“I’ve haven’t noticed them before.”
“That’s because I’ve never wanted you to see them.”
A deep click echoed throughout the cavern, and Charon pushed one side of the gate open, using both hands and most of his body strength. He came away covered in blood and tears, none of which were his own.
“Go on now, get the girl,” Charon said out of breath.
Paimon picked up Rhea, her hair damp with sweat. He walked up to the gate, nodded toward Charon and turned to walk away.
“Paimon, wait.”
Paimon turned and faced Charon, who stood there wringing his hands.
“Don’t repeat my mistake,” Charon said. “You finish the job. You finish it no matter what it takes.”
Paimon bowed his head. “The job’s already done.”
Charon spat and walked back to the boat.
“Then may all sin be with you, my friend.”
“And also with you,” Paimon said.
He watched Charon fade away, the concern in the ferryman’s voice still thick in the air. When the boat disappeared into the blackness of the cavern, swallowed by the souls that clung to the keel, Paimon started his journey to the desert lands ahead.
The heat from the white and red sand burned through his shoes, singing his feet as he walked across the dunes. It would be miles—at least 30, maybe 40—until he reached the bridges, and with a view of nothing but absence, it was easy to lose track of reality, to hallucinate oneself into comfort. “Damn it!” he cursed.
The Forsaken would be there, guarding the outer grounds with their spikes and their nails, and they would see Rhea. And bound by law, they would take her. Evil little creatures, they stood watch for the Devil, judging the sinners who tried to enter his home. If the sinners begged, whether it be for food, water, or comfort, they were deemed unworthy and given death. The Forsaken would behead them, cut their wrists and ankles and drain their bodies of blood. Then, they’d put their heads on the spikes that outlined Hell as a gentle reminder of what happened to weak sinners.
Paimon ran a dozen scenarios through his head, but none of them worked. With Rhea like this—human—they’d never let her pass. Her soul was still intact, thriving within her body. They’d smell her miles away.
“Pleeeaasse, sire. Help me.”
Paimon spun around but saw nothing except desolation and sand. The desert was as it had always been, barren.
He tightened his hold on Rhea. “Who’s there? What do you want?”
A cry buzzed in the distance, drilling inside Paimon’s ears. The thing wailed, its voice piercing the night with pins and needles, but it was nowhere to be seen.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to touch her, sire.”
Paimon stopped moving.
“Hieronymus? Is that you?”
The sound of shuffling feet echoed behind him. The hair on the nape of Paimon’s neck stood on end. He turned in a circle. No one was behind him. At least, no one he could see. Paimon held Rhea closer, ready to do whatever it took to protect her.
“You shouldn’t be here, Hieronymus,” Paimon said. “You’re dead.”
He could feel the groundling’s breath on his neck.
“Show yourself, you coward!”
“The master’s not happy with you,” the voice laughed. “You were due back hours ago. He won’t be pleased to see you’re not alone.”
“Don’t patronize me. I’m doing my job.”
“Is part of your contract falling in love with his female?”
“I can’t love. I have no heart, you fool.”
The imp laughed again.
“But you do, it’s just not inside of you.”
Paimon’s words caught in his throat, building like trapped smoke until he remembered to breathe.
“How do you know that?”
The desert swelled with silence..
“Because you know it.”
Paimon clutched his chest. Strands of Rhea’s hair wove between his fingers. Just because his heart wasn’t inside him didn’t mean that he couldn’t feel it beat faster. Worry brushed his brow and soon it was painted in a sheen of sweat. Something thick lodged itself in the back of his throat.
“Where are you?”
Nothing.
Paimon spun in circles, searching like a madman for the imp he’d killed. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He should be with the others in the circles.
“I said, where are you?” Paimon yelled, his voice a hoarse rasp. His breathing quickened. Panic swept his body.
A frosted whisper slid down his neck.
“In your head.”
No. No. No.
Paimon ran.
