by Lori Adams
Again Michael grabbed him. “Tell me what to do,” he pleaded. “How can I descend?”
Armaros glanced over his shoulder at the Halos watching in stunned silence. He seemed reluctant to answer Michael, but it couldn’t be helped. Sophia had been in Hell too long.
“You would have to shed your wings, Michael,” Armaros said evenly. “The only way to descend into Hell is to shed your wings and become a Grigori.” He rushed on before Michael could respond. “It’s not your calling. Stay here. I’ll bring her back.”
“How do I do it?” Michael’s heart was pounding but his decision was firm. He had to descend. It wasn’t a matter of plucking Sophia from the fires of Hell; Dante would fight for her. And he might have help. He might have an army, for all Michael knew. One Grigori and a half-wit Ascended Master was not enough. Every instinct screamed to go after her.
Michael snapped his arms wide, bringing out his back wings with a dramatic rustling sound. Fanned out, crisp and white, they spanned some seven feet across. Next, the deadly fetching rose sharply across his forearms, and Armaros stepped back in awe. Michael was more powerful, more radiant in his full glory that even Armaros could believe. He glanced uncertainly at Sachiel, whose face was pale and stoic. His disapproval, along with the other Halos’, was obvious. But it was not their choice to make.
“Repeat after me,” Armaros said quietly. He recited the words quickly and without pause.
Michael did as instructed. “I, Michael Patronus, guardian and Halo warrior, renounce my vow to The Council of Guardians, and join the brotherhood of the Grigori.”
Michael’s head flew back in a searing pain that spread across his shoulder blades. He pinched his eyes shut and clenched his teeth. By a force of the unseen, his feathers began to fall. One by one, they went adrift but never reached the ground. Misty fog swept in, swirling them up and away in mere moments. As delicate as it all seemed, it was gut-wrenching to have his feathers stripped away. Michael staggered from the effect. He doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees and gasping for air. He couldn’t breathe. Not this foul, heavy concoction floating in the fog. For a moment, his lungs felt as though they might collapse. When he opened his eyes, he was staring at the grimy silt between his feet. His eyes swam with heavy tears that dropped to the ground. Michael blinked frantically as though he’d had sand tossed in his eyes. As they cleared, he focused on the two tiny pools of tears at his feet. One was blue, the other brown.
He stood upright and looked around. Everything seemed as it had been before, except for the astonished expressions on his fellow warriors’ faces. Former brothers in arms.
Armaros took Michael by the shoulders and examined his eyes. He nodded his approval; the transformation was complete. “One blue. One brown. You are marked as one of us.”
Michael stood paralyzed with shock. The statement was numbing to his senses. His breath couldn’t fill his lungs to any satisfaction but he had to adapt to the change. Swallowing hard, he nodded. “Let’s go.”
Without wasting another moment, Armaros and Michael drew their swords and plunged into the red fog below.
Chapter 22
Dante
“When will they make the announcement?” Lovaria asked Dante, nearly out of breath. Hand in hand, they strode quickly through the corridors along with Vaughn and Isatou. Surrounded by bodyguards, they headed back to their chambers. The Demonic Games were over and everyone was hustling to change for the Danse Macabre. The post-game preparations for the ball were almost a game in themselves: The nobles would rush from the coliseum cavern, don elaborate costumes as rapidly as possible, and then race to the canals to be among the first to board boats and be whisked to the grand grotto hidden deep in the catacombs. Lovaria thought of it as some secret-society ritual or fraternity prank, in which the last to arrive would be doused with slime, or in these surroundings, molten lava.
Dante chuckled and shook his head. “You have already asked this, cara mia. They will make the formal announcement of our engagement during the ball, and then Lord Malachi will marry us thereafter. He is not ideal, I confess, but I would rather the High Throne preside over our nuptials as opposed to any number of false prophets shuffling about in chains.” His eyes flashed, delighting in Lovaria’s sudden enthusiasm for their impending marriage. It had been the talk of the kingdom and he was eager to have them wed. In years past, he hadn’t cared about the Demonic Games or the Danse Macabre because he’d been too obsessed with tracking Lovaria’s soul. But this year was different. This year, he and his beloved would be married during the ball, a marked occasion that would resemble—as closely as possible in their current location—the grand illusion of their past lives.
