which meant that the ethereal blood must have come from somewhere else. Somewhere beyond Hell.

  An idea dawned on him, and he shuffled through the folder to the travel itinerary he had glimpsed. Isaac skimmed the page, searching names and times. They were all from the same date, which was six months past—over four years on Earth. Humans arriving, humans leaving. Union transmissions. A visit from an overlord.

  Then he read the last arrival for the day, which was marked at the end of the page.

  Metaraon.

  “No,” Isaac murmured, though his denial had no effect on the truth. Itineraries were automatically logged. It was impossible to forge them.

  But it also should have also been impossible for an angel to enter Hell.

  Footsteps echoed in the foyer. Isaac’s muscles buzzed with tension as he closed the folder again and tucked it under his arm.

  He emerged to find a fiend gaping at the bodies of its
dead brethren.

  “Summon the rest of the security team,” Isaac barked. “We have a breach. Where’s Judge Abraxas?”

  “Alok,” it said. Flecks of spit spattered from its thin lip. That wasn’t a real word in the infernal tongue—fiends were too stupid to speak properly. But it was a shortened form of akilothika, the word for “portal.”

  The rest of the touchstones should have been arriving that afternoon for James Faulkner’s trial, so it was no surprise that Metaraon was at the portal. It was the role of the judge to greet visiting touchstones, after all.

  Touchstones that wouldn’t be expecting attack, just like Sohigian.

  He strode out, leaving all the doors open behind him.

  Isaac intended on confronting Metaraon immediately, but his feet had a mind of their own. While his brain was occupied with thoughts of his wife, he soon found himself at the doors of the library. He located Onoskelis at her table and dropped the ledger in front of her.

  “Here,” he said. “I’ve found my answers.”

  Onoskelis gestured at the opposite chair with her pen. “Set it aside. I’ll sort that later.”

  The absence of gratitude filled him with heat, and Isaac slammed his hands onto the desk. “I brought your missing files to you, and you won’t even look at me?”

  “They’re in my way.”

  “You goddamn—”

  He cut off when she looked up at him. Her oblong pupils glowed with internal fire. “Were the answers worth it?”

  Isaac thought of what Belphegor had said about Ariane, and how much he was going to enjoy killing the judge’s replacement. “Yes,” he said. “Oh, fuck yes.”

  Onoskelis’s eyelashes fluttered. Her lip peeled back and then relaxed. It was impossible to read the expressions of a goat, but he got the impression that she was silently laughing at him. “I hope you enjoy your truths,” she said, and she returned her attention to the ledger, writing a fresh line around the edge of the box without moving it.

  “I plan on it,” Isaac said.

  Ariane checked the clock on the wall. It was almost time for the high trial, and the judge had yet to arrive to greet the touchstones.

  Light thrashed over the broad stone basin that formed the portal through which all visitors had to pass. It shot beams of white energy that arced from the domed ceiling of the portal room all the way to the floor. It occasionally crackled louder as a form stepped forth—someone from another dimension of Hell, or the planes of Earth—and Ariane had to look away to preserve her vision.

  Since the portal room was the first impression all visitors would have of Dis, it was designed to instill something between a sense of grandeur and a sense of comfort. Wood had been imported from Earth so that there could be dark wainscoting on the bottom half of the walls. The chandeliers made it a little brighter than usual, and strips of red carpeting led to the doors. Ariane had always thought it resembled the lobby of a very eccentric, very expensive hotel.

  A hotel that happened to be filled with armed guards in leather.

  The leader of the guards, Veronika, didn’t waver when a stray arc of energy licked the floor near her foot. Her eyes were shielded by opaque sunglasses.

  “Only three left,” Ariane said, making note on her ledger. “Have you heard from Judge Abraxas?”

  Veronika shook her head without responding. Her primary job as head of Palace security was to look tough. Tough demons didn’t chat.

  The portal brightened. Crackled louder. Another figure stepped through.

  It was a dark-skinned woman whose scalp was covered in cascades of thin black braids. Ariane could almost see through the glamour if she tipped her head just the right way—this touchstone wasn’t human. It must have been Baphomet.

  Ariane stepped forward and spread her dress in a curtsy.

  “Welcome to Dis,” she said without rising. Baphomet was a goddess among her people, and such infernal creatures didn’t take kindly to eye contact. “You honor us with your presence.”

  Baphomet brushed past her and out the doors.

  “Maudite vache,” Ariane said once the doors swung shut. She straightened and smoothed her skirts. “Two remaining. We should be able to begin the trial shortly.”

  The doors opened again. Ariane faced them, relieved that Metaraon had finally arrived to do the judge’s duty.

  It was not Metaraon who stepped through.

  Isaac was in full uniform. Jacket, badge, leather slacks, boots, gloves. Even after so many years of marriage, he cut an imposing figure.

  He didn’t speak when he entered. He beckoned Ariane toward him with two fingers. “I can’t right now, Isaac,” she said. “I’m welcoming visitors.”

