The quiet unnerved him, but not as much as the idea of the bodies that played in it.
Part of him wanted to walk over to the marble wall and rip off the curtains to see what lurked beneath them. An altogether other part wanted to run, to get to the door even faster. He feared what would happen if he stayed in the room too long, especially since this time he’d made the shadows aware of his presence.
Step by step, he waded through the gore that was now up to his ankles. The slap of blood against his legs stained him red as the slosh of liquid-to-flesh imprinted in his brain. It reminded Paimon of bodies working together, moving against one another as they fucked. It pained him to think of Marissa then. To think of Rhea.
I’ll find you. I won’t stop until I do.
“Yes, yes. Come find her,” said the voice. “We’ll help you.”
The closer he got to the door, the more he realized it was moving, breathing. It took deep inhalations before blowing the air out in cold drafts that wrapped around Paimon’s waist and swept up underneath his arms and shoulders. Paimon shook as the chill moved through his body. His hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob.
Cold to the touch, the doorknob grabbed his flesh and threatened to rip it off if he lingered too long. The knob seemed stuck when he first when he tried to turn it. Paimon put more weight into it and pushed the neck of the knob back through the hole and into the door until he heard it click. The subtle prick of a needle jabbed his finger.
A red dot blossomed on his thumb.
He tongued it, licking away the blood as he eased the door open with his other hand. A second wave of blackness greeted him. It fixed itself in front of him, as if it were death himself.
Paimon leaned into it, and felt himself drown in silence. When he attempted to step back, something pushed him forward, deeper into nothingness.
Hesitant to continue, Paimon moved with the speed of a believer. His head swiveled as he checked his surroundings, eyes darting back and forth in the darkness. There was nothing. This place was nothing. And if he didn’t leave it soon, he would be nothing, too.
Paimon turned to leave but the door was gone. Not even an outline remained in the wall. Which way was out? He couldn’t remember, and in the blackness, he had no way of knowing which way to go. His world had been transformed into a maddening riddle. He wondered, if he sat down, would he fall through the floor?
“Come to me, Paimon,” said a voice, a female voice with all the seduction of a siren’s song. It flitted in his ears and sank into his memory. He never wanted to forget its sound. It sang like the ocean at dawn.
“You deserve us,” said another. “You know you do.” This voice was stern, more sure of itself than the first.
“How do you know me?” said Paimon.
“Rest, sire. Let us take your worries.”
“Who are you? Show yourselves.”
Laughter rang in the open space. Whoever they were—and there were several of them—they sounded like children, mischievous and wicked.
Something wet slid across his neck.
“He doesn’t deserve her. Doesn’t love her like you do. Why should he get to keep her?”
“I don’t know if I can love her,” Paimon said.
“Oh, but you can and you do,” said the voice, this one now as smooth as velvet. The stranger’s words tasted like honey. Warm and sweet. They spoke the truth, something Paimon hadn’t heard in a long time.
I do deserve her, and why shouldn’t I? I’ve filled my quotas.
“Yes, yes. Take her. Keep her. She’s your prize. Your possession. Why should you have to share?” said a different voice, this one sneaking up from behind him. He could feel the speaker’s breath on his neck, masculine and moist, but when Paimon reached out to touch him, all he grabbed was air.
“But the Devil…”
“The Devil?” a deep voice spat. Anger rose in the voice, and Paimon covered his ears to soften the blow. “He is nothing.”
Paimon curled into himself. Who didn’t fear the Devil? Scripture dictated that Lucifer was the creator of Hell and all that lay within it, from the creatures below to the beasts above. In Hell, he was God. There was no one greater than him.
“There are worse things than the Devil, Paimon. I can assure you of that.”
“And why should I believe a group of voices without faces? How do I know this is not one of Devil’s tests? A way to prove my allegiance?” said Paimon.
“Devour us. Consume us. Take us inside of you,” another voice said. “We’ll show you truth. We’ll take you to your fate.”
“And Rhea?”
They laughed again.
“Yes, your female,” said the siren. “You can have her. You can have all of her.”
Paimon sorted through their words. Such confidence. A mixture of fear and excitement coursed through his blood. Adrenaline pumped in his veins, quickening his thoughts and leading him to conclusions that he never would have come to on his own. If there was a way he could keep Rhea, a way they could be together—the three of them, a family, him, her and their child—he would take it. He owed Rhea that. Owed himself that.
But my heart.
“We can take care of that.”
“How? What would I have to do?”
“Just say yes.”
This is a trap.
Their words were smooth, cunning.
Too good to be true.
But he was desperate, and desperation and a beautiful woman can make a man do crazy things. Things he’d never consider doing otherwise.
“I don’t know,” said Paimon.
“Yes, you do,” sang the siren. “We’ll help you. We’ll save you.”
“We’ve taken the girl, placed her back on mortal ground. She’s safe…for now,” the stern voice said as it began to fade. “But you must go to her, and you must go soon.”
