Path of Night (Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, Novel 3)

by Brennan, Sarah Rees

  “I had to,” Ambrose murmured.

  He couldn’t let witches die like his father and Luke had.

  Prudence’s lips curved. After a day in the catacombs, her lipstick wasn’t perfect, but her mouth was.

  “I’d never met an honorable man before. The novelty attracted my attention. So I let you accompany me on my mission, I let you distract me with your antics, and I let myself believe foolish things. None of it matters. What matters is my sister and brother, and my revenge.”

  “So …” Ambrose said. “You like me?”

  The enraged rattle in Prudence’s throat caused Ambrose to edge away. Fortunately, Prudence had lost her swords in the catacombs.

  “I’m returning to the hotel. Then I go to New Orleans to cut my father’s throat. I wish for a bath and vengeance, in that order. There’s no need to mention this unimportant issue again.”

  The Arc de Triomphe was a golden stone monument to victory. City lights fed the stars to make them dazzling. All Paris was a backdrop for the proud line of Prudence’s back, retreating from him.

  Ambrose hurried after her. “When you say you let me distract you with my antics, you mean you like being with me. You enjoy my company.”

  “Ambrose!” Prudence hissed. “The mortals can hear you.”

  A French child gave Ambrose an unimpressed stare. Ambrose grinned.

  Prudence’s half-hidden smiles when Ambrose made jokes. The way she listened when he talked about poetry. How she’d asked him what he was thinking, her voice halting. In no way used to reaching out, but trying.

  Because she dreamed of him.

  He’d wondered what it would be like, to see Prudence smitten. Apparently he’d seen it.

  When they reached the colorful door of their hotel, Prudence swept past the uniformed doorkeeper, who said: “Mademoiselle—”

  “Recently buried alive, currently having an emotional conversation, not a good time,” whispered Ambrose, then chased after Prudence. He caught her at her door with her hand on a doorknob painted with tiny stars and harps. “Prudence, wait!”

  She whipped around. “I would never expect mercy from any man but you. Try to understand how mortifying it is for me, to know you don’t—”

  He cupped her furious face in his hands and said: “You make me want to write poetry again.”

  There was a silence more profound than the quiet in the empire of the dead. Prudence’s dark gaze fell away from his.

  “What?” she whispered.

  “I’m slow when it comes to love,” said Ambrose. “I turned away from my aunties and got mixed up with a destructive bunch. I had to be trapped in a house so I could grow to love Sabrina. I only admitted I did love her a few months ago. All our lives, we’re taught that we can’t love, that we shouldn’t love. All my life, I’ve been restlessly searching for something that might do instead. Nothing else will do.”

  Prudence’s mouth twisted. “Are you claiming to love me? You don’t. You would see me gutted on an altar to save Sabrina, or one of your aunts.”

  “I might,” Ambrose admitted. “I don’t love you. And you don’t love me. You’d see me gutted on an altar to save one of your sisters.”

  Prudence smiled, as though catching sight of somebody she recognized. “I might.”

  “If we got to know each other more,” Ambrose murmured. “It might be a more difficult choice. It might be an impossible choice. That’s what I was doing, in Italy. As the mortals say, I want to get to know you better. I don’t love you. Not yet.”

  She startled out of his hands, a movement like that of the silver bird that had flown to him.

  “So …” Prudence savagely mimicked the question he’d asked in front of the Arc de Triomphe. “You like me? I dressed in my best garments. I brought my most seductive friends to your door. I showered you in blasphemous compliments. I was desperately obvious—”

  “Genuinely, none of it came off that way to me—”

  “—Then I helped my father torture you and your family, dedicated myself to revenge, promised my heart would be stone, and now you like me?”

  Ambrose shrugged, helpless. “People say I’m contrary.”

  Prudence pushed open her door, revealing a high, arched window flung wide on the city and a canopy bed with fluttering curtains. Ambrose stayed back. Trapping her was one mistake he refused to make. She could slam the door in his face again, if she wanted.

  Prudence didn’t, so Ambrose went to her. He reached out and drew her close.