Lovaria smiled softly. “Actually, I meant the announcement of your new title. If they make you a principe, that will make me a principessa. Yes?”
They stopped outside their door and waited while Grayson entered first. It had become his custom to canvass the chamber for enemies each time they returned.
For a fleeting moment, Dante felt a twinge of irritation toward his future bride. That particular question had also been asked and answered several times over. It had occurred to him that Lovaria seemed more concerned about her noble status and less about their wedding. In her former life, it was all she had wanted, to become his wife. Now in Hell, Dante counseled himself about her odd behavior. He chose to regard her preoccupation as nothing but a side effect of fear. She must want assurance that she would not be harmed. She must believe that a noble title would safeguard her against enemies. She must not understand, or truly believe, that being his wife would offer her enough protection.
Whatever excuses he made, the notion that his sweet young bride might have become power hungry began to plague his thoughts.
“Yes, Lovaria,” he replied quietly, so the guards would not hear her true name. With a hint of disappointment he reassured her, once again, “When we are wed, you will be a princess, and I your prince.”
Lovaria tilted her head thoughtfully. She always knew when Dante was dissatisfied with something. Ignoring Vaughn and Isatou, plus the three guards watching them, she leaned closer and murmured across his lips, “I cannot wait until we are wed, mi amore. And this, our wedding night, will be the first of many happy pleasures.”
Her sultry admission sparked a madness in Dante. He jerked her against him and grasped her long braid, winding it tightly around his hand. Tugging her head back, he forced her lips apart in a demanding kiss. It was cruel and painful but he didn’t care. His lust for her had grown torturous since he’d brought her to Hell. He had waited longer than any sane man would have. Denying himself pleasures over the centuries to ensure that their first night together would be unpolluted. His wife would be sweet and virtuous. She would resemble nothing of the vulgar whores his father had brought to their house. Lovaria would be cherished and adored, never made to suffer as he had.
Dante tore his mouth away before he lost all control and took her in the corridor like a rutting stag. His entire body throbbed with need and he was embarrassed to have let himself lose sight of things. “Forgive me,” he murmured, wiping his mouth. He straightened his clothes and stepped back, glancing sidelong at Isatou and Vaughn.
Isatou was emotionless while Vaughn chuckled. “Hey, don’t let us stop you.”
Lovaria leaned against the wall, panting and trembling. Her bottom lip burned with the taste of blood. She could still feel his lips sizzling against hers. Dante’s heat was scorching when he was angered, and it sent a tremor of fear through her. She was keeping too many secrets from him to risk his wrath. From this point on, she would tread lightly. In the meantime, they had to get through the night in one piece.
“My lord.” Grayson appeared in the doorway with a man in tow. “He says you instructed him to wait inside.”
The man was elderly and slightly stooped over, which added to his subservient appearance, as if the manacles around his ankles weren’t enough. He kept his dark eyes low to avoid inadvertent
ly displeasing anyone, a habit of many lost souls who had acclimated to slave labor in Hell.
“Giacomo is here at my invitation,” Dante responded bitterly. Still upset with himself, he took it out on his father’s guards. Although this was nothing new. He despised the idea of his father’s interference and never felt the need to hide it. As far as Dante was concerned, he wasn’t being protected as much as watched. Taking Lovaria by the hand, he stalked past them into the chamber. Vaughn and Isatou followed. “You may go, Grayson. Permanently. Your services are no longer required nor desired.”
Grayson was not moved by the order. This was not the first time Dante had tried to dismiss him. “As you know, I work for Lord Giano. Not you. Only he can dismiss me.”
“After tonight, when I am principe of the fifth kingdom, you will leave my presence or I will kill you and your men myself. Capisci?”
Grayson refused to rise to the Demon Knight’s challenge and stubbornly broadened his stance, a clear indication that it was not the son he feared most but the father.
