The Eighth
Stephanie M. Wytovich
Dark Regions Press
2016
The Eighth © 2016 Stephanie M. Wytovich
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
Edited by: Lynne Jamneck
Cover art by Samuel Araya
Interior design & cover layout by Mandy Cramer
Dark Regions Press, LLC
P.O. Box 31022
Portland, OR 97231
United States of America
www.darkregions.com
First Trade eBook
ISBN-13: 978-1-62641-220-0
Praise for
the eighth
“A fierce and emotionally intense debut.”
- Craig DiLouie, author of Suffer the Children
“A brilliant debut from a major new talent, full of darkness, fire, and devilry. Indeed, the sins in this novel are so well realized that I fear just a little for Ms. Wytovich’s soul.”
- Rio Youers, author of Westlake Soul and Point Hollow
“Gripping. Searing. Beautiful. Stephanie M. Wytovich’s vision of hell has stuck with me long after reading it.”
- W.H. Horner, editor-in-chief of Fantasist Enterprises
“Stephanie Wytovich’s The Eighth is a savage tale of betrayal, regret, and the dark side of love in its many forms. The poetic imagery she sprinkles throughout balances the brutality with beauty.”
- Chris Marrs, author of
Wildwoman and Everything Leads Back to Alice
“Loosely based on the Hades of Dante’s Inferno, Wytovich’s depiction of the underworld is truly terrifying and it’s likely that it would scare the hell out of Alighieri himself.”
- Shane Douglas Keene, This Is Horror, UK
For Michael A. Arnzen
My mentor, my colleague, my friend.
I couldn’t have done any of this without you.
Acknowledgements
There are so many people who guided me, loved me, taught me, and mentored me throughout the writing of this book that I want to take a few minutes to acknowledge them in thanks, for without them, I never would have had the courage to go to Hell and back: my family, the June 2011 Ones, Seton Hill University’s Writing Popular Fiction Program, Chris Morey, my editor, Lynne Jamneck, the Raw Dog Screaming Press crew (special shout out to Jennifer Barnes and John Edward Lawson), Heidi and Jason Miller, Michael A. Arnzen, Scott A. Johnson, William H. Horner, Tim Waggoner, Albert Wendland, Maureen Vissat, Michelle Renee Lane, Ryan DeMoss, Joe Borelli, Tom Connair, Matt O’Dwyer, Chris Shearer, Gina Greenway, Querus Abuttu, Kristin Dearborn, Deanna Sjolander, and so many others.
All of you helped shape me into the person and writer that I am today. I love you all and I can’t thank you enough for your presence in my life.
- Stephanie M. Wytovich
CONTENTS
Part 1: Death
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
Part 2: Rebirth
Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23
Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26
Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29
Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32
Part 3: Resurrection
Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35
Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38
Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41
Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44
Chapter 45 Chapter 46
About the Author
Part 1: Death
“Do thou protect me from her, famous Sage, for she doth make my veins and pulses tremble.”
- Dante Alighieri, The Inferno
Chapter 1
Paimon set himself on fire.
The idea of performing another collection made him sick. It pulled at his insides, stretched his stomach tight and raw, and just when he thought he’d purged all his guilt, another wave of nausea hit.
Bless me my sins…
He opened his mouth and swallowed the flames.
They waltzed down his throat, spinning their partners in a sizzling duet—red and orange tangos, yellow and blue ballets—and when they dipped into his chest, he screamed.
The burn felt good.
But not as good as the whip.
Paimon stood naked in the burning chamber and beat himself red. The black leather straps left lines on his flesh as the flames licked at his blood. They lapped at the crimson sweat with forked tongues like hellhounds after a long run, but it was the release he longed for. He yearned for something to suck out his regret, and pain was his only option.
Just a few more minutes, he promised himself.
His body shook like a beaten dog.
His wedding ring seared a bloody circle around his finger.
The air, thick with smoke, gagged him as he dropped to his knees. The glass walls were blackened with soot and bits of charred flesh littered the ground. Skin pooled near the drain. With each burn he felt stronger, more able to carry out the task that stood ahead of him. He knew that the others frowned at his routine. Hidden in the corners, they smirked at him when he walked the halls of the monastery, stared at him during mass as if he were a leper. But they never said anything. The way they refused to make contact with him said enough.
Paimon reached for the silver cord that dangled above him, thought twice about pulling it, but then yanked it down. Water poured from the spigot and extinguished the surrounding flames. The glass walls lifted, expelling smoke and the sweet smell of burnt flesh, and then disappeared through the mirrored slits in the ceilings. Still on his knees, Paimon crawled out of the chamber and onto the cool slate floor of his cell. His body, unable to adapt to Hell’s chilled embrace, went into shock, and he lay there for a few moments, convulsing as the cold put out the fire and he began to heal.
Marissa…
Paimon thought back to the first time he chastised himself. It was shortly after his first mortal kill and the guilt he felt for the young girl ate away at him like a parasite. The pain of the whip—and later the fire—made him feel good, forgiven. He didn’t like what he was, but he couldn’t help it either, so he’d beat himself bloody and put to death the earthly deeds his body committed: fornication, impurity, passion.
