Knell

by Olivia R. Burton

  Unable to formulate a response to what sounded like seductive nonsense, Finn found himself able only to let out a small, nervous giggle.

  “Bring them in, Finn. I’m not sure what the Lady is here for, but I believe it’s a good idea to do as she wants—to a point,” Veruca said, throwing Lady a look that made Finn briefly wonder if they were going to resort to fisticuffs. As much as he liked the idea of two powerful women biting and tearing at each other, he had the feeling this fight would end in a lot worse than some pulled hair and torn bra straps, so he did as she said.

  Benedict followed Donald in easily, scanning the room, unbothered by the haggard appearance of Belial, the hunched and keening banshee, or the fact that Veruca barely acknowledged his presence.

  “Now that the whole gang is here,” Veruca said, turning to Lady. “Perhaps we can stop fucking around and get to business.”

  Lady laughed, delighted at Veruca’s frustration, and lifted her hands, clapping them together in the air as if catching a fly. To Finn’s surprise, when she pulled them apart, she held a tiny, yellow bird in her palm. Worried for a moment that she might snap its neck, but unsure why he might think such a nasty thought, Finn found himself holding his breath as she reached up to tuck the bird in the shimmery gold cage atop her head.

  “Sad empath,” she called, pointing to Donald like a teacher addressing an eager student. “Tell your tale. Speak of the banshee’s betrayal. It’s like the queen says, ‘enough fucking around.’”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  At about the time Nysgrogh the demon became a tiny, angry, confused canary in a cage, every mind reader’s soul in Veruca’s chest crowded forward, whispering the thoughts of those around her. Every one of the souls—and there were a lot; good god, she could barely count the number of them—wanted to lend their power, to tell her of Finn’s fear, Benedict’s consideration of his own self-preservation, and of Belial’s horrified worry for his own life.

  She liked that he was fearful, that he was concerned that the Fairy kept referring to Veruca as the new Queen of Hell, but what she read in Darcy quickly trumped her schadenfreude.

  Memories, some fresh, some faded and jerky, came to her, pulled from the banshee’s psyche even as her soul was burning up the inside of the siren. Nysgrogh—a round, plain, dirty girl in tattered clothes—schemed behind Belial’s back; Lady Nemhain cackled over bloodied bodies and shattered souls; an icy king visited in the darkness. The darkness itself was a feature in the banshee’s memories, a nothingness so vast that it sucked desperately at her soul and nearly drove her to forget her entire sense of self. No feeling, no sound, no taste. This had been her reality for so long she’d lost awareness of everything except the madness in her own mind.

  Then, clear as day, Donald’s blank face nodded, accepting an order to find Belial, shoot him twice in the chest, and tell him there would be no meeting.

  The house around them started shaking, delicate objects toppling off shelves, lamps tipping onto end tables, as Veruca’s temper grew outward from the center of her, threatening to pull her apart.

  Everything was clear in her mind, from Belial’s lies about his past with the banshees, to the scheme hatched to overthrow him, to the rip in time that had pulled Darcy back to the human world and let her do damage again. She’d schemed alone this time, but still at Belial’s expense. Her plan had been a solid one, needing only minor adjustments to fit itself to Veruca instead of Nysgrogh.

  As long as Darcy sat at the right hand of the ruler of Hell, she didn’t care who wore the crown itself. She didn’t care who died to get her a place in the palace, or if she had to be the one to kill them.

  The world was narrowed to Veruca and Darcy, her essence nearly finished eating away at the siren, almost to the point of leaving her unable to speak, which Veruca found unacceptable. She wanted apologies—she wanted screams of apologies pulled from Darcy’s mouth as she beat them out of her. The souls inside Veruca were roaring, heating up, swirling like a hurricane, threatening to drive her nearly as mad as being banished had done to Darcy.

  Finn was calling Veruca’s name, but she could hear it only distantly over the clamoring for revenge thundering through her head. Her bare hands gripped Darcy’s throat even as her shadowy power had punched into the siren’s chest and grappled with the banshee’s soul, tearing it apart to keep it from further damaging the shell.