“Why don’t you wait outside?” Vaughn asked, intervening before things got ugly. “We’ll be ready in a minute.”
“What of him?” Grayson asked coldly as he yanked the slave around, causing him to stumble and his chains to rattle against the stone floor.
“He stays!” Dante snapped. “Now leave us!”
Grayson scowled inside his skull helm. He gave the elderly man a glance of inspection and decided he was harmless. Then he shoved the slave aside and pulled the door shut.
Giacomo tripped forward but managed to stay upright. He bowed his head in submission and trembled. His clothes were a ragged smock covered with smears of various pigments and tattered brown pants shredded at the knees. His bare feet were grimy and blackened beneath the iron shackles. His hands bore the signs of hard work: thick calluses and deep groves filled with a sticky white substance.
Dante pulled his thoughts from the guard and set his mind back on the evening. They had little time and he had a surprise for Lovaria.
He flashed a smile and presented Giacomo like a glorious gift. “For you, tesoro. I bring you the mascherari, the finest mask maker in the fifth kingdom!”
Lovaria’s face lit up. She understood immediately and whirled around in search of the treasures that Giacomo must have brought. While they were out, the adjoining chamber had been converted into a gallery of sorts, filled with dozens of elaborate masks. Various sizes, colors, shapes, textures, and attitudes to choose from, all displayed on trays lined in black velvet. The empty-eyed faces stared out in stark whites, shimmering golds, deep purples, shiny reds, oranges, and yellows. And there was more, as Lovaria discovered when she moved deeper into the room. Several elegant gowns had been delivered and displayed along with sparkling accessories of jewels and bobbles, anything that Dante could confiscate to please her.
“Oh, Dante,” Lovaria gushed. “They’re wonderful! Grazie! Grazie!” She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a quick kiss before diving in. Dante laughed, happy to please her.
“Whatever you like, cara mia. And Isatou, as well. She helped to bring down the finest gowns whenever she could.” Lovaria was too enamored with the selections to acknowledge him. Isatou smiled wistfully and then strolled away and absently stroked the gowns, lost in thought. Dante moved beside Lovaria as she fawned over the soft fabrics and glittering precious stones. The green velvets and heavy brocades were her favorite materials, although she adored silk, satin, and delicate tulle. She couldn’t possibly decide on a dress without trying them all on.
“Do not take too long, mi amore. You must save time to choose a mask as well,” Dante warned playfully. “No one may enter the grotto without one. In theory, they are equalizers that allow the nobles and commoners to intermingle while maintaining all proprieties. In reality, the nobles always stand apart from those they dominate. But it is for the Dark Master that we simulate life on earth. His pleasures become our rituals, I suppose.”
“More like his fetishes,” Vaughn said, rifling through the masks. The designs ranged from the simple to the outrageous. There were plain eye masks with little fanfare, next to full-faced masks with bands of pearls draped below the chin and large feathers framing the face that rose two feet up into tall, elaborate headdresses. Double-, triple-, and quadruple-faced masks that boxed the head in and were topped with tricornered hats.
Vaughn held a mask to his face, a complex amalgamation of feathers, twigs, bones, beads, and tiny stuffed birds. “Somebody got kinky with a bird’s nest, eh?” He chuckled and tossed it at Isatou, who batted it away with a coy smile. “How about this one?” He pulled out a half mask with a hook nose and a heavily furrowed brow. The intricate red-and-black checkered pattern made for a comical touch. “What do we call this one, mascherari?”
Giacomo shuffled over, proud of his work and eager to please. “That one is crafted from gesso and called the mask of Zanni, sir. A commedia dell’arte. It comes from the horror mask but is a servant of the commedia.”
“Perfect for you,” Dante remarked over his shoulder. “One part idiota and one part demon.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Vaughn tossed it aside as well. He picked up the only one familiar to him. “I got this. The plague mask.” It was stark white with black eyeholes, a round forehead, and an overextended beak nose. It was a half mask, so most of the face remained exposed.
