by Cate Corvin
“You can go when the Lord Watcher calls.”
Was she really going to dig in and die on this hill? An image of Vyra trapped in a lightless tower of the abyss flashed through my skull.
Every second spent arguing with Druzila was another second wasted.
My magic boiled up and shot from my fingertips, almost painful from the hatred coursing through me. I felt the thorns bite in her throat and whip across her hands, felt the seep of fresh, hot blood splatter across the vines.
She let out a strangled scream and my magic crawled into her open mouth, thorns growing to pierce her tongue.
The scythe hit the marble balcony with a clatter and I flapped hard, just missing having my foot sliced clean away.
“Stay here, you weak bitch, until he calls,” I spat, and ripped my magic away from her bleeding face before shooting into the mists of the Fields.
28
Melisande
I ripped through the mist, curving left and then right to throw off any trail Druzila and Typhon might follow, but nobody followed.
The Fields were eerily silent as I banked through the mist back towards the city, needing to get my bearings. I drew a dagger from my belt as I silently cut through the veils of fog until I came to the edge of the Fields, and nearly drew up short.
The Fields of Asphodel were silent and empty because all of the shades had gathered at the edge. None of them ventured past the line where the grasses and asphodel grew, but they’d gathered in a large, silent cluster of gray.
Milky-white eyes stared down at Dis, all of them simply standing with their arms at their sides, their mouths no longer stuffed with flowers.
I flapped and gained height, not wanting to be too close to their eerie, deathly quiet display. There were thousands of them, and from above the grayness of their bodies and hair looked like a lumpy sort of fog had formed at the edge of the Fields.
I hovered above them and looked out over Dis, watching what had drawn them.
A net of pure magic had formed over the wide span of the Pit, beads of pale green and red light sliding along the lines of the net. It sank lower and lower as I looked, eating through the icy-looking fire of the abyss.
The siege on the Pit had begun, and thick plumes of black smoke rose from the smallest Circle. Treachery was burning, and as I drifted closer past the edge of Limbo, a building exploded, raining chunks of obsidian on the net sinking into the Pit.
The Watchers wove around the smoke, darting in with a scythe, demons roaring upwards towards them. The enormous raven Azazel had become plunged downwards, ripping through the chests and faces of armored warriors, and an enormous lion descended the Circles, leaping from building to building like they were stepping stones.
Mammon’s allegiance to and defense of Satan was very clear, even as I caught sight of what might have been Adranos near a blindingly bright figure.
At first I thought it was Lucifer, but I felt the marks on my wrist and chest. That was Tascius, brightening to a silvery glow as he cut down the Ninth Circle’s demons alongside Adranos.
But I had no time to worry about the fact that Tascius was looking more and more indistinguishable from the archangels by the minute. Once Heresy’s magic ate through the fire of the Pit, we’d have a clear line on Satan.
I forced my eyes away from the battle where all of my men were risking their lives. There was one final key to our victory.
The wind whistled in my ears as I gained speed, following the outer ring of the city until the expanse of the Starsea’s glittering black sand became visible in the distance, and kept going until I hit the line where the sand seemed to melt into the reddened wastelands.
I followed it, every fiber of my body on guard for an attack from above or below. The silence was unnerving.
I’d never thought I’d find the music of wind and sky to be disconcerting, but without someone near me, and with the constant hum of stress and rage coming through my mate marks to leak into my own emotions, I felt more alone than I’d ever felt in my life.
After flying for fifteen minutes, trying my hardest to remain over the divide between Starsea and Wastelands, anxiety reared its ugly head.
Where was the damn Sword? With its holy fire, completely inimical to the surrounding landscape, it should’ve been lit up like a beacon for miles.
I was beginning to lose hope when I saw it.
There was a patch of disturbed ground ahead of me, the sand melted into glass, the red and black intermixed into an indeterminable color.
But it was glowing, giving off a warm light like a star, and in the middle of all that light was the sparkle of gold.
I descended hard, pulling up several yards short of hitting the ground. The Sword of Light was right where Gabriel had left it, half the blade buried in the sand, the gold pommel and engraved hilt a tempting offering for any passing demons.
Before touching down to solid ground, I examined the ground for any sign of another trap. Most demons wouldn’t be able to touch it, but that didn’t mean some foolish ones might not have tried. Any enterprising Nephilim free in the world might’ve seen it as a ready-made lure.
But there was nothing, no suspicious lumps of hidden bodies under the sand, no sign of anything other than a weeks-old fight that had gone terribly wrong for an archangel.
I let myself drift downwards, and my feet landed in a mixture of sand and ash. Judging by the bits of burned bone, some demons had tried to take the Sword, and had immolated from the inside upon touching it.
The sight of the corpses didn’t raise my confidence, even though I was rationally sure that this was going to work.
I stared at the gold pommel, the silver blade, and clenched my right hand. The memory of its fire searing through my veins was still strong, as fresh as if I’d felt it yesterday.
There was every chance it would no longer accept me. Maybe I hadn’t fallen of my own accord, but I’d been completely happy to adopt the ways of my new home. I was no longer the Melisande who’d picked up the blade in battle out of sheer desperation to save what lives I could.
