“What’s wrong with her?” someone said.
Rhea coughed up ash and blood, splattering the sheets red and black with bile.Vomit settled between the cracks in the floor.
“Where’s Gainston?” someone yelled.
“I don’t know. I paged him the second I came in the room but he hasn’t responded yet.”
“Damn it. Look, hold her head up so she doesn’t choke. I’m going to get some more gauze to stop the bleeding.
Hands grabbed her face and her insides wailed. It felt like a thousand needles buried into her cheeks. Her tongue swelled with an anger that originated from deep within her chest.
“Don’t fucking touch me, you dirty little prick.”
She couldn’t see his face, but she imagined he was stunned. She was stunned. Where did those words come from? Me. Whose voice spoke them? Mine did. Rhea tried to open her eyes but they remained shut. She tasted bile on her lips and the thought of the man touching her again made her nauseous. His fingers felt like knives and she didn’t want them on her.
Rhea spit in his face, laughing as she took in his shock.
“Christ almighty,” said Gainston as he walked into the room.
“Where?” Rhea said and then burst out laughing. Gainston turned to the medic. “Paul, what happened? Are you ok?”
Paul stood shaking as he tried to wipe vomit off his face with whatever dignity he could muster. “No. I don’t think so.” He turned away from Gainston and threw up, his gagging making Rhea laugh even louder.
But this isn’t funny. This is wrong.
Gainston moved closer to Rhea and shined a light in her eyes.
“Get that fucking thing out of my face.”
He backed away and took out his pager.
Even his typing was loud.
Rhea broke out in a cold sweat as her neck twitched to the side and stayed frozen in place. Her bones shifted and cried as the thing inside her pushed for comfort. She fought the shadow, using what was left of her energy to push the entity aside, if only for a moment of control.
Bruises blossomed on her arms and legs.
She winced as her muscles stretched, tore.
Her vision steadied. She tried to focus on Gainston, but was distracted by the blood. It was everywhere. Blood and ash. Gainston had his back to her and she prayed her voice would be loud enough for him to hear. Words stormed her throat and poured from her mouth. Her voice rasped.
“I-I don’t have much time. I can feel it. What’s happening to me?” she stammered. A trail of spit ran down her cheek, and her lips felt double their size. “It hurts.”
Gainston stared at her, his mouth agape.
Please. Please be able to hear me.
He seemed startled, confused.
One of her eyes went dead and the whole room turned black. The lifeless orb rolled back into her head as her control began to slip. “Help me.”
Gainston stood there, mute.
“He’s coming,” she said.
Chapter 26
Arazel motioned to Paimon; the two of them turned a corner and hurried down the adjacent hallway. Arms hung limply from the doors of other cells, lifeless, all hope of escape gone. Some prisoners screamed, some laughed. Some just prayed for death.
Reflection was mandatory in Hell. Through it, came reformation, and through reformation, came the silencing of soul and sin.
But nothing and no one was silent in Hell.
Their sins spoke loudly enough.
Too loudly, sometimes.
The walls dripped wet, sheathing the hall in an aged musk. Paimon shivered and tried to dodge droplets that fell from the ceiling like tears. His feet, bare and calloused, ached as he followed Arazel without question.
I’m coming, Rhea.
“You’ll never make it,” a voice said behind them. “Not with her next to you.”
Paimon turned around to look at the creature behind bars. Half-man, half-animal, his hair hung down in matted clumps of gray and he smelled of urine and sweat. Flies clung to his skin, festering in his filth.
“Why not?”
Arazel grabbed him. “Don’t listen to him. Keep moving.”
The man smiled as his head lolled back and he laughed. He slapped his thighs and stomped his feet on the ground. “They’ll kill her. You’ll never make it through.”
“Make it through where?” said Paimon. He looked at Arazel. “Where are you taking me?”
The man’s cackles filled the hallway and echoed down the corridors.
“Well, I can’t exactly parade you through the gates,” she said.