  “I’m slow, but I get there. I couldn’t tell at a glance, when you came in beauty to my door. I couldn’t see all of what you were. I see you now. I’ve searched across the world. I’ve never seen anyone I thought more worth loving than you.”

  He’d always thought if love came, it would be someone who could tame his own wild heart. How much wilder and sweeter, to discover the lioness rather than the fawn.

  Prudence let out a shuddering breath. “I have a mission.”

  “Which I support,” said Ambrose. “I like you. I like your ruthless, gorgeous quest for revenge. I’d like to pursue this. But it’s up to you. Think it over in the bath.”

  He sketched a bow, then turned away. He heard Prudence sigh and step through her door.

  Ambrose turned back for one last glimpse. The door was swinging closed, but not shut yet. He saw Prudence spinning giddily in the center of her room, her curtains dancing in the wind, her hands clasped to her chest. In that brief unguarded moment, she let herself be simply happy. Simply young.

  Ambrose started to smile.

  He caught the door before it closed.

  “Sorry, I’m being a total Harvey about this situation.”

  Prudence stopped dead. “How dare you say that name in my bedchamber?”

  “Witches aren’t used to love,” said Ambrose. “So I was trying to do this the mortal way. Except I personally find the mortal way to be absurd. Say the word and I’ll go. But in Italy, you asked me to stay. Pursue bloody vengeance, my darling … in the morning.”

  Prudence toyed with the curtains of her canopy bed. “I will,” she said, with dignity.

  She glanced up. Ambrose smiled for her. The line of Prudence’s mouth relaxed slightly, and Ambrose realized with dawning delight that this was Prudence melting.

  “Can I … recite a poem to you?”

  “Oh, by the unholy name of Lucrezia Borgia.” Prudence sighed. “If you must.”

  “I must.” Ambrose stepped into the veil of her curtain, murmuring poetry in her ear. “ ‘Lion, dear to my heart. Goodly is your beauty, honeysweet. Lion, take me to the bedchamber. ’ ”

  Prudence slid her arms around his neck and purred: “Finally.”

  Ambrose swung her in a dizzy, delirious circle. The curtains whirled around them as they danced, the wind carried the jaunty music of Paris into their chamber, and he was almost sure he caught Prudence laughing. The lights spilling through their window became a ring of brilliance meant only for them.

  Prudence leaned in to kiss him. Ambrose whispered: “I will want to cuddle.”

  “For five minutes ,” Prudence told him sternly.

  Ambrose laughed as they kissed and felt her lips curve into an answering smile. He closed his eyes, city lights turning even this dark to silver, and her mouth tasted as sweet as freedom.

  N ick stayed kneeling, even after the snowy mountain melted away. He looked around the dark enclosed room where he truly was, with its many sloping sides, and at the cage door swinging open. He watched as the Father of Lies stepped out. Lucifer’s smile was wolfish.

  Nick hung his head.

  “It was a good effort, boy,” murmured the Dark Lord. “While it lasted. Now move aside.”

  Boy. He’d called Nick that on earth too. Nick had come when Lucifer called, thinking of Sabrina and the mortals in peril, but imagining too that Satan would praise him. Instead, Nick had been dismissed.

  He didn’t want to have rebelled against Satan for wounded pride. He wanted to b
e a rebel for love alone.

  “Tricky little mind you have there,” Lucifer continued.

  “Thanks,” muttered Nick.

  “It wasn’t a compliment.”

  Nick glanced up and caught a glimmer of wrath in his lord’s face. Nick wanted to cower, but he made himself sneer. “Sounded like one to me.”

  Lucifer ignored Nick, concentrating on his grievance. “Your subconscious built many elaborate scenarios to fence me in and hide yourself. I went through a great deal of trouble, clawing through your pathetic memories and even more pathetic dreams to find something to break you. In the end, I had to lift the veil between the worlds. Was it necessary to be so stubborn? It was always going to end like this.”

  “I know,” Nick whispered.

  Lucifer had lifted the veil. The vision of Sabrina turning back in the dark was real. Her dear worried face, framed by pale hair flaring underwater, her mouth shaping a word.

  Not a word. A name.

  His name.

  That didn’t make much sense, given the story he’d been presented with. Nick set his mind to this problem.