“Before the Devil gets her first,” said another.
And then there was silence.
They were gone.
Paimon bowed his head and prayed for strength.
“…in your name I pray.”
“No,” said the voices, strong and united as they cut back through the air. “Pray to us. We will help you. We will save you.”
“And who is us?” Paimon asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“We are sin. Your mothers, your fathers. Brothers and sisters. Lust, Pride and Envy. Greed, Gluttony, Wrath and Sloth. We are the new Hell. We are The Seven.”
Chapter 17
Paimon woke up coughing to the smell of brimstone and ash. It collected on his face in small black clumps and when he went to wipe it away, the ash smeared down his cheeks in thick black lines that made him look like a painted warrior.
His body shook in a cold sweat.
“There, there. You’re all right,” Arazel said as she patted his back. She placed her palm to his forehead and a look of concern rippled in her eyes.
“What?”
“You’re burning up.”
Paimon rolled his eyes. “It’s not like I can get sick, Arazel.”
“Still, you don’t look well.” Arazel brought her hand up to her mouth and licked Paimon’s sweat. “You taste like fear. What’s wrong? What did you see?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t play with me, Paimon. I know you better than that.”
Paimon turned away from her and watched the labyrinth behind him. The bridges moved and twisted like the tentacles of a sea monster. They switched places, relocated, tipped and turned; they stretched high to the earth and plunged deep into the bottomless pits below. They seemed to have no start or finish unless, that is, one knew where to look for them. Paimon often wished Dali was in Hell so he could show the artist his work. He liked to think of the bridges as a surreal game of chess, one that took its players months, sometimes years to master.
The object of the test was quite simple. If The Forsaken thought they saw a sinister energy in a particular sinner, they’d place him on the bridges and
give him a map showing the way to the castle grounds. All the person had to do was follow it. But just as the bridges moved, so did the map. It was a test of mind and body. One had to be quick and sharp, careful to keep moving but smart enough to anticipate shifts and log patterns. If the sinner could keep up, they’d be welcomed into the Devil’s guard. If not, well…the demons had to eat something.
“We’re here,” called one of the guards.
Arazel leaned closer to Paimon and brushed his ear with her lips. “You and me, we’re not done.”
And we never will be.
Paimon coughed as they wheeled him into the church grounds. The cobblestone streets jerked his body back and forth, and the fluid that had collected in his lungs began to harden and sat wedged in his throat like a thick hunk of phlegm.
Crowds of black hoods and vacant eyes stared at him as he moved towards the entrance, their voices locked away in a vow of silence. Paimon bowed his head as a gesture of respect. The hoods were known as The Priests, a silent group of souls forced to spend their deaths in prayer. These were the fallen men of God, the ones who had lived out their mortal lives in mockery of their work: cheating the poor, raping the young, submitting to performances of blasphemy and sacrilege. They moved through the sanctuary like puffs of black smoke, their garbs a play on the stereotypical holy man.
The Devil favored them. There was no denying that. He treated them like martyrs, although he showed no mercy in their punishments. They were his seers; questions regarding the past, present, and future were all directed at them because they were the only ones who knew both worlds. They were damned to live out their deaths in Hell, despite spending their lives studying the heavens.
The Priests moved past Paimon, never breaking eye contact.
Then again, neither did anyone else.
Everywhere Paimon looked, eyes were on him. His brothers and sisters stared, dissecting him as if he were an other, a newcomer to the horde, instead of one of their own.
It’s impossible. There’s no one they could know…
“Why are they looking at me like that?” Paimon said to Arazel, speaking through clenched teeth.
“Because you look…different.”
What?
He was mostly healed from his earlier session of self-flagellation, and save for a light pinkness to his flesh, it was impossible to see he had been burned. A slight change in skin coloration was normal when returning from the world above, but it certainly didn’t call for this much attention.
“But I’m not even burned.”
“It’s not your body they’re staring at.”
“Then what—”
“Cover your face.”
Arazel handed him her cloak and motioned for him to lie down. “Stay down and stay quiet until we get into the tunnels. We don’t want to cause any more trouble than we already have.”
Paimon hugged the wooden cart and hid under the cloak. It was red, a shade darker than her lips, and it smelled of rose. His shoulder banged into the side of the cart as they moved toward the catacombs.
“Suffer your sins, collector. He knows,” said a voice.
Paimon swallowed hard.
The Priests had broken their vows to curse him.
‡‡‡
“I can’t see anything down here,” shouted one of the guards. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I’ve been using these tunnels for centuries,” Arazel said. “And don’t question my motivation, guard. Do as I say.”
“Cunt.”
Sweet sin.
Arazel seethed. Even down here—in her safe and most favorite place—their presence disgusted her. She might be in charge of lust, but nine times out of ten, she was forced to deal with immature, juvenile men who didn’t like being commanded by a woman. She took out her whip and sent the leather straps flying through the air before they thrashed against the guard’s face; a little S and M for the boys. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” she said. “Come again?”
