Heart's Inferno (Fallen Guardians 4)

by Georgia Lyn Hunter

  Blowing out a deep breath, she leaned her elbows on the windowsill, absently playing with the small glass ball suspended on the pewter stand pushed to the corner, her mind back on Týr. Please let him be okay.

  A wispy gray fog seeped out from the orb. What the heck? Kira leaped back, her hip hitting the huge table behind her. Warily, she eyed the misty haze.

  No matter how many times I die, I can never escape this hellhole. The bitter, weary words reverberated in her mind.

  Her heart jolted at the familiar voice. She peered through the miasma. “Týr?”

  Chapter 20

  Teeth clamping down hard, Týr leaned against the wall, pain shimmering through his right hand. He cradled his wrist. The stump was bleeding again. He ignored it since punching the rough, granite wall would do that.

  The small, dark cavern-like cell he’d awakened in once again hours earlier swelled with heat as if he were strapped to a furnace. Except there were no flames. He ran his left hand over his sweaty belly. Nothing but dried gore on his skin. Just remembering all those hands on him, the invasion—the pain—his stomach pitched. Bile rushed up his gullet, and he heaved violently on the ground, so sure his empty stomach would hurtle through his throat.

  No matter how many times I die, I can never escape this hellhole.

  Death. A peace he longed for would never be his.

  He had two choices, he could sit there and cry himself a flood, or he could fight. Ultimately, both led to horrific paths. It was which horror he chose. Death straight-up was his preference, never the other—

  Týr inhaled harshly, thick, sulfuric air clogging his lungs. He pushed to his feet and stumbled to the entrance, the invisible bars at the mouth the only thing stopping his exit. As if he could ever leave this godsforsaken pit. The few torches in the catacombs barely cast any light, not that there was much to see from his underground cell.

  He had no idea how long he’d been here. Decades…centuries? But to escape one fate, he had to win. The alternative didn’t bear thinking of. He dropped to the floor and started on his single-hand push-ups…

  “One-thousand…and thirty-three,” he grunted, when a guttural voice ordered, “Come. The fight starts.” The bars hissed open.

  Týr pushed to his feet. The guard grabbed his arm and flashed with him, taking form near huge wooden gates. The rampant coppery odor of gore, pain, and death saturated the place and burned his nose, his numbed detachment the only thing holding him upright.

  A booted foot rammed Týr on the back, sending him stumbling into the dusty arena.

  Screams of excitement reverberated from the hordes in the raised amphitheater seats. Someone threw a wet, bloodied, leather-like tunic over his head. It was the old Otium demon who’d first brought the pathetic excuse for armor since the start of his incarceration centuries ago.

  Týr tossed the thing aside, causing boos from the crowds to escalate.

  “I do not know what offense you committed,” the demon chafed softly, finally speaking to him. “No one deserves what you endure. Ask your gods to grant mercy on your soul.”

  His gods? Right. Odin had shunned him for the disgrace he’d brought to the pantheon.

  “Here.” The Otium put a sword into Týr’s left hand and stuck a metal shield over his stump. Pain flared up his arm again.

  The crowds went wild as an enormous demon strutted into the arena, the shouts and hoots hurting his head.

  No…not him!

  Týr preferred a quick death, but it seemed the Fates had deserted him. Not by a twitch did he reveal his wariness, and he hated this weakness. More, he hated that he would die by this sadist’s hands.

  A dong resounded, starting the fight. A yell echoed. In a furious, black cloud, the demon spun to Týr and slashed. He hastily countered, but the force of the blow sent his sword flying from his sweat-drenched hand, clattering to the ground some distance away.

  Hoots of laughter vibrated through the arena. “Finish him, finish him!”

  The demon lunged, sword hissing past Týr’s face and easily removing his shield.

  With a sinister chuckle, the scourge threw his sword aside. “See, I fight without weapons, too,” he bellowed at the cheering crowd, then pivoted to Týr. “Come on—come on, what would the great deities think seeing one of their own so weak and pathetic?”