  Strangulation sprang from the still human part of her, resorting to the face to face attempt at murder, while her power, her desire to shred Darcy for her role in putting Finn in danger, worked less concretely, battling the banshee’s soul as its naturally caustic nature tried to chew through her. Soul after soul burned up as Veruca worked, but she didn’t care that she was losing power as she went.

  The new Queen of Hell could always get more power. With this many souls, with minions and demons and contracts, she could always get more power.

  ****

  The house around them was crumbling, the walls cracking, the floor rumbling. A sudden gash through the ceiling sent dust raining down on Finn and he hopped out of the way, worried a beam might plummet through and conk him on the head. Benedict rode the quake easily, though Donald didn’t seem to know what was happening at first and nearly lost his feet.

  “Earthquake?” Finn asked, genuinely concerned that no one seemed bothered.

  Instead of answering, Veruca yowled, turning to face Darcy and throw herself on the poor creature, yanking her close, wrapping her fingers around her throat and squeezing.

  “Veruca!” Unsure what had happened, where Veruca had gone inside that had enraged her to the point of attempting murder, he darted toward her, aiming to grab her, to comfort her until she came back to herself. Something blocked his approach, bouncing him back with a punch to the gut that left him on his butt across the room.

  Lady laughed from the corner, making Finn feel like a fool, even through the pain of getting the wind knocked out of him.

  Benedict helped him to his feet, pulling him back toward the door.

  “We should probably step outside, friend,” Benedict said quietly, before his gaze darted toward Donald. “Up to you if you want to bring the big guy, but I’m pretty sure there’s more going on here than we can see with our puny human eyes.”

  “Stay, good sir,” Lady called to Benedict, winking unsubtly at him as the door slammed shut at their backs. “I have some advice for you when this is all over.”

  “At least she seems sure I’ll survive,” Benedict said, patting Finn on the back. “You okay?”

  “Is Veruca?” Finn asked, moving in close, calling her name again. The window at the back of the large living room cracked, a nasty line of silver shooting up the middle to branch outward toward the edges.

  Veruca ignored him, following Darcy’s body to the floor, still squeezing hard enough that Finn could hear bones breaking, could see the shape of Darcy’s throat collapsing much smaller than it should have been able to.

  “Veruca,” Donald called, trying to go after her himself. He got marginally farther, but still bounced back, hitting the ground, but springing upward as if it had been but a minor inconvenience. For him, Finn realized, it really was. Zombies couldn’t feel pain, even those still aware enough to recognize that they’d been alive just hours before. Standing tall, Finn called out to his army, glad to see that his distraction over Veruca and the scary Fairy hadn’t let Stefanie free.

  Deciding to bring her, just in case, he had the whole army rush over, as fast as their clumsy legs would carry them. A few took a little longer than he’d liked—either because of the shape they’d been in as people, or just because Finn was so rushed he wasn’t keeping track of their feet—and by the time they’d busted through the front door and crowded around Veruca, Darcy’s host body was in abysmal shape, no better than the house around them, in fact. Pushing the zombies at Veruca if for no other reason than to challenge whatever power was keeping him from her, Finn hoped the house lasted long enough for everyone to ge
t out safe.

  ****

  Veruca could feel grime on her hands—blood and worse. She’d lost track of her actions, of her thoughts as the tumult inside seemed to swell, forcing her out of herself. It wasn’t just the stolen souls inside who fought for attention, it was every creature and being that Belial had tied himself to over his many years as the ruler of Hell. Demons, Reapers, contracted humans, fae spawn simply moving through the world doing him favors or sending his agents information.

  The amount of input was too much and Veruca couldn’t see through it to the horror of what she’d done.

  “I don’t want this,” she whispered, reaching out to Belial with a tendril of her power, grasping his soul, wanting to pull it close—though she wasn’t entirely sure why. She hadn’t forgiven him for lying, for killing Donald, for his role in the taking of thousands of innocent lives. Perhaps it was just familiar, she wondered as she felt his soul strain to remain locked in his chest, as she yanked it hard just because it had the gall to fight her.