Paimon laughed under her cloak as the guard screamed.
“Don’t be a baby,” she said. “How’d you get in my circle anyway? My people usually find pleasure in a little pain.”
The guard sucked back his sobs and pulled the cart forward in silence.
“That’s more like it,” she said. “Now how about some light?”
Arazel brought her hands to her mouth and cupped them in a circle. She breathed through the hole, heavy and hard, and the tunnels came alive with fire. The walls were made of bones and soon, flames licked and bred inside the eye sockets of every skull. The tunnel floor was mostly dirt-sprinkled with the ash its residents brought in.
A soured stench crawled inside her mouth.
Sex. And outside of her watch, too!
“That woman better hope I don’t find her,” she muttered under her breath.
Arazel hopped onto the cart and laughed at the men’s groans as she sat next to Paimon. She didn’t add much to their weight load, but their displeasure pleased her nonetheless. She took the cloak off his face. “Get up. It’s time to finish that conversation,” she said to Paimon. “Tell me what they were like?” she said.
“Who?”
“The Seven.”
Paimon’s eyes swelled with fear.
“I knew it,” Arazel said.
“How did you know?”
“My body may be stuck in its twenties, but my mind is not. I’ve read about them, studied their stories. When I first left the second circle, Lust sang to me and for the longest time, I thought she’d come for me, but she never did.”
Arazel shifted in her skin. “You smell like her, you know. Like sex and shame. And you’re wearing her mark.”
“Her mark?”
“She leaves a mark on her victims just as you do when you claim souls. I first noticed it when you turned away from me. It’s a small score behind your left ear.”
Paimon reached up and touched it.
The skin, scabbed and bruised, protruded a black ‘S.’
“What does it mean?”
“No. First, you tell me what you did.”
“I didn’t do anything. Honest.”
“The brand says otherwise. Paimon, you’ve been claimed, and out of all of them, you let her claim you. Do you have any idea what that means?”
He shook his head.
Arazel’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You’ve broken your allegiance to the Devil. Paimon, you’ve singlehandedly started a war.”
Chapter 18
Arazel’s words hung in the air.
“I highly doubt I’ve started any war.”
Arazel sat next to Paimon, her hand on his thigh. Her touch was not welcomed, but he kept quiet because part of him craved her concern. He liked the idea of someone being worried about him.
“You have no idea what you’ve done. Whatever you’ve promised her, whatever she said she’d do for you, it’s a lie. Nothing good comes from playing with sin. The Devil should have taught you that.”
“He set me up. The Devil assigned me Rhea for a reason. He knew I wouldn’t be able to resist her. And I keep telling you, nothing happened. It was a dream, the same one I’ve been having since I came down here.”
“The exact same?”
Paimon bit his tongue.
“Well, not exactly, but that doesn’t change anything.”
Arazel stiffened.
“You called to them, didn’t you?” she said. “To her.”
“Called to them? For sin’s sake, Arazel! I wouldn’t have known how to seek them out if I tried. Not without you, at least. You more than anyone should know I can barely read the old language.”
“You don’t seek them out, you fool. They seek you.”
This was ludicrous.
Arazel stood, started to pace. She ran her hands through her fiery red hair, pulling at it as if it were reins. Rage painted her red, and Paimon worried that she’d burst into flames. Talk about dramatic. Not that she could help it, though. W
rath went hand-in-hand with lust and fire was her sin’s element. It took three attempts for Arazel to get her words out and even then, smoke poured from her mouth.
“Do you…do you remember…remember that night when you told me we couldn’t be together? That every time you touched me, you heard Marissa scream?”
Paimon nodded and fought against the memory of his wife’s face.
“Well, I prayed to Lust that night. I prayed that she’d help erase your guilt so we could be together. And she came to me, Paimon. Told me my want wasn’t strong enough, that I needed to ache for you and I didn’t.”
“What does this have—”
“Your pain called to them, Paimon. You beat your body, burn away your regret. That’s the want they look for. That’s the ache she wants.”
“They said they had her. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Marissa’s dead, Paimon. She’s not here. We’ve looked, spent thousands of days searching the circles and the lake. They can’t have her.”
“I’m not talking about Marissa.”
“Then who?”
Paimon swallowed hard, pushing down the taste of her name. Tears wet his eyes. He shook his head, refusing to speak.
“Paimon, who do they have?”
“It’s…it’s not that simple.”
Arazel sighed and ran her hands down her face. She let them rest around her neck like a hangman’s noose. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”
Paimon felt the regret of what he was about to do swell in his chest. He refused to bring Arazel into this. He didn’t want to hurt her any more than he already had.
“I never asked you for your help, Arazel.”
Her face drained of what little color was left and her red eyes grew wide with hurt as a single tear bled down her face.
“Arazel, it’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that—”
“Save it. I don’t need your pity,” she said as she wiped blood from her face. Streaks of red stained her cheeks, and her voice cracked when she yelled.
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