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s another way out, another portal. But you have to cross one of the circles to get to it.”
“Which one?”
The air grew thick with tension. Paimon didn’t breathe, didn’t blink. A thousand thoughts ran through his head, each worse than the last. What would make her this nervous? She reigned over lust, commanded an army against the weak. What circle could instill fear in a warrior like Arazel?
“The fifth.”
Violence. Wrath.
Paimon winced. He hated the fifth circle. It was a giant forest and he could never tell if it was the wind that howled or the moans of the people that were trapped there.
“Go ahead. Tell him!” the man said. Tears wet his cheeks from excess laughter. “I want to see his pain!”
“Shut up!” said Arazel.
“I want to see his agony!”
“I said shut up.”
“I want to see his regret!”
Arazel’s eyes flashed red as she beat the door, kicking and screaming while the filth-ridden man sank back against the wall with a grin plastered on his greasy face.
Nervousness became her. She stood at the door, her gaze fixed on the ground. Time passed before she said anything.
“The forest will not be kind to me, Paimon. The souls within it, the ones that hang from the branches of the trees, are there because of me.”
“But the forest is for suicides. Their blood can’t be on your hands.”
She shook her head.
“Yes, it can.”
“But your sin is not wrath.”
“No, but lust can make you do terrible things.” She choked back memories. “I made them fall in love with me, and then I broke it off, taking whatever happiness I could from their agony. It wasn’t my hands that killed them, but their deaths were my fault.”
“And those men—”
“Hang from the trees in the forest, waiting for me to come and cut them down,” she said.
The man chuckled through the bars, his face now against the iron rods. He took in a whiff of Arazel’s hair and howled with laughter. “What I’d give to see the temptress die. And while she’s in love, at that. How fitting.”
Arazel spat in the prisoner’s face.
The man licked the salvia from his upper lip and grinned. His teeth were rotten. His words slid out, oiled in spite. “Have fun, whore.”
Paimon grabbed him by the throat and squeezed.
“Take it back.”
The man looked into Paimon’s eyes, a smirk on his face.
A loud clang rang through the prison and Paimon, struck by the call, released the man and turned to Arazel.
“The bells.”
“We have to go. Now,” she said. Arazel grabbed Paimon’s hand and pulled him away from the cell. The manic laugh of the man echoed behind them.
“Run!” the prisoner screamed. “Run, run, run.”
Arazel started sprinting, dragging Paimon behind her. She thought out loud, conjuring possible escape routes in the air. “If we go straight and make a left it will take us to the kitchen. There’s a chute in there that leads to the river. Then it’s only a few miles to the forest.”
Paimon winced. Pain exploded in his stomach as broken ribs pierced flesh.
“Shit, you still haven’t healed.”
Arazel took off her cloak and ripped the fabric with her tee
th, a piece long enough to tie around his waist. “Here, the compression should help with the pain.”
Paimon watched as she tended to his wounds. Arazel reached behind him, her head resting against his chest as she tied the knot. The smell of cinnamon and sex filled his nostrils. Without thinking, he grabbed her hand. His blood burned hot.
“What are you doing?”
“I—I don’t know.”
The world around Paimon began to shift. His vision blurred, the outlines of his surroundings grew hazy. Arazel’s face changed then, her eyes darkening in pain and loss. Her crimson hair turned black and her skin drained of color. Rhea? No, it’s not possible. Circles formed under her eyes—two sunken bags of sleepless strain—and then her mouth opened, popping as it unhinged and froze in a silent scream. Paimon closed his eyes to black out her face. Bless me my sins and the sins that I am bound to make. He wouldn’t fall prey to the Devil’s glamour, not when he was so close.
You’re not Rhea. This is not happening.
“Paimon? Are you ok?” Arazel placed a hand to his cheek. “You’re burning up.”
Sweat formed on his brow despite the chill in the hallway. He blinked—was it really her?—and refocused. Arazel looked as she always had: beautiful and dressed in fire.
