by R. K. Ryals
The Hellhound, Brim, growled in a language I didn't understand, and I looked up to find him focusing on the tower wall in front of us. There was no door. I was just about to make a smartass remark, something about Demons walking through rock, when the other two Hellhounds started growling as well. And with each new slobbery snarl, the wall began to glow, a scarlet line drawing itself along the black stone until a door big enough to admit our strange mismatched group was fully etched into the marble. It opened inward rather than out. A snout nudged me, but I didn't move.
"Walk, Naphil!" Ember barked, and I edged forward reluctantly. My feet dragged. Something told me stepping through that opening would change my life forever.
"You survived the pits of Hell. This should be the easy part," Marcas said gently from beside me. I glanced his way.
"I didn't completely survive the pits."
It was a confession I had no trouble sharing. Visions of burning souls still danced behind my eyes, and my ears roared with screams of despair. I blocked the images as Marcas placed a hand on the small of my back. We stepped through the door together.
"If you had come out of it completely unchanged, then you'd need to worry, Blainey."
I thought about this, taking comfort in the pressure of his hand as we were pushed into a small circular anteroom. It was dim inside, dark shadows seeming to dance around us as we stood waiting for the Hellhounds to proceed. Shadows? In a room with no sun and no other artificial light?
One of the silhouettes passed over my skin, and I shivered with the sudden chill, my mind obviously playing tricks on me. They were almost human-like, these outlines, but too small to be shadows belonging to any of our group. Were they real?
Another shadow rubbed my arm, and I gasped, the sound chasing the apparition away. The air changed where it moved, dark then somewhat light. It was like being in a room full of strobe lights and faux fog. The light changed so frequently, it was hard to focus.
"Forward!" one of the waltzing shadows suddenly shrieked, and I jumped. Oh, my God! They could talk!
I backed into Marcas.
"What are they?" I whispered.
Marcas placed a hand on my shoulder.
"My mother's pet souls, taken from human servants," he explained as the Hellhounds stepped from the strange chamber into a much brighter interior room.
I followed, but I couldn't help a backward glance at the moving orbs. They didn't look like the twisted souls I'd encountered in the pits, but they still seemed . . . weary maybe. I'm assuming they were guards, souls left to search any guests entering Lilith's residence.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to the specters.
I couldn't imagine any fate worse than being a trapped soul having to serve a Demon as cold-hearted and bitchy as Lilith. One of the shadows morphed, eyes suddenly appearing, only briefly and somewhat smoky, but I could tell it was angry.
"They don't want your pity. They were far worse souls on Earth. This is the consequence," Lucas said quietly.
I turned to look at his back. Maybe the spirits did deserve this punishment, but it didn't keep me from feeling sad.
"Maybe," I murmured as Lucas moved away, his retreating figure revealing a room that made my eyes go wide.
"Dam . . ."
"Better to keep your astonishment to yourself," Sophia quickly interrupted.
I shrugged. She was right. I really did need to watch my mouth more. But . . . wow! Holy Guacamole!
It was a round room, large and open, with the feel of a Victorian ballroom. Glowing candles and vaulted ceilings with chandeliers full of dull crystal lights stared back at me. The floors were constructed of the same marble as the outer castle walls, only they were red rather than onyx. The sparkling lights and dancing flames bounced off the floors, giving the room a red hue that had my hair looking like it was on fire. Red velvet chaise lounge sofas were pushed up against gleaming, ebony walls, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors wrapped one half of the room.
The only adjectives that came to mind were sordid, wanton, passionate, and angry. I didn't care to know the decorator.
"You'll be brought here later for the reception," Brim growled, his snarl echoing throughout the space, growing louder as it bounced off the walls.
I put my hands over my ears as we followed the Hellhounds to the base of a twisted, black iron staircase situated on the far right side of the room. If Lilith was present, I never saw her as we started to ascend.
