The Eighth

by Wytovich, Stephanie

  Closer.

  Seven.

  Eight.

  Nine.

  Shadows leapt from the walls and began moving towards her. The smell of death grew stronger with each passing second passed.

  Ten.

  Something howled. It was a call that shattered hope. It was fraught and desperate, a sound wrapped in desire, in unity, in motive.

  All light left the stairwell.

  And with it, any chance of escape.

  Rhea searched blindly in the darkness, her hands out in front, feeling their way around. There was something close, and the tension in the room grew angry, violent. She found walls and traced them with her fingertips, grabbed for what she hoped was the railing to the first flight of stairs. Her steps were small, hesitant, never knowing what lay ahead of her. More stairs? A landing? All she could hope to do was keep moving away from whatever was following her.

  “Where are you going, darling?”

  Laughter echoed in the stairwell.

  “We just want to play.”

  The air grew cold, and Rhea’s sweat dripped into her eyes. How many were there? She couldn’t say. There were different tones, pitches, and accents. And they weren’t the voices she heard in the hospital room before.

  “You do realize the chase is the best part?” said a smooth voice against the nape of her neck. It was soft, but with the rasp a blues singer, but with none of the romantic edge. “It’s adorable watching you try to run.”

  Rhea’s calves burned and she gasped for breath. It felt like the child tore at her insides, and Rhea swore for a moment that she could hear it scream. Whatever was with her in the stairwell wasn’t interested in a fast kill. They wanted to toy with her, to play with their meal before eating it.

  “What do you want from me?” Rhea began to cry. “I don’t have anything.”

  More laughter.

  “Oh my sweet, sweet girl,” it said. “You have everything.”

  Part 3: Resurrection

  “Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep…”

  -John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Chapter 33

  “Paimon, can you hear me?”

  Her words echoed in his head as he floated towards the softness of her voice. Am I dead? Truly dead? There was nothing but white light in front of him. Blinding, piercing light. It hurt his eyes, and even when he closed them, the shine still broke through. The intensity of the white around him reminded him of a story his parents used to tell him as a child. They spoke of a place that was so dark that it could only be represented by light. A warning passed down from generation to generation, his parents spoke to him of winter and sin, of seven cloaked figures that were searching for their long lost brother. His father used to tell him that if Paimon ever saw a place such as this that he should pray for Hell because Heaven had turned him away, and what lay ahead from him was so worse than anything he could imagine.

  The Void.

  A hook dug into his sternum and lifted his chest, pulling him closer to the water’s glassy surface. He rode it out, his body slack and numb to pain. Please, let her still be there. Rhea’s face glowed in his memory. Her hair hung around her face like a blanket of feathers plucked from a crow, her eyes two dark pools of ink. Paimon held onto the image, preserving it like the finest work of art. She was a porcelain angel that had fallen into his arms, and he wanted nothing more than to wrap himself around her and submit.

  They could burn together.

  One flame, set ablaze for eternity.

  Just let her be there.

  Water broke hard against his face like shattered glass. He choked and sputtered blood and water, copper and salt. The air that rushed into his throat moved against his esophagus with icy breath and tears pooled in his eyes.

  “There you go,” Arazel said. “Get it all out.”

  She slapped his back with repeated blows to help force out the water. It took minutes before he could breathe without pain.

  “Rhea?” He coughed. “Is it really you?”

  A heavy silence lingered.

  “No. Still just me,” she said. “Arazel.”

  The sadness in her voice was obvious, but Paimon couldn’t take back what he’d said. What he’d hoped for.

  Paimon grabbed her hand and brought it to his cheek. He was cold and her warmth soothed him.

  “Thank you.”

  She sighed. “For what?”

  “For not leaving me.”

  “Well, I’ll have you know I came pretty close.” The joke died on her lips. “But we should get moving. I don’t know how long we were blacked out.”

  Paimon listened for the bells but heard nothing.