He nodded. “. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“We should go.”
Arazel put her cloak back on and turned the corner into the kitchen. Paimon followed her, limping a few steps behind. The room smelled of spoiled meat, enough to stop him as he entered.
“They must have just prepared last meal,” Arazel said.
During a prisoner’s final days, the guards mixed in human flesh with the spoiled meat of Cerberus’ kills as a farewell treat. There weren’t many acts of kindness in Hell, but this was one of them. At least, that’s what the Devil wants them to think. The truth was that when prisoners were fed into the pit, the Devil wanted them to have some strength, an ounce of fight left in them so when the blades made their first move, he would have something entertaining to watch. It was a matter of good sport, not kindness.
The kitchen was essentially a room consisting mostly of ovens. Constructed out of stone and big enough for maybe two bodies at a time, each oven roared with fire, always lit and ready to burn. There was one chute at the far end of the room that was used for disposal. Paimon hated to think of the smell that waited for him in there.
“Over here,” said Arazel.
Paimon followed her, his hands tracing the edges of gray, stone slabs. This must be where the bodies are gutted. Ash and hair littered the floors, and a dark pool of blood stewed underneath one of the tables, staining the concrete red.
The open oven directly next to the chute blazed red and gold, its heat burning Paimon’s cheek. The flames danced, gaining strength from leftover flesh and muscle as they wiggled in a tantric spell, a final attempt to seduce their dinner. Embers blew through the air as he lifted his hand to shield the burn, but the second Arazel opened the chute, a cold, dank wind blew the fire out.
“What is that smell?” she said, covering her mouth.
The reality of the situation dawned on Paimon anew.
I know that smell.
He stuck his head in the chute and leaned in further. Paimon caught a faint, salty whiff of the river below, but what he saw…
“Paimon? What’s in there?”
He pulled himself from the chute and did his best to avoid Arazel’s eyes. “Bodies. A few of them. They’re stuck about halfway down.”
“Are they dead?”
Paimon stared at her. “Is anything really dead here?”
Chapter 27
Rhea rolled onto her side and tried to fall back asleep, but a prickling sensation crawled up her neck and kept her alert. She opened her eyes to the night. The hospital room was swaddled in darkness. The lights from the hallway bled in underneath the door and played with the shadows. She pictured the nurses on their rounds and wondered when someone—if someone—would be in to check on her. They’d all looked terrified when they left earlier.
She couldn’t blame them.
She was scared, too.
The thing lay dormant now, resting, gaining strength. She felt it move inside of her. It kicked at her organs and bit at her flesh. Large, purple bruises the shape of horseshoes painted her abdomen like freshly-inked Rorschach blots. Nausea spread through her stomach, and for a moment, she thought she was going to be sick again. Her pillow, bathed in sweat, held no comfort for Rhea. When she tried to swallow, her throat, dry, closed up. Rhea tucked a lock of wet hair behind her ear and sat up, her back pressing hard against the bed.
She reached for the glass of water on the table beside her, but the liquid tasted like sand. She spat it back into the glass and threw it across the room. She clawed at her arms. What’s happening to me? Her tongue rubbed against the roof of her mouth, taking off layers of skin piece by piece. Her head, feeling swollen with leftover nightmares, started to pulse.
Rhea screamed.
Or at least, she thought she did.
No sound escaped her mouth, only air.
Rhea scooted underneath the damp sheets, the raised hair on her legs scratching against the cotton. She pulled up the blankets to her chin and lay there, staring at the ceiling covered in dots—so many dots—and she tried counting them in an attempt to keep her mind distracted.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Her stomach exploded in pain. Rhea shrank into herself, knees up against her chest. She held herself and cried as fresh bruises blossomed near her pelvis and thighs.
“Princess? You okay?”
Rhea held her breath. No. It’s not possible. She forced her eyes closed afraid to let in even a shred of possibility.
“You don’t look so good. Have you been sleeping?”