He feared the onset of madness followed him with every step. Voices. Paranoia. It was as if Hieronymus was there with him, leading him into guilt. Keep going. Don’t look back. Something moaned in the distance, but Paimon didn’t dare hang around long enough to find out what it was. There were creatures in the desert that made monsters look like friends, nightmares like lovers. Tonight was not the night to test the fates and take his chances.
Rhea’s weight doubled in his arms. His legs, like two blocks of lead, dragged with each step, and when he saw the skyline of the bridges over the horizon, Paimon’s body melted into the cool, dark sand, and he collapsed.
Bless me my sins…
Chapter 15
Pain pierced his shins. It crawled up his legs and exploded in his thighs. Rhea. Where’s Rhea? Paimon’s arms felt surprisingly empty, but when he tried to reach out to find her, they remained limp at his side.
The sand burned his back.
“Is he alive?” said an unfamiliar voice.
Of course I’m alive.
“Doesn’t look like it,” said another.
How does it look then?
A pair of hands were on him. They searched his body, patting him down like a criminal, while another pair touched his lips as they checked for air.
“Well, he doesn’t look bitten,” said a soft, feminine voice. “Speaking of bites, where’s Cerberus at anyways?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t seen that three-headed beast of a dog all morning”
“Well, even if he’s not dead, he’s obviously weak. Legion won’t want him. Take him to The Forsaken and they’ll bleed him out,” said the female.
Paimon searched his body for strength—even a twitch would do—but nothing happened. Trapped in his mind, all he could do was pretend to scream.
“Well, let’s not all run to do it,” one of them said. “I guess I’ll grab him.”
The hands were rough, calloused. They caught on bits of flesh that weren’t yet healed and rubbed them raw. The guard pushed Paimon’s body over so that he was on his back, and gasped.
“Sweet sin. Call the guards. Now!”
More hands were on him.
“Hang on, sire. We’ve alerted the others.”
Something wet licked his lips.
Water.
Paimon tried to drink but he couldn’t open his mouth. Paralysis had taken over his body and it held him prisoner inside a useless husk of flesh. Open. Please. The water dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt. His throat burned with thirst. It felt like something had spun cobwebs in his throat. .
How long have I been like this?
“Open his mouth. Tilt his head back. We need to get fluids in him, fast.”
Paimon knew his body could live without food and water, but a body is all that it would be. His strength, his fuel, came from the basics, just as it had when he was human. Another of Lucifer’s tricks. The Devil wanted his followers to be dependent, and if they didn’t require food or water, then he would lose part of his control over them. If they wanted to move, to speak, to be, they had to eat and drink. And in order to do that, they had to obey orders.
If they disobeyed and tried to starve themselves, the Devil buried them in the walls of the feeding ground, but only after he removed their eyelids, so that they were forced to wat
ch their brothers and sisters indulge. Defiance was not tolerated. One either lived by the scripture and worked out their debt or served in punishment for eternity.
Paimon chose scripture.
“Lift him up,” a voice shouted. “Go on, easy now.”
A group of hands slid underneath him and hoisted Paimon onto a hard plank. “He’s steady,” said the female voice. Wheels creaked as they trudged through sand, jostling Paimon about as they traveled. Where’s Rhea? What did they do with her? Splinters dug into his skin. Dust worked its way into his nose. A cough lodged itself in his throat, clawing at his uvula as it tried to get out.
He went through his options.
There weren’t many, if there any at all.
No matter how he looked at the situation, blood was inevitable. Lots of blood, most of it his own. I should have read the file so I would have known what I was getting myself into. Paimon thought back to the box. If he had opened it, he could have prepared himself for her eyes, for her lips, for her curves. Maybe then, he could have resisted her, just walked away.
