Chapter Eight

Hawthorne

"Come, the master desires your audience in the throne room." Berkley beckons me down the long corridor, past the study, where just hours before Aamon used my body in ways I may never fully recover from.

The imp transported himself into the bedroom, violently shaking me awake, demanding I dress myself immediately. I tossed pillows at him, grumbling as I burrowed deeper into the mattress. But he was persistent.

Bewildered and still shaking off the last remnants of sleep, I struggle to put one foot in front of the other. What could be so urgent?

Berkley pauses in front of large onyx marble doors adorned with swirling filigree designs and two large shining golden handles that reach higher than his head. He stretches on his tiptoes, pulling them open with a grunt of exertion.

The massive throne room is teeming with the whispers of a myriad of imps of all colors, sizes and shapes. Their voices resonate and echo around the room as they talk amongst themselves. Ahead is an enormous throne made of tourmaline rock, littered with hundreds of skulls at its base.

Aamon sits upon the throne with an imposing and authoritative air, as expected of a marquis of Hell. He pins me with his gaze in a silent regard as I'm led through the throng of whispering subjects.

Berkley ascends the stairs backward, maintaining his eyes on the crowd until reaching the landing, where, with a snap of his fingers, a long parchment unfurls from his hands. The chatter ceases immediately in hushed murmurs until it's silenced with one brutal glare from the marquis.

"Argus and Tamil, please step forward to state your concern," Berkley confidently says. This is perhaps the only moment I've seen the butler sound so assured.

The crowd parts with ease, and two imps stand in my periphery. I turn my head just enough to take in their appearance. The one to my left is portly, with a round belly and short gray horns, while the other is much taller, and she has the most curious tattoos on her arms. I watch as they stand before Aamon entirely poised with no sign of panic, as though this was the easiest task they have ever accomplished.

They state their dissatisfaction with their lack of fresh vegetables for their stall in the square, citing that the plains have had little rain and their irrigation system doesn't work. It's surprising that such a vibrant, bustling city has, beyond it, quaint farms and vegetation at all. I had always believed hell to be desolate, filled with flames in a raging inferno.

Aamon takes no time at all to consider their request before he tells them he cannot control the rain or the growth of plants in his territory. He offers them no solution or apologies before snapping his fingers for the next request to be heard. The two walk with hanging heads through the crowd until the loud squeak of the door signals their departure.

As time passes, I witness countless requests being made, none of which receive a positive response to their query. My feet ache, and my stomach rumbles as Berkley continues to call forward more subjects.

The minutes drag until two more names are called and whispers rise across the room. Two lost souls with chains around their wrists and ankles shuffle to the forefront. Behind them, holding their reins, are two imps with hulking bodies full of muscle. Their tunics are stretched so tightly across their chests and arms that they appear ready to burst out of them at any moment.

"What do you have to say for yourselves?" Aamon's voice thunders around the throne room, reverberating through my bones.

The two mortals are gaunt, their clothing filthy, and they appear utterly petrified. Their eyes remain downcast onto their bare feet, though I can't decide if it is remorse or excruciating pain that causes it.

"My liege, I didn't know!" One jerks his head upward, his voice trembling, and he tugs the chains as his hands clasp together as if in prayer. The other remains silent. His eyes never lift from the floor.

An imp guard tugs violently on the chains, yanking the man backward. The imp's hand collides with the side of his face, delivering a brutal slap that silences all the whispers in the room.

"Don't lie to the marquis, you whelp," the imp snarls.

My fists clench at my sides, and my pulse hammers in my throat, but I still can't look away. Aamon leans forward, propping his elbows onto his knees, his golden eyes glimmering with amusement. "You both are brought to me in this condition for not one but two violations of theft and duplicity," he says, smirking.

Aamon leans back against the throne. "Cheating in one of my casinos." He clicks his tongue between his teeth, shaking his head. "I should commend you for that because, truly, what an amazing feat for two mortal men to pull off. However, your one purpose in the afterlife is to suffer, not to exist as you always have—as lying traitorous mongrels."

Glancing over, I see the two men now. They both hold their heads down to the floor; there is no trace of hope left. My heart aches for them, hoping that, as a leader, surely Aamon will show mercy.

"Bring them here." Aamon stands from his position, towering over the crowd. "I will show them the mercy that they deserve."

The imps jerk on the reins, tugging the men as they clumsily shuffle behind them, completely out of sync. Up they climb to the base of the throne where Aamon perches, unperturbed by the whispers of the crowd. He rises from his position, peering down his beak with an air of superiority.

"The punishment for your crimes will be death."

The crowd roars to life with cheers and thunderous clapping or stamping of feet. The imps beside me holler, elbowing at me as if I agree with this terrible judgment. Aamon's body language is far too composed as the two men loudly sob. The imps who hold their chains bring the two men to their knees with one swift kick to their ankles. I can hear as their bones clatter to the marble floor.

A moment stretches forever as I hold my breath, waiting for the unthinkable to take place. Aamon intends to kill them here among all of his subjects.

I wait, expecting an instrument of death to be handed off to the marquis, but none come. Instead, the imps press their feet against the kneeling men's backs, forcing them on their bellies. Aamon lifts one of his massive wolf feet into the air, and in one fell swoop, he brings it down.

The sound of their heads, one at a time, being crushed reminds me of stomping on a pumpkin or gourd as a child. The hollow sound, the squish of their brains is a sound that now will live in my memory. I dare not look away. I watch, feeling the anger and disgust churn inside me violently. As the bile rises in the back of my throat, I gag it down.

I cannot stay a moment longer here with Aamon. I need to return to my realm, where the greenhouse will envelop me in a long overdue embrace of warmth and safety.