  Týr swiped his brow, anger giving way to a dark fury. He didn’t care about the taunt, truly wishing he could kill this hellscum—and he’d killed plenty. Except for this one. He played the crowds and seemed to know more about Týr than any other. No one here cared that he had once been a part of the reigning gods of war in the Norse pantheon. Except for this asshole.

  “Should I ask oh, lord and master, how would you like death today?” the demon mocked.

  There was only one way to ensure the end he wanted came swiftly.

  Týr leaped at his opponent, the stump he’d first thought a weakness smashing into the demon’s face. Bones cracked. Blood gushed.

  “Get him!” the demon roared.

  The guards grabbed Týr, pinning him against the arena wall.

  At least he’d die having the last laugh. “Scared of a one-handed prisoner?”

  His rage erupted like a geyser, and the demon rushed him, ran his hidden dagger straight through Týr’s belly. He grunted, clamping down on his teeth at the mind-shattering pain racing through him.

  “Think you’re so clever, you pathetic disgrace?” the demon hissed. “Just so you know, I’ve been paid a lot of gold to take you on. He relishes in watching you suffer. He especially enjoys the party after the bidding. Pity, it won’t be so today.”

  His hurting stomach lurched, but still, Týr spat, “If you’re waiting to hear me beg, it’s the day I truly die, you useless shit for hire.”

  The demon snarled, grabbed Týr’s hair, and clamping his deadly fangs around Týr’s neck, and ripped out his throat. Unbearable agony swept away every thought in his mind. His vision dimmed. Another excruciating plunge into his stomach, the demon slit him open from groin to sternum. An agonized scream clogged in his torn throat, pain like a tidal wave hurtling through him as blood gushed down his chest. Hands let him go.

  His legs folded. Týr collapsed to the ground amidst the thickening lake of gore and entrails as death’s icy jaws closed around him…

  “Nooo!” Kira jerked back, her screams of anguish reverberating off the granite walls. Glass shattered, tinkling to the floor. She cradled her stomach, sagging against the backrest of the couch. Hot tears dropping down her face. “Oh, God, please no…”

  The door flew open. Footsteps hurried across, crunching on glass. “M’lady, what’s wrong?” a panicked voice demanded.

  Kira stared blankly at the guard. Then, shoving past him, she dashed out of the study. Nothing mattered except finding Týr. She had to see him—see that he was okay. Sobbing, she raced along the gloomy corridors, hit the twisting stairwell, and rushed headlong down the three-levels, skating to the ground floor in a lurching halt. With a shuddering breath, she swiped the moisture from her face with the back of her hand.

  “M’lady!” the guard yelled, thudding after her. Kira took off again and shot past the flux of demons entering the fortress. The oversized demon sentries guarding the entrance turned. “Take me to the training arena. Now!”

  The guard chasing after her, panted, “No. It’s a dangerous place. My Lord Wrath will persecute us if anything happens to you.”

  She pushed through gritted teeth, “Then I will…” Walk? It wouldn’t freakin’ work. But desperation tore at her. “Then I will jump out through my window, and when I’m injured, you can explain to your lord and my sire why you denied my request!”

  Had the guard been human, Kira was sure his mouth would have hung open. The only thing that moved in him was a flicker of wariness in his midnight eyes. He gave a stilted nod and touched her hand. As they flashed, Kira clamped her eyelids shut, the gut-wrenching agony twisting her belly even more as those horrific images went
on repeat like some fucking stuck disc in her head…

  Týr grunted, blocking the sword coming down in a deadly swing with a swift counter-strike. Sweat streamed down his face like water. He switched his blade to his left hand, and with another powerful thrust, sent the idiot demon who thought to fight him flying back. Breathing hard, he lifted his hand, calling a halt to the battle.

  He swiped his brow with the bottom of his shirt and lowered his body temperature a little, inhaling lungful of the rancid, hot air.

  This close to the Black Erymic Mountains, the muggy heat hung heavily over the desolate place. The clashing of steel resonated dissonantly in the dense air.

  Several demons, bleeding from deep wounds, gave him a wide berth and lurched toward a stone building.