  “You’re right.” The forest was in front of them, a dark temptress with her mouth open, ready to swallow them whole. “Better now than never.”

  Arazel slipped her arm around him and he leaned into her, his weight shifting to one side as he struggled to move. His body, heavy with exhaustion, dragged, but together they trudged towards the forest, hesitating before they took their first steps in.

  The trees loomed over them, their branches sticking out like fingers luring them in. “I’ve never set foot in here before,” she said. “I’m scared.”

  Paimon took her hand. “You don’t have to do this. Not for me and not for you, either.”

  Arazel smiled and he prayed that it was genuine, even though he doubted that it was. Her emotional wounds were too deep to be healed and the longer he stayed with her, the longer those wounds remained festering. The biggest kindness he could show her was to walk away.

  “You’ve brought me this far,” he said. “I can handle it from here.”

  “And miss the adventure? Lord, you are cruel.”

  Now it was Paimon’s turn to smile.

  “It’s no wonder you were able to bewitch men so easily,” he said.

  “Yeah, yeah.” A light gust of wind made Arazel shier. She tucked a lock of curls behind her ear. Shadows danced on the tree trunks, grinding against them like desperate whores. “Can we pray first?” Her voice trembled.

  “Of course.”

  Paimon bowed his head and considered several different scriptures. Prayers for protection, for healing, for strength. He settled on safety, but the words refused to pass his lips. In his mind’s eye, he focused on the curves of the lettering, the dip of their sounds. But it was as if his mouth had been sown shut, his lips threaded together and bound in silence. “I can’t do it.”

  Arazel’s eyes filled red with disappointment.

  “Why not?”

  “It would be praying to him. And that I can’t do.”

  Blood dripped from her eyes as she nodded. “But—”

  “I can’t do it, Arazel. I can’t pray to him.”

  “Okay,” she said. “We don’t have to.”

  He grabbed her hand. “You shouldn’t pray to him either. Not after what he’s done to you.” Paimon pushed her hair away from her neck and ran his thumb against the two holes punched in the side of her throat.

  “Please, stop,” she said, her hand on his.

  His fingertips lingered on her neck there for a moment, taking refuge in her touch. How did we get here? He thought back to his last burn session, to how the fire had felt on his skin as it ate away his regret and left him feeling alive, if only for a few minutes. There had been comfort and stability. And then there had been was nothing but pain. Nothing but Rhea.

  He closed his eyes and searched for his connection to Rhea. It was weak.

  “What’s happening?” said Arazel.

  “I don’t know. It’s dark. I can’t see much of anything.”

  “Go deeper then.”

  Moans filled the air, reverberating against the circle’s outer boundaries. Their voices ached in agony, a long drawn-out sigh begging for attention.

  Paimon walked into the woods and his skin sparked with emotional electricity. It lit his body up like Christmas lights, making him more aware of eve
rything around him. He could smell their fear and taste their regret. These woods were alive even if their inhabitants were dead. He felt their eyes on him.

  He took another step in and placed his hand on the ground. The soil was wet as if it had rained, even though rain wasn’t possible in Hell; things either burned or froze. There was no in between.

  “It’s their tears,” she said. Arazel stood behind him, her arms wrapped around her waist. “It’s how the forest lives.”

  “Good lord.”

  “Can you see them?” she asked. Her stare flitted back and forth, panning across the trees. Her jaw trembled. She was terrified, but he couldn’t see her demons.

  “I don’t see anyone.”

  “Well, I can assure you that they see you,” she said. “You may want to look harder.”

  Paimon rubbed his eyes. Dirt from his fingers dug its way into the soft pink flesh of his sight, and the sting of sin’s tears made him cringe. It wasn’t until his own pain was swallowed by the forest floor that the veil lifted and the truth revealed itself. Paimon wiped his watering eyes and blinked hard, pushing out the feel of sorrow. When he looked to the trees again, his breath caught.