But now, with war being waged against the King of Hell, so many more people would die if I didn’t try it again. Thousands more lives were at stake here than the battle in which I’d struck down a hydra.
I thought of Sarai. Perhaps the Sword would burn me- but she was completely innocent, a pure and unmarked soul. If God had overseen the creation of the Sword, surely he would’ve understood that there was no fault in children, no matter what their parents had done.
If the Sword hurt her, then everything I’d believed was wrong, and there were some things I just couldn’t accept as truth. The Sword was for the defense of the innocent. It had to understand my intentions.
I steeled myself and stepped closer. There was fifteen feet between me and the half-buried Sword, but I felt the power emanating from it, buffeting against my own magic.
Maybe I stood a better chance if I used a shield the way Azazel had taught me, a slim layer of defense between myself and the worst of the Sword’s might.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, summoning my dark fire and wrapping it around myself like a cloak.
Which turned out to be a terrible mistake.
As soon as the shield of magic settled around me, the Sword’s power became a hundred times worse, a storm of white-hot magic pounding against the shield like a gong and ringing through my head.
I went down to one knee in the sand, my head ringing as my magic went wild. It tore loose from my grasp, the shield retreating back under my skin as the dark fire curled back inside my heart.
As I knelt there gasping, my hands buried in the ash of bodies, the Sword’s power slowly receded. I had to blink hard to stop seeing double of everything, and when I pushed myself back to my feet, my knees were shaking.
“Okay, no magic for you,” I said under my breath, eyeing the Sword and dusting off my hands. The rippling waves of power gentled, becoming a peaceful sea of warmth again.
> “What should I do, Sarai?” I asked, half talking to myself, half wondering if it was just to lull me into thinking it was safe. I risked everything just by placing one fingertip on the hilt.
It’d been so easy to think this would be simple when I was still miles away from actually doing the thing. Now that I was faced with the Sword itself, jutting out of the sand like an invitation, my confidence was wavering and slowly breaking down.
Screw it. I’d come all this way to save lives, to preserve the ones I loved. A piece of metal wasn’t going to stop me.
I strode forward several feet, kicking up sand all the way, and stopped. The Sword’s power didn’t become violent again, but reached out to enfold me, brushing against my skin like a warm touch.
I eyed it suspiciously, taking one step at a time until I was close enough to reach out and touch it.
“Will you burn me if I touch you?” I asked, not expecting an answer. It just sat there, sparkling under the endless sun, waves of light shining from the blade.
Whatever it was, the Sword seemed to be somewhat sentient in its own right. It clearly didn’t like having magic used against it, whether it was for offense or defense. It’d felt almost… offended at the thought that I would shield myself against it.
I reached out, letting my hand hover in the air several inches from the hilt. A wisp of pure light reached out and caressed my fingers before dissipating.
It felt like reassurance… or maybe a trap.
I stayed there for several minutes that seemed to stretch into an eternity, going back and forth inside my head. The scars on my palm seemed to pulse in time with the Sword’s gleaming light, the memory of fire prickling at me.
Then I turned my hand, saw the circle emblazoned on my wrist. A ring of light, with iridescence shining from the blackness of it.
There was hope in the worst places. Taking a leap of faith was the only way through this to the other side.
I braced myself, closed my eyes, and forced myself to reach out and wrap my hand around the hilt.
My palm flared with white hot pain, a scream tearing from my throat as the fire flashed through me. It scorched through every cell, burning the fibers of my body to ash, leaving nothing behind. I stiffened, expecting to fall apart to cinders in an instant.
But I didn’t fall.
I opened my eyes as the fire receded, calming from a roaring inferno to an uncomfortable sea of light and flames in my veins. My magic had curled up so tightly I could no longer feel it, but the Sword’s light danced through me.
I wasn’t dead. And then I felt a tiny flip in my stomach.
Sarai was alive, untouched. Everywhere in me that I felt the sea of burning light, that was the one place where there was no pain at all.
“There is faith, and there is love,” I whispered, drawing the Sword from the ground. The sand melted away from the blade, leaving it looking as shiny and new as if it came from the forge of God himself. “And both of those things are in you.”
My palm was still burning with fire, yet another layer of scars to add to the ones I already had, but I felt the Sword’s contentment humming through the metal into my bones.
I’d been chosen once, and no matter what I’d done since, it had chosen me again. Maybe God was still alive in some ways, and maybe he understood what was at stake. Before I’d even fallen, the Sword had known that I would only come to it with pure intentions.
Gripping the weapon that would erase the stain of mindless hate from the land, I shot into the sky and flew for Dis, hope building with every beat of my wings.
29
Melisande
When I saw the rim of Dis on the horizon, it was obvious that all Hell had broken loose there.
The plumes of smoke had thickened and hung over the entire city like a storm waiting to break open, and even from a distance, the clash of scythes against swords was visible like flashes of lightning.
I gripped the Sword and flapped harder, desperately casting my consciousness through the mate marks.