He’s not here. He can’t be here.
Rhea tried to convince herself that she was dreaming, that she was stuck in one of her nightmares. The pain in her lower abdomen, however, was too strong to let her believe that this moment could be anything but real.
She breathed in bergamot and tangerine—the scent of his cologne, the one she’d first given him for Christmas when she was eight. Between herself and Kris, they had managed to save up ten dollars, and they splurged for what they thought was the fanciest bottle of cologne in the store. It was a clear bottle adorned with black lettering. It had a yellow tint and held what looked like liquid honey. Mom made up the difference in the balance, and when they handed it to him on Christmas morning, he looked so happy. Every year after that, she and Kris bought him another bottle, always the same. It became a family joke—the cologne smelled terrible, like rotting leaves and apricots—but he still wore it every day. Try as she might, Rhea couldn’t think of its name now. Like most memories of her father, she had blocked it out.
His breathing was staggered as he choked and gurgled on blood, the sound of his death unmistakable. “Dad?”
“Yes, Princess.”
She sat up in bed again and looked for him. In one of the corners of the room, darkness collected in the shape of a six-foot man. It reached a hand out to Rhea.
It is you.
Rhea climbed out of the hospital bed. Emotions consumed her: fear, anger, love. She wanted to go to him, to hug him and tell him how much she missed him, how happy she was to see him again. But a part of her also hated him, hated that he’d swallowed a bullet and left her alone with nothing but pain and regret.
There was the sound of him choking again and something wet splattered on the floor, a dark blossom on white tile. He remained cowered in the corner, his outstretched hand shaking. “I’m so sorry, Princess. I shouldn’t have left you or your sister. I was a coward.”
Rhea was crying. She’d waited years to hear those words, an apology from beyond the grave. A change came over her, and her heart filled with acceptance. Maybe she was ready to forgive.
“Come, Princess. Let me hold you again,” he said. “Just one m
ore time.”
Bewitched, Rhea moved toward the shadow like a puppet on a string. The idea of being in her father’s arms, of feeling comfort again, felt too good to be true; but Rhea refused to question what so obviously was right in front of her.
The clouds moved, letting moonlight through the window, illuminating his face. His brown hair held a red tint, as if rubies had been embedded in his scalp. His throat, torn open by the mouth of the gun, was still a gaping hole and pieces of burnt, bloodied flesh stuck to his collarbone. Only half of his mouth worked its way into a smile.
Rhea stopped.
“Don’t be afraid of me. It’s all right.”
“Why do you still look like this? Why didn’t God fix you?”
He turned his head in shame. “Because God doesn’t exist where I’m at.” He lifted his head to meet her eyes once more. “I had to go somewhere where I could pay for my sins. Where I could pay for what I did to our family.”
Sobs racked her body. Rhea reached out for her father’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Daddy. I shouldn’t have left you. I shouldn’t have walked away.”
“It’s not your fault, Rhea. None of this is.”
The thing inside her shifted and moved as it began to wake. Rhea grabbed her stomach, wincing from the hot pain that poked and prodded her insides.
“You have to be strong, Princess. You can’t let him take you,” he said. “Don’t be a coward like I was.”
“Dad?”
She grabbed his hand but it turned to ash and crumbled into flecks. Darkness swept through his body, devouring him one leg at a time and he collapsed onto the floor, a pile of broken promises and disappointment.
Rhea dropped to her knees.
Not again. I can’t lose you again.
A cold hand clasped her bare shoulder.
“Dad?”
“No. But I have every interest in becoming your father.”
Chapter 28
Rhea held her breath.
Wow.
A man stood there—a beautiful man—dressed entirely in black: tight-fitted shirt, freshly-pressed dress pants, and shined Armani shoes. His lips were turned in a seductive grin and his eyes were two dark pools of burnt chestnut. He smelled like fire, and Rhea’s guard dissolved the second his hand moved from her shoulder to the tip of her chin.
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