  There were hundreds of them. All men, naked and hanging from the branches. Ropes were fastened around their necks, their arms and legs, and the frayed hairs of the noose mocked them with the promise of breaking, but Paimon knew they’d never drop.

  Their limbs shook and their bones cried. Their mouths hung open in a permanent wail that rustled the leaves. Paimon wanted to look away but their eyes, wet and gray, bore into his, holding his gaze.

  “Don’t look at them too long,” Arazel said. “They’ll feed off your energy. Suck you dry.”

  As if looking into a crystal ball, their stories blossomed in front of Paimon. Each involved a petite redhead that promised passion and lied about love. He saw their hearts break and their souls crumble. His head swelled with their memories, each one crying out to him, trying to tell their story. They filled his mind with visions of the red temptress, showed him how she killed them with words, actions, and thoughts. Sometimes she was silent, a black widow moving through space and time, poisoning her lovers to get ahead. Sometimes, she worked in violence, making them hate themselves so much they couldn’t bear to live another moment being the men they thought they were. She defiled them, humiliated them, and sent them away feeling useless. What man can’t please a woman? What man can’t make her feel alive? She strung them along, took what she needed, and then left them to die. And if they didn’t die fast enough, she was more than willing to help the process along.

  “I thought you said you didn’t kill them.”

  Arazel hung her head. “I may have lied.”

  May have lied?

  Anger consumed Paimon. All he saw was Marissa and her lover, her legs wrapped around his neck. He saw the filth in her eyes, the betrayal on her skin. She smiled at him in his memory and his vision turned red.

  He grabbed Arazel by the throat and squeezed. “Why?”

  She gasped for air.

  For a second, he thought she would submit to him. Let him take her. But Arazel never submitted to men and never begged for her life.

  She dug her nails into Paimon’s hands and peeled them from her neck. She smiled at him and spat on the ground.

  “Why not? What did your females do to deserve their fate?” she said. Her eyes went from cherry to blood. “Don’t lecture me, Paimon. You and I aren’t that different. They all deserved it…for whatever reason.”

  Arazel pushed Paimon aside and walked to the middle of the clearing. She dropped her cloak and stood naked, bearing her body for all to see.

  “I didn’t say I enjoyed it. It was just what I had to do. It’s who I was. Who I am. But I’m sorry for what I’ve done. Truly. My punishment has been ten-fold the pain and suffering that I’ve caused any of you,” she said. “That I can promise.”

  “Arazel—”

  “Beyond these trees, there is a path that leads to the portal. It’s lined with baby’s breath and smells like rain. Follow it. Go to her. And make things right.”

  “But—”

  “I said go. I have to pay for what I’ve done,” she said. “I too, have to make things right.”

  Paimon walked up to her and grabbed her face. Her eyes welled up with tears and bled onto his fingertips. “I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

  He leaned in and kissed her.

  And then heard Marissa scream.

  Only this time, it wasn’t Marissa.

  It was Rhea.

  And something else.

  Chapter 34

  The forest wept. Tears fell from the leaves, the fog swallowed them as it spread across the ground, blanketing it in a draft that crept up Paimon’s legs and dug its teeth into his calves. Walking away from Arazel—leaving her—was one of the hardest things he had ever done. Part of him wanted to go back, to rip her away from the souls who mocked her, who fed on her misery. But the terrifying part about Hell is that it’s impossible to save the damned. Everyone has their sins, and everyone deals with them differently. But make no mistake, everyone suffered at the hands of their past, and if Arazel wanted pain, who was he to judge her for it?

  Paimon walked the path—if a path is what it was—following his instincts and listening to the voices that led him through the broken and decayed plumage of the forest. Thorns bit at his sides and bright yellow flowers opened up to him as he passed, spitting blood-orange spatter onto his neck. Poison. It wasn’t a threat but rather a warning. The closer he got to the portal, the more the woods reminded him that the Devil didn’t like to lose, that the hand he was playing wasn’t one he was going to win.