  “She’s good,” Lady Nemhain said, the sound of her voice grating on Veruca’s senses. “A fine monarch.”

  “I don’t want this,” Veruca said aloud, blinking the rage out of her eyes but wishing immediately she hadn’t. Flying back, getting to her feet with a mix of panic and power, she found herself stumbling into the arms of a soft older woman whose neck had been slit. Finn held her close, though he had to use the zombies arms to do so, petting a hand over her sweaty brow, asking her with the woman’s nearly soundless whisper if she was okay.

  “Nonsense,” Lady Nemhain said, sweeping closer, pushing aside the zombies as if they were made of tissue paper and closing in on Veruca, leaving Belial crumpled over the edge of the couch where Veruca had unwittingly left him when she’d tugged his soul almost completely free of his body. “You’re doing an excellent job. We could have done a bit better with the siren, but the banshee got hers. Now, lovely, darling, precious Reaper. If we’re done here, the queen would love a word with you.”

  “I don’t want this,” Veruca repeated, pressing her gory finger to Nemhain’s chest, needling it against the shiny pearls running a line from her throat to her belly. “This isn’t me. I will not be this person.”

  “You’ve taken the crown, love. You’re wearing the power and it looks magnificent on you.” Taking Veruca’s hand, she stepped back, gestured to Veruca as if she were wearing a stunning and expensive gown rather than blood and exhaustion. “I’m sure there will be a learning curve, but you’re just the woman for the job.”

  “I don’t want the job,” Veruca said, sighing, lifting her hand to press it to her face before realizing what a horror that would be. Wiping her hands on the least bloody part of her, she sighed, looking around for Finn, hoping the sight of his face would help her feel human again—and hoping such a thing were even possible.

  The voices inside had quieted some, but they still pushed, fought, called for her attention. She still had the minds of thousands of living beings in her, the thoughts and worries and feelings of everyone—including other Reapers who, she was willing to bet, had no idea Belial had been holding tiny bits of their souls as insurance.

  Finn was still, frozen, his face filled with the agony of worry for her, his own clothes splashed with drying blood. Behind him, Donald and Benedict stood similarly still, neither breathing—though, she realized with a sob—Donald would never breathe again. Outside the cracked walls of the house, Stefanie, still bound and gagged by half a dozen zombies, stood just as still.

  “What’s wrong with them?” Veruca asked, terrified.

  “We’re outside time, precious Reaper. It is not a power your kind will ever know, so enjoy it while you can. My my,” she said with a delighted laugh, standing over Darcy’s ruined corpse. “We’ll have to supply a replacement siren, you know. You’ve destroyed this one, but she’s become too popular and influential to drop out of the world.”

  “We? I don’t know the first thing about sirens—I don’t want to. I want to go home, back to my life.” Veruca sighed, dropping onto the couch, feeling the ache in her head double as she did.

  “You can do whatever you’d like, as long as you maintain the status quo. Such is Queen Orlagh’s expectation, such is your agreement. Keep running your demons, fulfilling your contracts, and keeping the balance between the human world and the fae. That is all we ask.”

  “I won’t do any of that,” Veruca whispered, feeling like she might cry. Where before she’d long to feel power, to feel in control, now she wanted nothing of the sort. Her gaze swept to Belial and she wondered if the time had passed to return his power to him—and if he’d let her live if she dared.

  “There!” Nemhain stood tall and gestured with both hands to her strange hat.

  Veruca blinked away tears, realizing that Darcy’s soul, now a tiny, brown striped finch, had joined Nysgrogh in the cage. “Aren’t they lovely? I had so wanted to add a banshee to my collection, so I owe you for this. Come, lovely Reaper. Let us leave this filthy place.”

  “I don’t want to,” Veruca whispered, letting Belial’s soul have its freedom, letting it fight its way back to his body.

  “Well, I can’t force you, not anymore, but Queen Orlagh can and she doesn’t like to be disturbed. There is another option, however, but I cannot guarantee your safety should you choose it.”