  “Now.” He bit out that one word in a way that left no room for argument.

  Ariane took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her shoulders began to tremble.

  She handed the ledger to Veronika and followed Isaac into the hall.

  He took her outside, to a walkway between towers. Ariane tried to never step outside without full veils, and the heat of the wind shocked her with its cruelty. The black night bore down on her, heavy and dry. She could feel it creeping under the straps of her dress and irritating her wounds.

  Only when they stood in the center of the walkway, totally alone, did Isaac face her again.

  Ariane could tell instantly that he knew. He knew everything.

  “Isaac,” she began.

  He silenced her with the back of his hand. The blow connected with her cheek so hard that she staggered.

  Ariane’s fingers flew to her face reflexively, but she didn’t otherwise react. She didn’t cry out. She didn’t even flinch. She knew better than to make a show of her pain—Isaac’s anger would only get worse.

  “You disrespect me,” he said.

  “Let me explain.”

  “Explain what? That you’re a whore?”

  He hit her again, and Ariane heard the ringing in her ears before she even felt the crack of his knuckles on her jaw.

  When Metaraon made love to Ariane, he might have wounded her, but he took care not to leave injuries where people would see them and become suspicious. Isaac had no such concerns. He was the Inquisitor, and pain was his profession as well as his passion; it wouldn’t be the first time that Ariane had walked the halls of the Palace with a black eye. He struck her again and again. When she finally faltered, staggering against the railing, he grabbed a fistful of hair and slammed her head into the iron bars.

  Dust stung her temple as it split open. A hot trickle of blood slid down her cheek.

  That was usually the end of it. Ariane’s only comfort when she was subject to Isaac’s intentions was the knowledge that he was seeking a specific outcome—a certain level of pain to soothe the balm of his wounded pride.

  But there was no end to his anger this time. The blood wasn’t enough to satiate him.

  “How long?” Isaac hissed, grabbing the collar of her dress and jerking Ariane to her knees. She remained limp and silent in his grip.

  He slammed her head into the railing again, and her vision sparked with stars.

  Isaac’s voice rose to a roar. “How long, Ariane?”

  This time, he didn’t give her the chance to respond. He grabbed fistfuls of her dress, hauled her to her feet, and shoved her against the low rail.

  Ariane shrieked as she unbalanced, her head tipping backwards over the side. Only Isaac’s grip and his weight pressed against her legs kept her from falling. The Palace grounds and city spun beneath her, a dizzying whirl of red and gray and gold. Smoke burned her eyes.

  “Isaac! Isaac, please!” she cried. She wasn’t sure that he could hear her. It was so loud. Her heart was pounding.

  He was going to kill her.

  A deep, resonant voice broke through the night. “Put her down.”

  The blood rushed through her head as Isaac dragged her upright again and shoved her to the walkway. Ariane fell on her side. She cried out.

  A red-robed figur
e stood a few feet away. Though Ariane couldn’t see his face, she could see anger in the way he held his arms and shoulders. The silence was as black as night.

  “Judge,” Isaac said in greeting, irony dripping from that single word.

  Metaraon lowered his hood. His features were always too beautiful, too perfect, for all the trappings of Dis. He was almost too painfully perfect to look upon. “You weren’t given a bride so that you could kill her.”

  “You’ve been fucking my wife.”

  Metaraon moved too quickly for Ariane to see him.

  Suddenly, Isaac was falling onto his back on the walkway. His shout was carried away by the wind. The angel had hit him, and Metaraon’s expression didn’t change as he struck again, and again.

  Metaraon crouched over Isaac. Though Ariane couldn’t see very well around the wind-whipped robes of the judge, she was sure that Isaac must have done his best to fight back; he always fought back. But all she heard were grunts, meaty strikes, and then Metaraon was shoving Isaac’s cheek to the floor with one hand.

  “How did you even get into Hell?” Isaac croaked, trying to focus through the ruined mess that was the right side of his face.

  Ariane had wondered the same thing when she had first encountered Metaraon in Hell, and asked him, “How did you fall?” It was the only way an angel could enter Hell—to become a demon. Yet he lacked the distorted, bestial limbs of a fallen angel, and Ariane had been afraid that she knew his response before he said it.

  He had gently touched her chin as he said, “I didn’t have to.”

  The implications were just as chilling now as they were then.

  Metaraon didn’t give any such answer to Isaac.

  The angel punched him. Once, twice, three times. Ariane quickly lost count. He only stopped hitting when his fist was drenched, Isaac’s face was covered in blood, and the man was no longer moving.

  Or breathing.

  Metaraon stepped back, and Ariane remembered that nothing was restraining her. She crawled to her husband’s side to check his throat for a pulse. Her fingers slid against the slick skin, but she found the place where his carotid should have been. No motion. She held her damp fingers over his mouth and nose, and the air didn’t move, either.