  But I have to try.

  So he moved through the brush, pushing away dead limbs and cobwebs as he fought off the circle’s hand against his chest. It’s trying to hold me back. It knows I don’t belong here. Aged tree roots rose up to meet him, a minor irritant slowing his path, and when he stepped over them, they reached out and grabbed at his ankles, trying to hold him back.

  In the distance, Arazel screamed. There was no mistaking the sound. She carried a voice that sang no matter whether it conveyed ecstasy or suffering. Her tenor, pitch, and tone was pure music, and it killed him. Her pain, much like his, was something she accepted and set fire to. Something she created and flourished as she wailed in the shadows, playing the sad song of a masochist. And now that she had given her heart to the Devil, there was no guessing how far she would go to punish herself, how deep she would drive in the knife.

  Bless me my sins…

  The air grew dank and he struggled to breathe. The humidity wrapped around his chest like a python and he gagged on the moist sheet of ash-tainted oxygen. But there was baby’s breath in the air. Baby’s breath and rain.

  That explains the heat.

  The forest wasn’t crying for just him; it was raining for everyone. Tears poured from the canopy in a rush of sobs and when Paimon reached the clearing, the vast open space where nothing dared bloom or grow, the weeping stopped and the underworld fell silent.

  If it he could cross the grounds of Wrath, then according to scripture, the portal would show itself to him.

  Easier said than done.

  Paimon stepped into the clearing. Thorns and vines erupted from the ground, biting and slapping at his ankles. His hands and arms were scratched, his calves rubbed raw from the land’s calloused touch. Venom ran through his veins; each second of circulation burned worse than the last. He could barely move now.

  I need to break through to the portal, soon.

  Above him, the rain smacked against the top of the clearing as if the clearing were protected in a glass box. Water dripped down the sides and ravished the forest in a downpour while he remained dry, contained in the invisible box. Paimon blinked hard, but his vision remained blurred. Everything around him was cast in a haze.

  Focus, Paimon.

  He’d never left Hell through a circle before an
d he didn’t know what would happen, or where he’d end up. For once, the thought of not knowing bothered him because now, he had too much to lose.

  With heavy legs, Paimon trudged through the dead grass that surrounded his feet.

  Come on. Where are you?

  Paimon bent down and ran his hands against the ground. He tapped the earth every couple inches to try and find a hollow space. All he needed was a sign: a touch, a vibration, a shock. But there was nothing. No emotion moved through him, no subtle clarity took over his mind. The clearing just seemed empty.

  But the Baby’s breath…the rain….

  Paimon moved his heavy legs and took another step forward. Then another, and another. It took minutes to move only a few feet and he was covered in his own sweat and blood by the time he gathered his breath.

  “I don’t understand. She said it would be here. She said I would find it in the clearing?”

  Paimon howled.

  “There’s nothing but empty space!”

  Defeated, he fell to the ground, his cuts and bruises dripping, pulsing into the ground. The clearing opened up in small cracks and tasted him before it began to swallow him whole. Without hope and direction, Paimon gave up as the ground started to feed.

  You are sin, Paimon. You don’t ask for anything, a voice said. Get up and demand what it is you want.

  Paimon perked up at the sound of the voice, his body and mind alert again.

  Use your pain to open the door, said another.

  “My pain?”

  Your agony, said another.

  Paimon closed his eyes and searched for Rhea. His blood boiled at her distress as he tapped into her emotions. She was scared and running. From what?

  He’s paid her a visit. Sent the welcoming party to help with the child.

  “No.”

  Oh yes. They seemed quite excited to get their hands on her, too.

  Rage rose in him. The thought of their hands on Rhea’s body, the idea of them holding his child ripped at his chest and left him raw, sweltering in the humidity. He pushed himself up and collected his anger. A war cry filled the clearing, reverberating off the ground until the shield shattered and rained down around him.