They were all still warm and alive on my skin, even if none of them had the usual sensation of protection and happiness. Now all I got on almost all fronts was rage and desperation.
Belial’s mark was the only exception, practically humming with happiness, singing through the bones of my arm; he was in his natural element and reveling in every second of it.
It seemed like eons before I glided over Limbo, passing over the silently witnessing shades, and swooped down over the First Circle.
The First, Second, and Third Circles were relatively untouched by war. All of the smoke was spilling from the lower levels, creeping over the upper levels in a cloud.
I shot over the Seventh, drifted downwards, and alighted on a tall building in the Eighth Circle overlooking Treachery.
The Princes had held nothing back for the siege. There was no sign of Belial, but the mark on my hand pinpointed him as being over on the Brightside, and I caught a glimpse of Azazel’s enormous raven wings ripping through the smoke overhead as he plunged into a mass of screaming demons.
It was utter insanity. Everywhere I looked, demons were ripping into each other, blood spraying across the obsidian in dark floods.
I took a deep breath, crouched on my perch like a gargoyle. In Heaven, we’d always had clearly delivered orders. This was just a free-for-all of chaos.
So I would need to make my own orders. I couldn’t sit here and do nothing but watch. I searched for an opening in our defenses, any gap that needed shored up.
Far below me, Prince Abaddon’s warriors were guarding the thoroughfare against intrusion into the upper levels, pushing back against Mammon’s forces.
Abaddon himself was dead asleep in the middle of the street, one arm sprawled across his eyes to block the light and his mouth open as he snored.
But no one dared get close; there was a shimmering bubble around him that seemed to be slowly expanding, and any demon unlucky enough to get close got stuck in it like it was made of glue.
I watched as a black-armored warrior from Treachery brushed the edge of the bubble with his finger and stopped dead in his tracks, unable to to pull away. The finger caught in the bubble began to disintegrate, and as the bubble expanded, the rest of him slowly dissolved.
He was screaming the whole time.
“What in the everloving fuck,” I whispered, watching his helmeted skull melt away. And I’d let that Prince sleep in my lap.
Abaddon had the thoroughfare covered, so I pushed off my perch and flew lower, scouring for weakened areas.
I found it when an arrow shot into the sky narrowly missed my thigh.
In a massive square in the Ninth Circle, a circle of warriors had formed around two clashing Princes. I spiraled lower, looking for the marksman, and blinked when I realized it wasn’t two Princes.
Adranos was one of the men in the circle, but he looked… different. Larger, his wings tipped with claws, his bronze skin almost metallic.
And the man he was facing off against… that must be Mammon. The Prince was covered in brilliantly scarlet armor from head to toe, wielding two massive swords that looked like they’d each take two men to lift.
I caught sight of the bowman reloading his crossbow as Adranos narrowly avoided being cut in two by a scissored slice from Mammon’s swords.
The archer in the circle barely had time to look up before I fell on his head, bringing the Sword of Light down with one vicious stroke.
Blazing light exploded as the demon was split in two, warm blood splashing across my legs and hands. The old familiar song of battle rose in me, every movement automatic: I slashed and hacked at anything in my path, panting for breath, muscles tight and aching.
Every stroke the Sword made gave off brilliant light, a blinding supernova ripping through the darkness of the lower Circles. The fire had melded with my blood, and my burned palm had gone numb.
Then I felt a tug in one of the marks, the circle of light Tascius had left on my wrist growing
brighter.
Wherever he was, something was off. I thrust the Sword through an armored warrior’s chestplate, breaking through part of the Circle to Adranos and Mammon’s face-off just in time to see the Nephilim drive his sword through the Prince’s heart.
Mammon gripped the blade, but Adranos’s fingers had lengthened into scarlet claws. His fist shot forward and ripped the helmet from the Prince’s head, revealing the scornful features of his father, and crushed the Prince’s skull in one blow.
The crowd drew in a collective breath as time seemed to stand still around us. The Prince looked oddly diminished compared to his brothers, as small as a regular demon, his body swimming in the armor that clanked to the ground.
But Adranos was taller, the power that emanated from the Princes now coming from him. He dripped in blood from head to toe, and looked up at the demons of Treachery with a feral look on his face.
I flew upwards as they capitulated to their new Prince, searching for any sign of my men. The Ninth Circle had been taken; the tide was turning.
Demons clad in rattling bones stood at the edge of the Ninth Circle overlooking the abyss, as far as the eye could see. They were the ones who worked the magical net eating through Satan’s protection, and several Fates of the Grigori had joined them, weaving the strings in their fingers in workings so complex it made me dizzy just to look at them.
There was no sign of Satan yet, but darkness was stirring at the bottom of the Pit. I almost crashed into the tip of an obsidian pyramid and clung to it, still looking for any sign of my men.
Asmodeus and his succubi had managed to ring in a group from Treachery, who were panting and rolling orgiastically on the ground. Asmodeus himself killed at his leisure, wielding a razor-studded whip.
Greed and Gluttony had apparently combined forces on the Brightside, and Prince Belphegor was swallowing demons whole, his mouth stretched to grotesque proportions.