He’d lost sight of who he wanted to forgive him long ago.
But he knew it wasn’t God.
That man didn’t exist.
To Paimon, there was only him.
Paimon’s mouth tingled with the aftertaste of shame as a knock tapped on his door. He wiped the leftover tears from his eyes, and blinked a few times to steady his focus. He checked to make sure the lock was still in place, and when he realized it was, he closed his eyes and tried to fall into prayer. Paimon inhaled dust and ash, answering the visitor with monastic silence. Whoever it was could go away. The demon wasn’t in the mood for an audience. Especially now.
Bless me my sins and the sins to which I am bound to make—
“Sire, I know you’re in there. I can see the smoke,” said the messenger. “I’ll leave the parcel outside the door, but know that the Devil is insistent you leave for rounds this evening. You would be wise not to disappoint him.”
A grumble escaped Paimon’s parched lips. Words were beyond him. He coughed and sputtered, shook the mixture of blood and phlegm out of his palm, and realized he sti
ll gripped the whip with his other hand. The mere thought of going back up there—and so long after his last assignment—sent his mind reeling. It wasn’t so much the job that he hated, but the memories that resurged every time he stepped foot on mortal ground.
Streams of forgotten people and old places flowed through his thoughts like an antique film, but it always ended the same. The death of the leading lady was inevitable. She had to die, and Paimon had to watch it.
Over and over again.
He took a deep breath and dug his nails into the handle of the whip. Pieces of black leather buried themselves under his rage-induced claws, and with what energy he could muster, he threw his arm behind him in a quick snap and lashed out at his back as he screamed out her name.
Paimon howled in agony. The roar was deep, guttural, and it shook the rotted walls, sending a dusting of grit down to the floor. Why am I always the monster? Why was I chosen to suffer? Without the fire to concentrate on, the room began to spin. Paimon dropped the whip as a familiar hole ate through his chest. He collapsed as he struggled to find air.
One.
Two.
Three.
Marissa, stay with me.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Don’t leave me.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
No! Please…
Ten.
Her face evaporated like a thin fog as Paimon wrapped his arms around his knees. Adrenaline swept through his body and dissolved in the draft riding the floor. He wished he were dead. Not the dead that mortals think happen to them after they die, but dead in his soul. The flesh meant nothing. The spirit? It was obsolete, a ghost’s body bag before its real death. Yes, what kept a person walking after their heart stopped beating was their soul. Specifically, where it ended up.
In the distance, the bells chimed.
Paimon mouthed the count of the hour in his head. It would be sundown soon and he didn’t have much time to prepare. Soon the halls of the monastery would be alive with blessings and prayers, floggings and torture. He didn’t want to leave the solitude of his chamber, but if his brothers and sisters already saw the smoke, then they knew a collection was on the horizon because that was the only time Paimon prayed. They would be waiting for him to surface. All outside itching to gawk at the reclusive creature’s return to work.
Their excitement over his pain and humiliation disgusted him.
No wonder we’re all in Hell.
Paimon picked himself up, hearing the subtle crack and pop of his bones as he walked over to the ironclad door. It wasn’t like him to go into a job without studying the case, but the afternoon’s festivities took precedence over whomever the Devil had in mind for the ceremony. Praying was a necessity after all.
The door whimpered as he pulled it open. It stuck at first, as if imaginary hands held it to the ground, but then it gave in, like all good things do in time.
Paimon rubbed the crusted tears from his eyes and blinked. The package lay before him, neatly bound in twine and tied in a bow as if it were some sort of present.
Some gift.
He bent down and picked up the parcel. It was heavy, a lot heavier than the others had been, but that didn’t mean anything. Some sins came with a darker past, which in turn, meant more paperwork, more history. Depending on the case, there could—and most likely would—be anything from death certificates, photographs, and suicide notes in there. There would be a list of victims, potential targets, and a detailed report of how each incident had been carried out to detect the motive, pattern, and classification of each sin. If Paimon did his job like he was supposed to, he’d know everything about the hit before he got on scene. But after his prayer session with the whip, he didn’t have the energy to prepare.
Paimon hung his head in contemplation of what he was about to do when the piercing screech of the warning siren rang throughout the halls. If he didn’t hurry, he’d miss the ferry. And Charon hated when collectors were late.
Damn it.
Tonight all he had time for was a name.
He’d have to figure the rest out as he went along.
Paimon plucked the wrinkled tag off the package and sliced his thumb on the edge of the label. His skin opened and dribbled out a small drop of crimson as he read the name aloud.
“Rhea Harmon.”
The name slid across his tongue and lingered on his lips. It tasted familiar. Safe. Like a homecoming after years of being away.
But even so, it didn’t register with him.
None of them ever did.
