by S. A. Hunt
Pleased to make your acquaintance, Keymaster, the voice said again, creeping-crawling into her brain from the edges, a snake out of time. It’s been such a long time since I’ve had someone to talk to. No, I’m afraid I’m not your mother. Or your father. I’m someone much older.
“Ereshkigal?” she asked the sword as it guttered in a puddle of water.
Wrong again, love. A sinister sound with just enough heft to register as a laugh. Genderless, it seemed to encompass the full range of tone and pitch, a beam of hundreds of voices all tied together in a sheaf of sound. You get one more try, and then you have to go home with nothing. Would you like to buy a vowel?
She got up and stared at her face in the mirror. Her face was puffy, her eyes red and starey.
No, you’re not going crazy, said the voice. You’re not being attacked by an Illusion witch. I’m real. Real as that pizza in your guts currently threatening to boil over into the toilet behind you.
Chills racked her body.
Go ahead and pick up the sword. It won’t hurt you. The Osdathregar suddenly extinguished itself. Here’s your hint, kid. Pick it up and look at it really carefully. And I mean right up close.
Taking the sword, Robin carried it into the motel suite proper, where the bedside lamp glittered along its edge. “What am I looking for?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. Until now, she hadn’t realized she was covered in a sheen of sweat. The sheets were soaked.
Hold it up to the light. You’ll know it when you see it.
She raised it until the steel was just under the lampshade, looking for an etching or some other mark. Turn it, just here—there you go.
Reflected in the mirrorlike surface of the blade was the opposite end of the motel room: the front door, the television, the window and the ugly brown blackout curtains. This sword is actually the point of a very, very old spear. You might say the oldest. You call it the Ozdathregar, but when it was mine, I called it Heosphoros the Dawnbringer.
Over her shoulder, she could perceive a silhouette in the corner focusing, sharpening, filling out.
Standing behind her was a black horned figure.
At first, she thought it might have been the Mother of Rivers, but an overwhelming thrill of fear shot through her as the figure opened its eyes to reveal two orbs of green light, and opened a mouth full of emerald hellfire, and the horns curled into two ram spirals. It was the warhawk, the demon version of herself that had been goading her and terrorizing her the whole time from window-glass reflections and bathroom mirrors, the dark doppelgänger that stood over her dying body on the Fort Bostock airfield. But she was taller, brawnier, meaner-looking.
This spear is the weapon that killed God and got me cast down from Heaven, trapped inside this blade, said the warhawk. It’s been wandering the earth ever since, traded and sold and stolen and thrown away by a thousand warriors, merchants, thieves, and fools. Once, I almost got the cambion Jesus himself to take it.
Finally, it’s ended up in your hands.
“Oh, my God,” breathed Robin.
Quite the opposite, said her shadow-twin. Please allow me to introduce myself. Flames licked from the warhawk’s lips. I’m a man of wealth and taste. I was the first demon to earn their harp and halo. I am the son of Aurora, the king of Babylon, the deposed prince of Heaven, and the exiled master of Hell. I am the Sword of the Morning. I have a thousand and one names in just as many lands.
And, dear cambion, I’d like to have my Dawnbringer back.
I want a ticket back to the land of the living, my weapon back in my possession, and … You want to stay out of Hell, right? Awful lot of evil men down there thanks to you, you vicious little monster.
So. …
… let’s make a deal.
She stood there in her underwear for several seconds, staring at the sword and the expectant silhouette darkening the silver blade with black-and-green Maleficent fire.
Opening the fridge, she took out the racks and stood the sword inside next to the last two bottles of a six-pack of breakfast stout and half of a burrito. Then she turned the cooler dial as high as it would go.
Wait! No!
“Not today, Satan,” she said, closed the door, and went back to bed.
ALSO BY S. A. HUNT
Burn the Dark
I Come with Knives
About the Author
S. A. Hunt is the author of the award-winning Outlaw King fantasy series. In 2005 she joined the army and served in the military police, where she was awarded a Joint Service Achievement Medal for her efforts in Afghanistan. She currently lives in Petoskey, Michigan. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraphs
Intro
Then
Side A: Frail and Fragile Bars
Track 1
Track 2
Track 3
Track 4
Track 5
Track 6
Track 7
Track 8
Track 9
Track 10
Track 11
Track 12
Track 13
Side B: I Am the Fire
Track 14
Track 15
Track 16
Track 17
Track 18
Track 19
Track 20
Track 21
Track 22
Track 23
Track 24
Track 25
Track 26
Track 27
Track 28
Track 29
Track 30
Track 31
Track 32
Track 33
Track 34
Track 35
Track 36
Track 37
Track 38
Track 39
Track 40
Track 41
Track 42
Track 43
Track 44
Hidden Track
Also by S. A. Hunt
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE HELLION
Copyright © 2020 by S. A. Hunt
All rights reserved.
Cover art and design by Leo Nickolls
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
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New York, NY 10271
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Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-30651-7 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-1-250-30650-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-30649-4 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250306494
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First Edition: September 2020
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