47. Forty-Seven

Iam in hell.

In all my life, which was approximately three hundred years or so, there was never a moment when I thought I’d end up here. But, the more I focused my eyes and took in the brimstone and red hue of the sky, the more confident I was that it couldn’t be anywhere else.

The heat was insufferable against my chilled skin, and the steam pits shooting from the blackened earth gave the air a horrid humidity. I was shocked, however, that Aryn hadn’t tethered me yet.

Maybe I was paralyzed by Alora’s betrayal because I walked with little resistance.

Hell, like Evalasia, was a realm interconnected with others. It was its own kingdom, certainly, but demons made this their domain. Homes were littered around with no rhyme or reason, say, for following a few flat roads.

Nothing grew here—no trees, shrubs, or anything else. It was a tinder-barren wasteland of fire and misery—not that I expected differently.

Alora had a firm grip on my chain, which attached to shackles at my wrists. They were not steel or leather. I wasn’t sure what they were made of. But I couldn’t tear them off; that much was clear.

Studying her as we walked, I noticed she held her chin high, but her face pinched. Atreyis trusted her more than he should have, and because of that trust, we fought over it. I almost lost him because he defended her. My jaw worked tight, and I clenched my fists.

“Why?” I asked her, even though Aryn was close enough to hear.

She glanced over her shoulder at me but didn’t speak. Her eyes softened, and she mouthed not now, then turned forward. This demon was her master, was he not? What couldn’t she say to me that he wouldn’t already know? I suppose he might have had something over her, similar to Atreyis. But it was no excuse; I’d die before betraying him.

Knowing I had to be strong for the foreseeable future, I squared my shoulders. Aryn brought me to hell, and there was only one reason he’d do so.

I was going to meet the king.

We walked in silence for a while—hours, perhaps, I couldn’t tell in that place—but eventually, a fortress surrounded by black fire came into view.

According to legend, demons were once fallen gods, cast out from their realm for unforgivable atrocities. I presumed one of them was the century-long winter that froze all of Evalasia over a few thousand years ago. It was written about in the ancient texts in our libraries. Vampyrs were about the only race to survive back then, cold blood and all. But as time passed, the demons reproduced and morphed into their own species, separate from the gods they originated from.

I doubt any of it is true.

Phillipe was a firm believer in the legends, though. He trusted the word of our ancestors. Vampyrs were creatures of power and dominance. I wouldn’t put it past them to alter some details to benefit them or invoke fear in others.

Yet, the closer we got to the fort, and those eerie black flames burned from seemingly nothing, I might have changed my mind on the matter. It would explain a lot if the stories were true about demon origins. Especially Atreyis’ curse. No one possessed that kind of power other than demons and gods.

The walls were stone, but the cracks wept sludge, creating an illusion of melted candle wax. The spikes topping them had remnants of impaled victims rotting, and bones had fallen at some point, creating a trail of them along the floor. An archway with iron double doors sat in the center of the two walls, which wrapped around the entirety of the fortress. One of the doors was ajar, and Aryn wasted no time pushing it open further.

A gust of dirt and gas rushed past me, forcing a gag from the back of my throat.

It reeked of death. Foul, decaying, death.

Demons were clearly uncivilized when disposing of their waste.

That only became more apparent when we walked through the threshold. In an open courtyard, piles upon piles of bodies were stacked almost as high as the walls. Their faces were a mixture of anguish, fear, and contorted pain.

They all had one thing in common: gaping holes in every chest. The Demon King must have had an insatiable appetite.

Despite my stoicism, I was seeking out exits. My gaze drifted from wall to wall, taking in the several doorways and towers. The instinct to run soared to an all-time high the farther in we walked.

I needed a bloody plan, but all I could think of was Atreyis. He was left there, in shock, alone, and cursed.

If you are listening, please do not let him suffer. If I should die here, relieve him of that curse. Let him grow old and pass, as a human is meant to. I beg of you.

“He trusted you!” I whisper-yelled at Alora once Aryn left us.

Hell wasn’t traditional when it came to its housing construction.

One would expect a foyer or something similar when walking through a front door, but not this place. It opened immediately into the throne. I thought outside was terrible with the endless piles of corpses—this is worse.

Chained and hanging from the walls like decorations were bodies, and they were bloody alive. Some were unconscious, others were screaming. I could will their binds away and set them free, but to what end? They’d be captured all over again and probably made to suffer worse. All I could do was hope for a quick death.