They were all just words until the moment he claimed them, and by that point, they were hardly human, let alone good company. The females—and they were always females—were the Devil’s favorite, and who was Paimon to deny his lord of anything? Collector or not, there were rules to follow and quotas to meet.
And right now, the numbers were stacked against him.
Paimon tossed the bloodied tag in the corner of his cell and rubbed the back of his neck, kneading the tip of his spine with his forefingers. He hadn’t collected a soul in five months, and time passed slower in Hell. What was five months here, was ten months’ time on Earth. Another one of Lucifer’s cruel jokes. With seconds stretching into days—a careful drop in Hell’s hourglass—the Devil gave you plenty of time to think. And to regret.
Paimon swallowed hard.
Bound by his sins, he was to submit 23 souls per year as payment to the clan, but each assignment became more and more difficult to carry out. The last one—could he even remember her name? —had been especially treacherous. Right when the knife was to her throat, she woke up from the trance and started to cry. She was screaming, pleading, and when she dropped the knife, the steel hit the ground like pieces of silver dropped from the hands of a dead man hanging. All Paimon could see was red, and life didn’t start to fade back into focus until he pulled the blade out of her windpipe and took in the silence of her death.
He shivered.
The draft climbed up his legs and wrapped itself around him like a bad memory. He walked back into the cell and put the package on his bed. The small collection of hay sank at the touch of its weight. Paimon willed a pair of weathered jeans and a black t-shirt onto his body, cringing at the feel of fabric on his flesh. The cloth caught on pieces of burnt skin, a flesh-filled tug-of-war depending on how he moved.
He wasn’t used to the comfort of clothes, and the shirt made him itch. Paimon dug into his arms, wailing as his nails peeled off skin in an attempt to soothe the irritation, but it wouldn’t go away. He wasn’t sure what hurt worse: the mortification or the healing?
Paimon flinched as he willed on shoes that felt like cinderblocks around his ankles. Each step he took rubbed his body raw. He moved in a slow shuffle, fearful that he’d collapse if he tried to go too fast, too soon.
With no time to study, he left the cell armed with nothing but a name and a death sentence.
Tonight, Rhea Harmon would die.
And then, he would burn.
Chapter 2
Rhea gripped the steering wheel with one hand and held her ninety-nine-cent cup of gas-station coffee in the other. A half-burned cigarette hung from her mouth as she drove the country roads with the windows down, a pile of ashes in her lap.
“He’s been fucking her, you know,” the voice in her head said.
Rhea took another swig of coffee and bit her lip. Why was it that every time she bought coffee from somewhere, it tasted like someone had pissed in it?
“Yeah, I know,” she said as she dug her nails a little deeper into the leather-covered wheel. She let out a heavy sigh and watched her breath dance with the steam from her coffee. Her hands shook, but not from the cold.
“What are you going to do about it?”
Rhea drained the rest of her coffee and threw the cup out the window. Urine-flavored or not, she’d gotten used to the taste. Every night at 9:30 p.m. she’d go down to the mini-mart and
grab one to help ease the cold on the drive.
“I guess I need to see it myself,” she said.
The voice in her head remained silent, but only for a moment.
“You do what you need to do, but we both know what the outcome will be.”
Rhea rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and listened to the car. It sputtered out a few death rattles, but the hand-me-down Ford coughed itself along as it moved off the side of the road at a crawl. The barren trees to her side formed a canopy of arthritic hands over the hood of her car as the moonlight beat down on her windows. She coasted along the ice-laden country road and took a left on Spruce Street.
She didn’t realize she was crying until she tasted the saltiness of her tears on her lips. It wasn’t fair. None of it was. A person’s heart wasn’t meant to be treated like this, like something disposable. Love shouldn’t break the person inside, steal bits and pieces until all that’s left is a shell, a husk. It should be kind, honest, not filled with betrayal and bruises, yet after all their years together, Rhea still didn’t know how her and Caden got here. The fighting. The lying. The pain kept growing, and no matter what she did to try and fix it, she always ended up in tears.
Rhea checked her phone, hoping to see a missed call or a bypassed text message, but there was nothing. She tried to make herself believe that Caden was home, mostly because she didn’t want to believe that he’d gone to Matthew’s party without her, or even worse, with someone else. Their conversation had gotten pretty intense earlier that day, and they both said some things they didn’t mean. You’re a monster. You’re crazy. Why do you always play victim? Rhea sank deeper into the seat as Caden’s words sank deeper into her. She picked up the phone and tried calling him again but he wasn’t responding to any of her calls. Part of her thought he was just blowing off some steam, but the other part knew she wasn’t that lucky. Last week she’d hacked into his email account and saw that he was seeing Jayme again. Ever since then, they’d been fighting morning, noon, and night. Finding out he was seeing someone behind her back would have hurt regardless, but the fact that it was Jayme, and that Caden repetitively denied anything was happening, made it ten times worse. The girls had been best friends since grade school, and just a few months ago, Rhea and Caden were talking marriage. The idea of him cheating on her—and right in front of her, at that—was hard to believe.
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