"Seriously?" I grumbled as I placed my foot on the bottom step, cursing under my breath as I fought not to look down. The stairs went straight up into the vaulted ceiling and ended at yet another wall without a door. Worse still, there was no bannister, nothing to keep a person from falling if they stumbled. It gave me a trapped, desperate feeling. I cursed again.
"What was that?" Sophia asked, her disapproving gaze pinning me over her shoulder, and I gave her my best innocent look.
"Pickle chips," I supplied, using a corny phrase Monroe and I created as children when we wanted to curse but knew her parents could hear.
Lucas chuckled. It was amazing to me how, even in Hell, Lucas could be amused. And though I found this absurd, I wasn't much different. Where he found amusement, I usually found irony.
"What's the reception for?" I asked Marcas as we grew closer to the top of the stairs, my mind pondering the event ahead in a feeble attempt to distract myself from the long drop below.
He didn't answer me, choosing silence over conversation, and my nerves wouldn't allow me to glance at him while simultaneously trying to keep my balance. I was one of those people who couldn't rub my stomach and pat my head at the same time. I certainly didn't want to find out how well I could multi-task while on Lilith's ridiculous staircase. Instead, I reached behind me, an unconscious effort on my part to seek out Marcas' hand. Why I did it was beyond me. And, once I realized what I was doing, I grimaced.
My face had just started to heat up, my mortification obvious, when I felt Marcas' hand meet mine. He squeezed it slightly and let go, both his hands moving to my shoulders. It created a warm feeling in my gut that turned instantly sour.
I shouldn't find comfort in Marcas' touch. It couldn't be a good thing, forming an attachment to an ancient Demon dealing with family issues and an unresolved love affair. But the strange knot growing in my stomach taunted me with the knowledge that the feeling was there no matter how much I wanted to deny it. I swallowed hard as our group halted at the top of the stairs.
Ember and Brim led us, and they moved to flank each other, one balancing on the stairwell while the other floated in midair. The Hellhounds' strange ability to hover on any surface was obvious even inside Lilith's home. And while I noted this, there was no time to be impressed as first Brim and then Ember tapped the wall before us with their snouts. A portion of the marble swung inward silently. There was no growling this time, no chants using impossible canine language, just a whole lot of snout rubbing and head nudging followed by the view of a long hallway dotted with large, impenetrable wooden doors.
Our group moved forward, my feet sinking into thick, velvety red carpet as the Hellhounds guided us to one of the doorways. I had the sinking feeling these were our jail cells.
"Naphil, you will remain here," Ember growled as he shoved at the timber. The door was made up of a grayish wood I had never seen before and so thick it was a wonder the Hound could even get it to budge. But it did open, swinging inward the same way all of the doors in Lilith's residence seemed to do. The inward motion appeared symbolic somehow, as if she was telling us we were allowed entrance but no exit.
"Alone?" I asked.
I hated how small my voice sounded, but I was out of my element, and I had already been immersed in the pits of Hell, fire lapping at me while screaming souls had me begging for silence. Lilith wanted me dead. There was no doubt, and I didn't want to be on my own. Separation seemed lethal to me.
Ember gave me no time to argue, and I felt Marcas' hands fall away from my shoulders as I was pushed into
the room, the movement harsh. It sent me sprawling, and I had just enough time to note more red carpet and a large black, canopied bed before my face sank into the floor while the door slammed behind me.
I pushed myself up awkwardly, my movements wary. The chamber was dark, and I reached for my inner light as I searched the area with my night vision. It was a large room, a suite with a bed covered in black silk and a black vanity pushed up against the marble wall, the stool before it cushioned in red.
The rest of the room was open, very little decor with the exception of an arched doorway leading into a black and red bathroom. It was a cold, harsh room. And I shivered as I moved toward the bed. I hated the monotonous color scheme.
Lilith seemed to acknowledge the existence of only two colors, midnight and scarlet. And as intimidating as it was, it was kind of cheesy really, mainly because they were colors anyone would expect an evil woman to choose. If she wanted to surprise someone, throw people for a loop, why not go with yellow or pastels?