  Riley joined him, planting his weapon in the dried ground, a wry expression on his dripping face as if recalling something funny.

  “What?”

  “I was like you not so long ago. Even though I’m half demon, these fuckers all thought I was fair game.”

  Amusement tugged Týr’s mouth. He cocked a brow at the male. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to stake me at the first opportunity?”

  “Tempting.” Riley smirked. “But temper is not conducive in my line of work.”

  “Right. The next Sin of Wrath,” Týr grunted, scanning the far side of the mountains where lines of white, tent-like structures snaked along the foot of the base, probably the garrisons’ lodgings.

  “No, as the owner of an extremely busy bar in New Orleans,” Riley said, tone droll. “My head bouncer would probably throw me out again, considering he has done so before. Anger, resentments…” He shook his head. “It only hurts the soul, as life and my mate have shown me.”

  Týr could understand that. He’d finally found his own peace in Kira, if only the damn past would stay buried. Besides, that wasn’t something he’d ever wanted her to discover. Shame still overtook him, memories impinging his mind with the intensity of slashing razors. The hands, so many all over him—

  “I lived alone for eons, no family, then I found Saia,” Riley continued, pulling Týr back from his debilitating thoughts. “And Wrath made his presence known in my life again. He and I, well, we’ve finally made peace of sorts after two millennia.” Those unnerving green eyes shifted to Týr, all traces of amusement leaving his expression. “Kira’s my half-sister, my only sibling. Her safety and happiness are all that matters.”

  Týr inclined his head. Before he could utter even one word of acknowledgement, a body slammed into him, sending him stumbling back a step. What the fuck?

  In reflex, his sword swung. Only the familiar, compelling scent of flowers and sunshine, followed by Riley’s terrified yell, had him releasing his weapon before it did irreparable damage to the woman who held his heart in her very mortal hands. A demon screeched in pain some distance away where his sword struck.

  “Kira!” he snarled, heart in his throat. “Are you outta your freakin’ mind? You could have died!” He tried to pull her from him, but she wouldn’t let go. And then the briny whiff of her tears reached him. Instinctively, he scanned her, but she appeared unharmed, except for the colors in her hair. They were going crazy—black, green, and blue fighting for dominance, sliding through her unbound locks.

  “What’s wrong? Talk to me, elska,” he begged, the terror that gripped him by the throat not leaving. “What happened?”

  All he could feel was the wild thumping of her heart against him. Riley turned from questioning the guard who’d brought her and shook his head. “Something must have occurred in my sire’s study, the guard doesn’t know what. She was alone. Let’s get her outta here.”

  Sweeping Kira into his arms, Týr dematerialized them to the fortress.

  Back in her chamber, Týr sat on the bed, keeping her on his lap. “You’re safe now, baby. Whatever happened, you can tell me. I’ll make it, right, I swear.”

  He eased back a little. Her complexion appeared ashen beneath her usually tan skin. Reddened hazel eyes blinked at him, the color a searing green in her anguish. Her cheeks were wet with tears. He pulled off his shirt and wiped her face.

  “I saw…” Her voice broke, throat moving as if she couldn’t swallow. Her eyes swam with tears again.

  Frowning, he gently cupped her face. “Kira, whatever it is, it will be all right.”

  “No…” She shook her head. “No, not this—”

  “What happened?” In this damn place, it could be anything. And probably real fucking bad if it distressed her like this.

  She grasped his wrists, holding on tight. “Images. The arena. You…” She choked. “A fight, your-your right hand missing, the demon hurting you, saying he’d been hired to make you suffer.” The words ran into each other in a flood, blindsiding him.

  A whoosh sounded in his ears. His mind went blank. There was nothing but a black hole pulling him into it, except he was still sitting.

  She saw that…saw everything?

  “How did you—how did this happen?” he forced out the hoarse words, lowering his hands from her face. Wrath’s study? Shit. “What did you touch, Kira?”

  Violent shivers wracked her form. “I don’t know—a glass orb on the window sill. I was thinking of you. And then it was all there, inside my mind…”

  His teeth ground down, his soul wanting retribution—wanting to destroy the damn thing that had made Kira go through all of this. Made her witness his punishment.