“Medico della peste. Plague doctor,” Giacomo clarified. “And this one, the bauta, my lord.” He offered a full mask, heavily gilded with golden swirls along one half of the square-edged brow and one eye socket. The opposite side carried intricate black and red swirls. The sharp nose and exaggerated chin were white, with gold curlicues along the jaw. “To protect the identity of the wearer, it has no marked mouth but a beak nose to breathe freely and extended chin to allow for eating without removing the mask. Often worn with the tricornered hat.”
“Yeah, it’ll do.”
With Vaughn taken care of, Giacomo offered a few suggestions to Isatou: an eye mask topped with elaborate fans, a half-moon-shaped mask with diamond patterns. In the end she selected a delicate pink, yellow, and blue full-face mask that sported an impish expression with red, pouty lips.
For the future principessa, the mascherari had only one mask in mind. “The columbina,” he said quietly, offering it in cupped hands as though it were sacred. “A half mask so as not to hide your own beauty.” It was a stunning piece of art with elaborate gold filigree and brilliant red rubies. The eyes, topped with the rubies, were almond shaped and extended like embellished fins along the sides of the head. Heavy golden swirls circled up and away from the eyes and framed a golden crown at the center of the forehead. To hide the silk ribbon that secured the mask in place was a creamy thin layer of tulle that hung down the back of the head and resembled a wedding veil. Lovaria adored it and went about selecting the perfect gown to match.
“And for you, sir?” Giacomo asked Dante, gesturing that he was welcome to anything that caught his fancy. The dark Demon Knight was too intimidating for the mascherari to mistakenly offer the wrong mask. Giacomo was terrified of insulting him and bringing out his infamous temper.
“My lady will select mine,” Dante replied, taking Lovaria’s hand and kissing the back of it. “But first you must dress. And hurry mi amore, or we will miss our boat, literally.”
Lovaria was fixated on a glorious gold and cream gown. “I won’t be but a minute,” she murmured. Then she gathered up the pieces of rich, golden taffeta, the bustle and layers of petticoats, and the silk bodice adorned with tiny bows along the back. After collecting the proper accessories, she said, “Isatou will help me. Won’t you?” It was not a question that required an answer. With her arms full, Lovaria rushed off to her room. Isatou followed with her own selections, but with far less enthusiasm. She glanced nervously over her shoulder as Dante and Vaughn began to undress.
—
“So how is her training going?” Vaughn asked as he stripped down and
reached for a pair of black trousers. “The Order will want an update, you know.” He fastened the trousers and slipped on a long-sleeved black shirt, fumbling with the tiny buttons.
“You mean Lord Malachi will,” Dante said, sliding into fitted black trousers. Quickly, he snatched up a high-collared white shirt and pushed his arms through. “I’ll tell him whatever he wants to hear. It’s none of his damned business anyway.”
Vaughn shot him a dubious look. “Well, is she at least progressing?”
Dante sighed and pulled a burgundy and black vest over his white shirt. “Not as efficiently as I had expected.” He hastily shoved each foot into a shiny black riding boot and then grappled with a black leather belt and scabbard at his waist. He jammed the sword inside the scabbard with a sharp metallic sound then paused to inspect the decorative gold and iron hilt. The sword itself was purely for ornamentation, with no expectations of putting it to use; after all, it was his wedding night.
Dante smiled at the thought. It hardly mattered anymore that they had been robbed of a blissful life on earth; they would be together here and now and that’s what was important. The fact that they had the occasion to be dressed so elegantly pleased him immensely.
“Just what did you expect?” Vaughn continued as he flung a long black cape around his shoulders and tied it beneath his chin. He refused the black gloves Giacomo offered, preferring to keep his hands free, should he need his tattoo daggers. In black from head to boot, all he lacked was the bauta mask and the tricornered hat.
Dante took up his black brocade swallowtail coat; a modified Regency tailcoat with black velvet trim and a slight gothic flare that suited his dark nature. The coat buttons were brilliant gold, and the thick cuffs rolled back and fastened with matching gold links. They were stiff and cumbersome, and he tugged irritably to free the white ruffled shirt cuffs beneath them. Then he moved in front of the mirror and tried his hand at the deep burgundy ascot while voicing his concerns about Lovaria’s training.