  “I don’t care anymore,” Veruca said, truly meaning it. Anything would be better than the war raging in her breast, the screaming for attention in her head, and the exhaustion that weighed her down to the marrow. “I can’t do this.”

  “I know that to be incorrect,” Lady Nemhain said, before she sighed deeply. “But perhaps the fact that you don’t want to is enough. Belial, darling. Wake up. You’re not out of a job, after all.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Belial looked beaten, exhausted, old, and it jarred Veruca in a way she hadn’t expected. Even with their recent history, her knowledge of his true nature, she was so used to him being a strong, competent, distinguished father figure that seeing him as a sad, isolated man in his mid-40s who didn’t seem to know how to properly care for himself was a shock.

  It seemed that not having the power of hell inside him was wearing him down, perhaps aging him in a way that Veruca should have expected. Seeing his pure soul, stripped down to its base nature, had taught her much about him, including that he was over a thousand years old and that Belial was not his true name—though she had suspected that since her youth. It also seemed, despite how she’d felt about him growing up, Belial hadn’t truly known love since childhood.

  His existence seemed lonely to her in a way she had never contemplated.

  He sat hunched on the couch, looking somewhat hungover, glaring up at her with a pinched expression that was only partially from bitterness at being deprived of the power he’d spent centuries building up. Most of his issues seemed to stem more from discomfort and exhaustion, and the healing souls inside Veruca cried out for her to use them to help him feel better. Instead, she remained standing in the puddle of gore she’d created from the siren’s body, regretting every choice that had led her to that moment.

  “I do wish you’d reconsider,” Nemhain said, absently posing one of the zombies’ arms as if it were a mannequin selling high-end clothing and not the corpse of a living person murdered in pursuit of revenge. “Hell has gotten stale—sorry, B, but you’re in a rut. New blood could really shake things up, sprout new ideas.”

  “No,” Veruca said, sighing, looking around at the carnage. “I want no part of this—of losing more friends and loved ones. If this power comes with the price of death, I don’t want it.”

  “Everything comes at the price of death, girl.” Nemhain sighed dramatically, sweeping her gaze about the room, before lifting her fingers and snapping. The action, so quick and simple, kicked up a ruckus of energy and power, making Veruca flinch as the feeling of several dozen souls coalesced, swirling around the army crowded both in the outside of the house
. They desperately sought their owners, suddenly drawn to the dead hearts of women, men, children, braiding back into long threads that tucked and weaved, encasing hearts and squeezing them until they all began to beat.

  Time slowly ramped up, feeling to Veruca like waking from a dream, and she gasped, realizing that Nemhain was repairing the dead, calling them back to life as easily as one might refold a flattened, paper star. Within moments, chests were heaving, bloody throats were mended, and each bit of Finn’s soul that had been resting in still chests got forced out and sent scurrying back to him.

  Veruca whirled, watching Donald take his first breath, watched his soul wriggle into place, the loose, easy nature of it looking just as glorious as when she’d first met him.

  “There,” Nemhain said, before slowing time to a halt, leaving the freshly living humans still like the dead again. The clocks Veruca hadn’t broken in her rage ceased ticking, and the air felt stale around her, leaving her panicked for a moment that this had been a tease, that Nemhain would reverse the action in a moment and everyone would once again crumple lifeless to the floor. “Forty-six fewer deaths on your conscience. How do you feel now?”

  “The same,” Veruca said, risking a lot to be true to herself. “I don’t want to kill—again—not after what I’ve done. This isn’t my life, this … struggle. I don’t want these voices, this terror, this sucking need. I want happiness, peace, comfort. I want to have a family, to love Finn and cozy up on the couch watching movies or slow dance in front of the fireplace on rainy nights. Belial can have it, this painful, desolate existence. He has no one, but I have many.”

  Veruca slid her gaze to his, pity swelling for him once again when she realized the tension in his jaw and the wrinkle in his brow were from sadness and a sour envy of what Veruca had that he’d never before revealed. Despite herself, she smirked slightly, feeling smug in that alone.