I climbed onto the bed, the black silk sheets rubbing against the bared skin on my stomach. It was both pleasant and painful, the area still somewhat raw from the slide in the pyramid. I glanced down at my ripped shirt and sighed. I wanted a bath, knew I needed one desperately. But I was afraid to be naked in this place, afraid to be more vulnerable than I already was.
"Go. Clean up," a voice said, and I jumped, looking up to find Marcas leaning against the room's closed door, one shoulder casually braced against the wood.
He raised a brow at my startled gasp, a corner of his lip lifting as I left the bed, climbing down but not moving any closer. It seemed safer to keep some distance between us.
"You have a bad habit of showing up at the oddest, most inappropriate moments," I mumbled as he shoved away from the door.
"And yet you're relieved," he pointed out. I didn't argue with him.
"How did you get in here?" I asked instead. He motioned to the bathroom.
"The Hellhounds weren't sent to guard me. My mother knows I won't leave. They are here to track you and the Angels. Go, get cleaned up. I'll stay."
I let my eyes wander over him as he spoke before finally looking away, my gaze focusing on the bathroom door.
"You don't want to clean up?" I asked, my mind wandering.
Had I ever seen him use a restroom? Marcas shook his head.
"It's not necessary for our kind. We use our powers for that."
I knew that. Deep down I did. Marcas was always clean. And, even if his mother hadn't done her own "clean" magic on him when we'd entered Hell, I knew eventually he would have done it on himself. Something told me he'd only stayed filthy as long as he had because he hadn't wanted me to feel uncomfortable.
"I'm sure you've noticed you haven't needed food or other amenities as often since discovering your powers," Marcas said, and I felt my forehead crinkle.
He was right. I hadn't even felt the need to pee since Marcas and I were wrapped in my light at Alessandro's home in Italy. Thinking about it now kinda made me have to go, though. As for food . . . my stomach growled.
"You'll need to try and control your hunger, Blainey. Depend on your power for your needs. It is not wise to consume food in Hell."
I looked at Marcas, saw the seriousness in his gaze, and nodded.
"Clean up it is, then," I mumbled. Food would have to wait.
Marcas moved forward, his gaze raking over my figure, taking in the new holes in my jeans, the rips in my shirt, the bra peeking through the slashed material, and he held out his hand.
"You'll need clothes."
Oh, no he didn't! I saw the intent in his eyes, and I placed my hand over his.
"Let me try. Please."
He didn't respond, just waited, and I concentrated on my light, removing my hand from his as a glow began to emanate from my palm. After my experience in the pits, I wanted more than ever to rely mainly on myself. If I couldn't do the small things, the large ones were pointless. It was time I learned to fabricate my own clothes.
I was so engrossed in trying to imagine a new pair of jeans, a shirt, and necessary undergarments that I didn't see Marcas move, didn't know he was behind me until I felt his fingers slide down my arm, his hand coming to cradle mine as his chest came to rest against my back. I froze.
"It's easier if you recreate what you already had on. There's no complicated need to design something new," Marcas instructed.
Sure . . .mmmhmmm . . . I was so engrossed in the feel of his body pressed up against mine that it took me a moment to realize what he was saying. When I did, I looked up at him. His eyes were dark, the pupils edged in red.
"And if I want something new?"
Marcas' lips twitched, and I grinned.
"Do you always have to be complicated, Blainey?"
"It's more fun."
Marcas' hand still cradled mine, and I felt his thumb caress my palm. My smile vanished.
"Then it's best to imagine whatever you want to create in full detail, down to the stitch."
I glanced down at our hands.
"Don't help me," I insisted.
I wanted to do this on my own. I knew I could, knew from my time in the pits that I was strong. Marcas didn't answer, just stood waiting as I concentrated once again on my inner light.
The resulting glow lit the room, and I took my time, constructing the clothes in my head the same way I did characters when I was writing. I envisioned boot cut jeans, undergarments, and a white off-the-shoulder, three quarter length sleeved tee with the word "Angel" scripted in silver. I knew I'd succeeded when I heard Marcas chuckle.