  “What else?” he rasped.

  “The demons held you against a wall after you injured your opponent. He-he tore out your throat and sliced you open from here”—she touched the waist of his pants—“to here.” She stopped between his breastbones. Tears flowed again. “You died, Týr. You d-died.”

  No. Unfortunately, he hadn’t. Such was his curse.

  “It’s just a bad dream. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere. Didn’t you say I’m strong like a mountain?” he deflected.

  “Please don’t joke,” she whispered.

  His mind retreated, floating in dark space, hoping this was all a nightmare. But her words called him out, and some of his still-functioning brain cells had him looking away.

  “You were in Tartarus, Týr. I heard your thoughts, you longed for death, but you couldn’t die,” her voice came to him as if from a distance. “You were in so much pain…”

  The rustling inside his head splintered the numbness. He found himself near the last window, and that meant he had walked the entirety of the room with no recollection of setting Kira aside and doing so.

  He’d rather battle a horde of the most treacherous evil—be anywhere else but here, having to talk—than lay his soul open. And prayed the Fates had shown him mercy for once and had not revealed the rest of his sadistic incarceration to his precious mate.

  “Talk to me, Týr. Even before this, I sensed this deep anger—this pain inside you.”

  Breathing like he’d run up the black mountains of Stygia, he slammed his palms on the windowsill, wanting to pound the granite to dust. Instead, he shut his eyes, caught between the deep damn sea and a fucking rock. Týr realized he could no longer conceal this from her. She mattered more than anything ever had in his long and wretched life. He only hoped she still felt the same about him after.

  Kira pushed to her feet and wrapped her arms around her waist. Her mind shredded at the sheer horror she’d witnessed, feeling as if a grenade had decimated inside her head and her brain had scrambled.

  She felt as broken as the look in his eyes. “Týr?”

  His head jerked as if her voice were a gunshot. He pivoted to her.

  Her gaze settled on the barely perceptible scar on his flat stomach. Not from his job, but proof of his torture. God, it hurt to even breathe.

  However, his hard expression and his rigid shoulders had her tensing, holding her breath, and preparing for the worst. Through the years, she’d sailed through life, her heart mostly intact. And now the one man she’d given it to bore sc
ars so deep; had lived horrors no sane person could ever endure.

  “What you saw? It was my punishment.”

  “For what?” she asked softly, her voice the only thing she could use to soothe him so he wouldn’t close up.

  “After Inara, the Goddess of Life, was abducted and the massacre at her temple, we were brought in front of the council at the Gates of the Gods for sentencing,” he said, tone flat. “We were found guilty of negligence, for so many innocent murdered, and sentenced—”

  “But you didn’t kill anyone!”

  “It didn’t matter. The handmaidens and most of the soldiers there had been slaughtered by Lucifer’s hordes. They were under our protection. We, the protectors, were the all-powerful ones. We failed. We were stripped of our powers, our godhoods, and banished from our pantheons…” Týr wearily rubbed a palm over his whiskered jaw.

  “And your hand?”

  He shook his head. “It was an accident. I got it back once I became a Guardian. The ancient goddess to whom I swore my fealty restored it. My childhood friends, Fenrir and Narfi, were at the trial. Fenrir, my wolf friend, grabbed my hand with his jaws, probably thinking to save me from falling through the portal, but he snapped it off instead. None can escape Tartarus once condemned. My punishment was to die every night. Whatever the demon said meant nothing. It was my sentence.”

  “Every…night?” she whispered, her stomach twisting in pain.

  “I’ve been killed in so many ways—” His laugh was like rusty nails, abrading her hurting mind. “Death, torture. None of them scare me. You saw one way, there were many, many others, but I always came back the next day in that cave, healed, no matter where I ended up.”

  “Wh-what do you mean?” She stared at him unblinkingly, her swollen eyes burning from tears shed.

  Týr pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled as if in resignation. “Over the last century I was there, I had a demon guard who liked the arena fights, the bets and the victory. If I won, he gave me the next day off to do whatever I wanted—”