He wondered if the Devil already knew. If he’d been watching tonight, like he does on occasions, or if Paimon’s betrayal would be news to him. Paimon couldn’t imagine any scenario that didn’t end in death. His longing for the Devil’s female—not to mention his violation of her—would earn him time in The Pit, time that he would never get back. His soul would be ravaged, ripped from his body, and thrown to the shadows amongst all those that lived and fed on them. He would have no protection, no guidance. He’d be vulnerable, available. And then his body…
Very little scared Paimon. He’d witnessed a great deal of torture and pain during his time as collector. He’d seen souls sucked from every orifice of the body, tongued and licked out like oysters still in their shells. He watched men burned alive and women drowned in filth. He’d even helped dig some of the holes where they buried sinners upside down, but only up to the waist, so they could be raped by demons as payment for their perversions.
But the idea of being lost, of being found by someone else, terrified him.
As did the idea of The Seven.
“Almost there,” said a voice.
The wagon stopped and Paimon heard the shuffle of provisions. One of the guards wrapped something around his body and Paimon wondered why there was a sudden need to cover him up. The bridges—he assumed that’s where they were—were puzzles meant to torture the mind. The body had no bearing on their outcome.
He should know.
He designed them.
“Do you have the cipher?” one of them said.
“There is no cipher. It’s different for every person,” Paimon said, the taste of his voice strange on his tongue.
“Thank sin, you’re alive,” said the female, whom he now recognized as Arazel.
“Unfortunately, I suppose I am.”
“What happened? We thought…
“You thought the hellhound finally finished me off?”
Arazel laughed while the others fell to their knees in respect.
Arazel took his hand and playfully slapped at his scars. “Still wearing those dog bites, eh?” Paimon never did get along with that dog, even when it was a pup.
“What can I say? Humiliation never goes out of style.”
Arazel smiled, and Paimon couldn’t help but return the gesture. She was a different kind of beautiful, and she wore her charm with a dark eloquence that matched the seductiveness of a black widow spider. She had long, wavy red hair, dark crimson eyes, and skin bathed in milk. Sexuality and temptation all but dripped off her lips and when she smiled, two pointed fangs poked out from her gums. Deadly and beautiful. Arazel was the embodiment of lust, and after serving time for her sin, the Devil made her a guard. She now ruled the second circle and trained its collectors. Arazel was one of the first people Paimon had met when he came to Hell, and the bond between them—a friendship between mentor and mentee—was unheard of in the fires.
But bond or not, he could still see the hurt in her cherry-red eyes when she looked at him.
It was a hurt that he had no one to blame for but himself.
One night after training in the circle, Arazel approached him. She wore black leather pants, thigh-high boots, and a flowing white shirt that tightened at her waist and lifted her breasts. Her eyes never left his as she shook her red hair from its tightly-bound bun. It cascaded over her shoulders and down her back, licking her curves like flames in oranges and reds. She put her hand in his. Her mouth on his neck.
She smelled of spice. Tasted like cinnamon. His body craved her, demanded her, even though his vows said otherwise.
“Let me have you,” she said.
Paimon’s hands moved from her hips, to her cinched waist, lifting up the thin layer of cloth that stood between them. He thumbed her nipples, committed the way she responded to his memory, and then guided her onto his lap.
Her skin, smooth as widow’s silk, slid against him making him painfully erect. He traced the outline of her jaw with his fingertips, drew circles on her neck with his tongue. But when he leaned in to kiss her, really kiss her, something felt wrong.
Arazel’s lips were stained red as blood, crimson with a bitter, wet gloss. They tasted like death, like Marissa’s dying words, and when he broke from her mouth, he heard Marissa’s screams. Devil’s play. He threw her off of him, left her in her nakedness and shame, knowing that he could never be with her.
Not like that.
Not out of lust.
And so he rejected her that night, turned away from her and from sin. She cried for days, her tears streams of blood that stained her porcelain flesh and turned her hands red. But that was the nature of lust, something Arazel knew all too well. In her past life, she had been a seductress, a madam. She knew what it meant to be used, and Paimon knew what it meant to hurt the women he loved. She collected misery and he collected regret. In any other world, they would have been perfect for each other, but here, their bond could only exist as a painful reminder of what could never be.