"You're goading her, you know," he said. I knew he meant Lilith.
I opened my eyes to find the resulting clothes hovering in a bundle above my hand. The bra was visible under the tee, beige and lacy, and I should have been embarrassed, but I wasn't. Strangely enough, I was beyond that point with Marcas now.
"She's asking for it."
It was the only response I had, my voice hard, my memories of Hell's fiery pits seared onto my soul, the fall into the portal she'd created in the pyramid embedded in my nightmares.
"Dayton . . ." Marcas began, and I looked up at him.
There was conflict in his gaze, and I felt his hand move back up my arm, goose bumps developing where his fingers trailed. I stopped him, effectively placing my hand over his before turning in his embrace, the clothes now gripped in my free hand. My eyes met his.
"I may need instruction. I may even need rescuing here and there. But, I am not weak. And when I learn something new, I learn it. I don't forget it, Marcas. I may fear things, but I am one hell of a fighter. And I didn't inherit that from Angels. It didn't come from Bezaliel. No, I inherited that from my mother."
Marcas smiled then. It was a small one, lips turned up slightly, the red glint in his eyes mischievous. His hand came to rest on the side of my face, and I swallowed hard.
"My mother underestimates humans."
Marcas' thumb rubbed my cheek, and I saw his eyes darken as he drew closer.
"You have your mother's lips," he whispered.
My eyes widened, and I took a small step backward.
"You've met her?"
Marcas shook his head.
"No, but I share my brother's memories . . ."
I stared at him, the rest of his sentence fading into oblivion. I never made it past his first seven words. What? Did that mean what I thought it meant? Damon's memories? That must include my mother's death . . .
"Did you . . ." I began.
Marcas stopped me, his finger coming to rest on my lips.
"I didn't make it in time to stop it. But, yes, I saw her death."
I released a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
"Marcas . . ."
He used his finger to apply pressure to my mouth. He knew what I was getting at, and his face was hard. We had shared a moment in Hell's fire pits, a moment that brought us closer and brought me grief. I wanted to finish it.
&nbs
p; "I can give you that moment, Dayton. Share the memory, but it wasn't a pretty death."
It was what I'd hoped. He could give me that memory. As awful as it must have been, I wanted to know. It was like watching a train wreck. I couldn't turn away from it now.
"I can handle it," I swore, my eyes hard.
Marcas' face softened.
"I know you can."
He brought his other hand up, both his palms now cradling my face.
"Close your eyes."
I did as he ordered, and I felt his head lower until his forehead rested against mine.
And then it came, the memory.
The clothes I'd created fell to the floor, and I would have fallen to my knees had it not been for Marcas' hands. The scene was so real, I wanted to reach out and touch her, my beautiful mother, her pale hair almost luminescent in the dark, a full moon behind her. She was at the Abbey, in the forgotten herb garden where I had often spent hours reading or writing. And behind her stood Damon. He was forcing her to her knees, and I heard her hiss as he grabbed a hand full of flaxen hair. She was stoic, her arms wrapped around her middle, wrinkling the soft blue fabric of her favorite summer dress.
"You won't have her," my mother promised.
Damon laughed, his eyes going blood red.
"You entertain me, Ashley. Where is she?"
My mother shook her head despite Damon's grip. She was on her knees, her head pulled back, her throat bared.
"Where is she!" he roared.
My mother never even flinched, her jaw set. Damon leaned forward, his mouth next to my mother's ear.
"Your sister is mine now. She'll tell me where she is, Ashley. And, if not, then your death will bring her to me. Kyra is your last remaining relative."
Fear entered my mother's eyes, and Damon shivered from the thrill of her defeat.
"Bezaliel," my mother whispered.
Damon grinned.
"You know the answer to that better than I do, Sweet One. He will be forbidden to raise the child. His interference will only bring war."
"And yours won't?"
Damon's teeth grew pointed.