  Each of those mortals, and Sabrina, fighting demons alone. Sabrina, with a golden grail in her hands. Unlike the mortal, Nick could read. He knew a quest narrative when he saw one.

  “Boy?” Lucifer said sharply.

  “I’ve seen mortal movies,” mused Nick. “I’m starting to think I was shown some heavily edited footage.”

  What the heaven did they think they were doing? What where they questing for?

  It was obvious, if he let himself believe, past the fearful hammering of his own heart saying: It can’t be, nobody ever came, you don’t deserve it. This can’t be for you.

  Nick , Sabrina had said.

  They were coming for him. They absolutely shouldn’t be. It was a suicide mission. With luck, Zelda would find out and stop the lunacy. But … maybe Sabrina did love him. She hadn’t forgotten him. They were all trying to save him. Sabrina, the queen of everything. Lovely Roz. Clear-eyed Theo. And that idiot. Nick smiled, just for himself.

  “Yes,” Lucifer murmured, voice bored. “You were tricked by the Great Deceiver. What a surprise.”

  Nick stopped smiling at the ground and glared at Satan.

  Basically, Nick didn’t like Lucifer. He’d imagined he would. He hadn’t expected Lucifer to remind him of Father Blackwood, imposing limits on people for no reason except that despite his great power, he was small-minded.

  When Nick beheld the Son of the Morning on his golden throne, the god whose gift had released Nick from the wolves, Nick thought: This is the kind of man who cages. And I helped him.

  “You’re trapped in a prison of the body and mind,” Nick told Lucifer softly. “I’m the box now. I’m the riddle. You have to get past me.”

  “I did,” Lucifer reminded him. “You gave in. You opened the door. I was too clever for you.”

  “Were you?” asked Nick. “We outthought you once already. Your daughter, your subjects, a bunch of mortals. Some of those mortals aren’t bright.”

  Lucifer’s eyes were all the darkness in the world. They saw all the darkness in Nick’s soul. And they were so like his daughter’s.

  “How funny,” Satan whispered. “Do you believe you matter? I once urged Sabrina to steal a pack of gum. It was a step along the Path of Night, a means to an end. You were intended to distract her from her mortal, be a first taste of temptation. You’re a pack of gum in the shape of a boy. You were never meant to last.”

  Nick flinched. “Hilarious how much you sound like her aunt Hilda.”

  The devil laughed to see him hurt. “Your trifling evil could never win the devil’s daughter. Demon princes will fight for her hand.”

  “Ah, great news.”

  Lucifer stared.

  “Very tired of mortals,” explained Nick. “Who are these demon princes?”

  “I don’t know them personally,” Lucifer snapped. “I’m evil incarnate. My interest in individuals is extremely limited.”

  Nick waved this off. “What are demon princes’ views on sharing?”

  “A demon prince would rip your insolent tongue from your mouth, then flay the skin from your back, and the overweening vanity from your soul.”

  Nick sighed. “Life can’t ever be easy.”

  “Get this through your head,” hissed Lucifer. “You’re training wheels for true evil. You’re hardly more important than her mortal boy.”

  “Sabrina had a special mortal romance before me?” Nick asked. “I wasn’t aware. What’s his name?”

  Lucifer began to look more and more vexed. “Your little rebellion is over. Address me with reverence, boy. Am I not your god? Will you deny me when I stand before you?”

  Thou shalt not back-talk the Dark Lord thy god, Nick supposed, but screw it.

  “I’m not denying you,” said Nick. “I’m defying you. Please consult a dictionary.”

  There was a roar, not from Lucifer’s mouth but erupting on all sides, making this small space ring with the endless fury of the Adversary. His footsteps coming closer were the sound of inexorable hooves. Nick shuddered in a cold sweat, despite the flames of hell.

  “You forget,” whispered the Accuser, so near Nick could feel the whip curl of the devil’s smile brush his cheek. “You invited me. I’m in your veins and in your thoughts. I have seen every weakness you want to give in to, every desire that consumes you, every inch of your writhing soul laid bare. You’re pathetic, boy. You’re lost. You’ve always been lost.”

  He closed his eyes, not able to meet the devil’s gaze because he was ashamed.