“Here, let me help you up,” Arazel said as she extended a red-stained palm.
Ache spread through Paimon’s chest as he took her hand. He eased himself into a sitting position and used the cart’s bars to steady his balance. Blood rushed to his head and everything around him started to spin. He closed his eyes for a second, and Arazel sat down next to him, her hand on his shoulder. Breathe. Just breathe. She smelled delicious—like Christmas and winter—and Paimon had to remind himself that he was taken, bonded to another. But how could he explain to Arazel that he’d mated with Rhea? That he’d chosen someone other than her?
Carefully, that’s how.
“Arazel, what happened to the female that was with me?”
Her red eyes bared confusion.
“What female?”
Paimon stared at her for a few moments, reading the lines and creases around her mouth and eyes.
She didn’t know, which meant no one else did either.
“What female indeed,” he said.
“Paimon, you’re not making any sense.”
“I’m not am I?”
But if they don’t have her, then who does?
“Why don’t you lie back down, get some rest. I’ll wake you when we get to sanctuary,” she said.
“Sanctuary? Why do I need sanctuary?”
Arazel took his hand again, and smiled. “Because you’ll be killed if you step foot on castle grounds. And we need time to think, to plan.”
Exhaustion overcame him and his eyes grew heavy.
“But—but what about the bridges? How will you pass without my help?”
“I’ll manage without you, said Arazel. “I always do.”
Chapter 16
Paimon slept and dreamt the same dream he’d had every night since he’d been in Hell.
The room—a single room—was draped in a thick black: black walls, black floor, black fixtures. Silk curtains hung from the ceiling and pooled on the
floor as they covered the bodies that danced beneath them, contorting and pulsing like maggots on the freshly dead. They called to him with moans and wails, begged him to come forward, to share a dance in the shadows.
But Paimon never moved.
Until tonight.
The air was sweet with a citrus aroma—pine and oranges with a hint of clove—and it burned in the smoke of the candles that floated around him. Paimon walked the room, his bare feet soaking up the vibrations. The things behind the curtains screamed with pleasure the more he moved, but before he could reach out to touch them, the door appeared.
It stood tall before him, varnished with a Corinthian trim and cut from a twisted, tri-colored oak. Shades of red wove in and out of the wood, and the carpenter who shaped it had been skilled enough to leave the characteristics that made it so unique: the highlights, the age-rings, the marks. Seven individual cuts. However, the wood was old, worn, and from where it split, leaked blood.
Paimon approached the door, slowly, but with a child’s growing curiosity. The walls sighed, their heavy breaths an ever-present draft. Silhouettes grew restless as they ravaged each other’s bodies beneath the curtains. Wax dripped from the candles, pooling on the floor in small, white puddles.
The room grew quiet, still.
The figures stopped moving, their bodies frozen in orgasm.
“Yes. Come to us,” whispered a voice so quiet, that Paimon wondered if he’d actually heard it.
The door’s wounds began to bleed faster and soon covered Paimon’s feet in a crimson hug. He dug his heels into the floor, soaking them in the warmth. When he took his first step, it seemed as if the blood tried to hold him back, afraid to let him go. But the weight gave, and he stepped forward. Paimon approached the door with one hand outstretched. He wanted to show that he meant no harm and that he was ready to see who or what lay behind it.
He walked and walked but never got any closer.
Paimon felt the eyes of the still-frozen shadows search his body. He wondered if these souls were able to move beyond the cloth. He shuddered at the idea of what they would do if they could. He pictured jagged movements, a steady convulsion. Bodies stiff as dolls. In his mind, their eyes were black soulless pits that reflected the dim lighting drawing him in. He imagined them pale in the darkness, skin as white as a mother’s milk. Small hands with matured bodies. Lips stained with blood and sex.
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