Alora did not attempt to answer me or look in my direction. Her gaze was fixed on the stone floor. “I knew you were deceitful,” I barked. A few demons lingered, but I didn’t care if they heard.

She clenched her fists at her sides, and her heart sped up in her chest. “Are you that much of a traitorous wench that you won’t even acknowledge I’m speaking?” I jerked against my binds and took a step forward.

The demon beside me snarled, and flames danced over his clawed hand. “Oh, piss off with that!” I barred my fangs and invited him to argue. He snuffed out quickly.“Alora!”

Finally, like a switch had been flipped, she met my eyes. Tears pooled in them, but she held her chin high. I don’t know why I’ve never noticed her beauty before. Despite her ever-changing hair and eye color, her features remained the same. She was a petite woman with ethereal cheekbones and a perfect nose. Her posture was impeccable, and now that I was genuinely observing her, I had spotted an unusual pendant hanging from her left wrist.

A perfect circle around a skull etched into smooth onyx—Atreyis’ mark.

“It was never supposed to happen like this,” she whispered.

“Why? I don’t understand. He cares so much for you.”

Glancing between the demons and me, she leaned closer. “Do you see that woman? There?” I followed her lengthy finger.

When I followed where she pointed, realization washed over me like a tidal wave. The resemblance was undeniable. One of the many slaves hanging around the throne was a middle-aged woman bleeding from her wrists and ankles. Her head was slumped over, but she was breathing. “Who is she?” I asked.

Alora lifted her wrist, the one with the pendant, and clenched her jaw. “Gods, he cursed you too, didn’t he?”

She did not move to confirm or deny it, and that told me all I needed to know. Alora couldn’t talk about it and couldn’t make any gesture or indication of being cursed. The fact that she was able to lift her arm was due to scratching her other one—a subtle hint—the only thing she could do.

“I love Atreyis.” Her voice trembled, and then she jerked her chin straight ahead at the sound of the stone door behind the throne scratching along the floor.

I wasn”t sure I believed her. That whole time, she was a snake—a wicked woman using the man I loved for her own gain, even determined to hurt him. Everything she had done might not have been her choice, or it could all have been a lie, and that pendant was a token to prove her loyalty.

My thoughts were interrupted when two demons entered, Aryn and another. The latter headed toward the throne.

I used the term loosely because it was unlike the thrones I”d seen. It was a stone chair, but there was nothing grand about it—nothing regal or otherwise oozing authority—the demon who entered took care of that all on his own.

Aryn was a large male, but this one, the king, stood two heads taller. His pawed feet clunked with each step, and his tail swished lazily behind him. A crown of black flames rested between his spiraled horns, aimed towards the heavens. Unlike Aryn, his skin was a deep maroon with flecks of golden freckles scattered across it, with the exception of his arms. Up to his bicep, it was completely black.

His vibrant chartreuse eyes narrowed on mine, and he ran his textured red tongue over his jutting tusks. The demon wore a single black loin cloth. Climbing the three steps to the dias, he sat down with a loud thunk. Aryn gave a subtle bow before gesturing to the demons flanking me. They nudged me forward, and as much as I didn’t want to move a muscle, I put up no fight. I wouldn’t do that… not yet.

If Aryn truly meant for me to will the king of hell out of existence, I meant to warn the creature, even if it meant my head.

“Remind me again, welp,” the king spoke, and his voice carried like thunder.

“The Nova Born, father,” Aryn said through tight lips.

“And you believe it to be true?”

Aryn held out his hand, and Alora was ported to it. She steadied herself and took his hand gingerly. “My pet has been most resourceful and has never fed me false information.” The way he looked at her then startled me. I could have been wrong, but he almost had a sense of pride in his black eyes.

“My king,” she said with a curtsy.

He hummed, giving her a quick once over, and then a body was jerked from the wall by the same invisible force Aryn had manipulated me with. The chains tore apart with ease, falling to the stone.

The man in his claws was pliable as the demon king positioned him in his lap and, in one fluid motion, ripped out his heart. I steeled myself as his blood filled my nostrils. My own fangs ached in my gums as he took a heaping bite out of the muscle. Alora was visibly green as the body slid from his lap, crumbling in on itself at his feet. He pressed the remaining piece of the heart in his mouth and swallowed.

“I shall have his heart, now,” the king demanded.

And before I could protest or determine a plan of action—anything—I was on his lap, and his hungry glare peered down at me.

Fuck.