  “I know,” said Nick.

  “Resistance was a dream.”

  Those last glimpses of the mortal world were real, but the rest was Nick’s dream. Any love, any kindness, any light or sweetness in hell, was in Nick himself.

  He opened his eyes.

  “I know I’m lost,” said Nicholas Scratch. “But I’m hoping to be found.”

  Satanic laughter sent cold fire through Nick’s bones. “Too late. You surrendered your body and mind, as you signed away your soul. The devil has come to collect.”

  “I ,” said Nick, “withdraw my consent.”

  Lucifer’s voice struck like a lash. “You can’t do that!”

  “Can’t I? It’s my body.” Nick had always been a liar. He could pretend he wasn’t afraid. “You tore down my barriers, but you haven’t gotten past me yet. You keep saying I have no choice. If I didn’t, you would have taken control of my body already. You can’t, without my permission. And you don’t have it.”

  Nick saw the last of the sinister humor drain from Satan’s countenance and knew he was right. This was why those who liked cages banned books, which taught people to think their way free.

  “It’s to be a fight, then?” asked Lucifer Morningstar, formerly his god.

  “Sure. We can wrestle.” Nick winked. “Let me clarify. You being the incarnation of evil is cute and all, but lately I go for more substance. I’m your daughter’s man.”

  Even if I cannot see the sun, I know that it exists.

  Even if he got out, nothing would be the same between him and Sabrina. Not after the lies. But he could keep her as his talisman of love and light. He’d never found a way for love without cages, but if there was a way, Sabrina might find it. Nick believed in her.

  “How much longer can this empty swagger last?” demanded Lucifer.

  If we love each other as much as we can, if we try as hard as we can … surely there’s a chance everything will work out.

  Sabrina smiled when the mortal said that, bright as the sun. What a stupid thing to say. But … all right. Nick would try.

  Nick said: “I can last a little longer.”

  Get up. It’s no good if you don’t get up.

  With the last of his strength, Nick Scratch rose and faced down his god.

  He bared his teeth. Proud as the devil, or trying to be. “You’re the one who belongs in a cage. Not he
r.”

  “You cannot imagine how much this will hurt, boy,” Lucifer murmured, as though remembering a fall. “Surrender and be spared.”

  The devil set his burning hands against Nick’s skin.

  Into pain and shame and darkness, Nick snarled: “I said no .”

  * * *

  “Well, well,” murmured Lilith. “Ladies and demons, it seems we have a fighter on our hands!”

  She retreated entirely from the warlock’s dreams, then made a sweeping gesture toward Nick Scratch, in chains on his knees. The demons, fans of chaos and the wildly unexpected, applauded.

  Except Prince Caliban and Lord Beelzebub.

  As queen, Lilith had to deal with the high lords of hell. She didn’t see why two irritating examples of infernal nobility were infesting her private dungeon.

  “Why are you ridiculous men here?”

  “We were in the midst of an audience with you, my … queen,” intoned Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies and all carrion, pronouncing her title in a highly sarcastic fashion. “Your minion proclaimed the vessel in the throes of its final struggle. You thrust the soul you were tormenting at Prince Caliban and ran. Caliban followed you from curiosity. I followed Caliban to keep him out of trouble.”

  Lilith frowned. “Where’s the soul?”

  Caliban was leaning against the dungeon wall. “I ate it,” he drawled. “Was I not supposed to?”

  “Caliban,” sighed Beelzebub. “Stop putting random things in your mouth. This is the imperial seal of China all over again. You are embarrassing me, young man!”

  The lords of hell had seen fit to create a prince from mud. Men, even the immortal nobility of the pit, labored under the delusion they must have an heir. Caliban was as annoying as any boy raised by infernal committee was bound to be.

  “What are you even the prince of?” Lilith demanded.

  “Hell?” hazarded Caliban.

  “More specifically. Like, Pruflas, Prince of Wrath, or the mortal Prince of Wales.”

  “Mortals have a prince of aquatic mammals?”

  “My prince!” snapped Beelzebub. “As the Dark Lord does not see fit to burst from the vessel in fury and burn the wretched pretender where she stands, let us discuss our current civil unrest!”