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Madeline pushed her face into his chest, and he felt her body shudder pathetically with sadness. He tried to comfort her, stroking the back of her head and rocking her gently from side to side.
He wanted to tell her that it was impossible to wish someone dead—to think that there was some great power out there listening, waiting to respond to such random requests—but then he remembered the life that his love had been not all that long ago indoctrinated into: an existence where a human woman had married an actual being of Heaven.
And he could see how a belief such as this didn’t seem quite as silly as it once had.
That was when he’d told her about Hell—about Tartarus—and why it existed, and that even if she had managed to somehow wish her grandmother dead, she wouldn’t have gone to Hell when she died.
Hell was not a place for humanity; it was for those who had rebelled against the glory of Heaven.
For those who had si
These were the thoughts that instantaneously danced across the surface of Remy’s mind as he clung to a precarious outcropping of ice, Karnighan’s doorway swirling and sputtering in the air above his head.
The old man’s spell had torn a hole in the air above Tartarus, and as Remy had fallen through, he’d lost his weapons as he’d frantically clawed for purchase on any surface that could break his fall. The ice numbed his hands to the point where his fingertips had cracked and started to bleed, staining the ice crimson.
Hanging on to the jagged protrusion of ice, Remy studied the area around him, searching for a sign of Madach, or any possible hint as to how dire their situation actually was.
The air of Hell was filled with swirling clouds of noxious fumes that partially obscured his vision and poisoned his thoughts with the taint of fear and desperation. But there wasn’t time for such things; he was to somehow thwart the Nomads’ plans. How this was to be accomplished, and why it had become his responsibility, were mysteries he would have to deal with another time, when there were less pressing matters to concern himself with.
There was no sign of Madach, and not having the luxury to worry, Remy began his dangerous journey down the side of the ice prison, bloodstained hands searching for any crack, edge, or divot that could be used to assist his descent.
The filthy sky above his head trembled, and he chanced a look upward to see Karnighan’s passage begin to falter. The nexus began to sputter and pulse, the magicks used to hold it open begi
There was suddenly a roar like thunder, followed by a powerful expulsion of air that tore him from his perch upon Tartarus’ surface and tossed him into oblivion.
Remy tumbled down, the fetid air of the place rushing to fill his lungs with its corrosive stench. The ground flew up to meet him with alarming speed, the essence of the divine imprisoned inside the cage of humanity shrieking to be loosed. But he waited too long, dreading the release of the Seraphim.
Remy struck another outcropping of ice on the way down, and the world went temporarily dark. Struggling to regain some semblance of consciousness, he found himself continuing to fall, the punch line to an old joke echoing inside his head as he waited for the inevitable.
It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the sudden stops.
He landed atop something that partially cushioned his fall. It wasn’t as if he’d landed on a big pile of pillows, or even bags of trash, for that matter. It was like landing on a sack full of doorknobs: a little bit of give-and-take as he co
Remy’s head swam with pain, a steady throb of agony that pulsed with every rapid-fire beat of his heart.
But he’d survived, not that he really had much of an option.
The atmosphere of Hell was working its magick, trying to convince him to curl up into a ball and give up, but he knew that wasn’t going to work for him. He’d landed on his back, and eventually forced his eyes open, focusing on the looming image of the icy prison before him. He had a rough idea as to where Karnighan’s doorway had dropped him off, and was disturbed to see the distance he had fallen.
Remy started to sit up, the sensation of bone rubbing against jagged bone causing blossoms of color to appear before his eyes. He lay back down on the ground, willing the agony pulsing through his damaged body to subside.
Counting to three, he managed to force himself up into a sitting position, focusing on the locations of his extreme discomfort. One of his legs appeared to be broken, lying twisted and useless upon the inhospitable earth at the base of Tartarus.
“Shit,” he hissed, pushing himself backward toward the formation of ice that jutted up from the ground. Again he saw a universe of stars, the grinding of his bones apparently caused by some broken ribs.
He leaned back against the ice, breathing through his nose, waiting for the pain to subside. A rust-colored mist hung thick, like smoke, making visibility difficult until a powerful belch of fetid air—likely from the heat-blasted landscape located in the deep valleys and ravines below the prison of ice—helped to improve the visibility momentarily.
He wished it hadn’t.
As far as he could see, the frosty ground was strewn with the dead. Broken corpses of fallen angels, Hellions, armored Sentries, and even some of the cloaked Nomads littered the ground. This was what had broken his fall.
He recalled the fields of Heaven during the war, the corpses of those slain in the conflict that pitted angel against angel. Remy had hoped to never see anything like it again.
The sight sickened him, reminding him of why he had abandoned the celestial for the earthly comforts of humanity.
The thick, sulfurous mist was stirred by a shifting breeze, temporarily obscuring his view of the dead, and he was grateful. He lay back against the foundation of Tartarus and thought about what he had to do, although in his current condition, his choices were limited.
Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw something move. Hoping that it was a merely a trick of the mist, Remy squinted, watching the toxic fog for any sign of life. He saw it again, followed by other shapes moving stealthily about, trying not to be seen, and knew immediately what had found him.
Hellions. A small pack of the Hell-born animals had found his scent, preferring living prey over the dead.
Great, Remy thought, the day just keeps on getting better and better.
He could hear their claws clicking on the rocky surface, the low rumbling growls of anticipation as they zeroed in on his scent.
Bracing himself, Remy pushed back against the ice, forcing himself up onto his good leg. The pain was worse than before, and he knew then that he must prepare for the inevitable. Hell was a cruel and vicious place, and not at all accommodating to the frailty of human flesh.
He knew he was going to have to give in, to shed his guise of humanity, and to once again resume his true form. The pain made it difficult to concentrate, the wildness of the angelic nature fighting him, as if trying to make him pay for its imprisonment.
Through pain-hazed eyes he saw at least three of the Hellions converging. Remy let go of his humanity, opening the mental gates that held the nature of Heaven at bay, allowing the Seraphim its freedom.
But it didn’t come fast enough.
The Hellions pounced, their hungry jaws clamping down on one of his wrists, another sinking its fangs into his injured leg. Remy cried out, falling forward to the ground. He could feel the Seraphim rising to the surface, but it seemed to be taking its time.