Dire Blood (#5) (The Descent Series) (7 page)

The demon that stood on the other side was like nothing James had ever seen on Earth. A face protruded from its chest. Its eyes bulged, a tongue hung over its missing jaw, and a fall of tattered red feathers coated its arms.

James had seen etchings of such demons before. They were called “brutes.” Something prevented them from being able to breathe in Earth’s atmosphere, so they had never crossed dimensions. It was the first time he had seen such a strange creature in the flesh.

Yet that was nowhere near as strange as the sight beyond the brute’s back. They had left behind the shops that he had glimpsed earlier, and a city block stretched as far as he could see, with towering skyscrapers that wouldn’t have been out of place in Chicago. Red dust blew over the concrete streets.

It was familiar, but just different enough to be unsettling. There were no cars, no streetlights—just a row of mirrored buildings and a mob of demons barely restrained by security guards in leather biker gear. The line of bodies stood shoulder-to-shoulder, trying to hold back the crowd, but they were giving way one step at a time.

“
Tika tho ngilo tin
?” the brute asked, tongue flapping in the air as it addressed someone that James couldn’t see.

A second demon joined the first, blocking James’s view of Dis. It was tall, broad, and humanoid; judging by the papery skin and the way the corners of its mouth almost reached its ears, it had to be some flavor of nightmare. It wore a leather vest just a few shades darker than its own skin, which was almost peach in color.

“
Giho tim
,” said the nightmare, and James actually understood that one; it meant, “They want the man.” Its teeth were shattered yellow stubs.

He swallowed and coughed again, preparing to speak. Maybe the dry, horrible air would help with his accent. “I think we have a misunderstanding,” James said in his very best attempt at the infernal tongue. Neither of the demons acknowledged that he had spoken.

Hannah edged toward him. “What are they saying?”

James leaned to the side, partially shielding her body from their view with his shoulders. “I think they’re trying to decide what to do with us.”

“
Goha
?” said the brute. It sounded more like a wet cough than a word.

The nightmare gave a dismissive wave of its skeletal hand and responded in its more refined dialect, “I don’t need that one. Sell her.”

James hadn’t researched infernal culture beyond what he needed to know for his studies in magic, but he knew that humans were numerous in Hell. And they were almost entirely used as slaves or for food.

Sell her.

He got onto his knees as the squat demon reached a three-fingered hand inside the enclosure. “Don’t touch her!” James said. He didn’t bother trying to speak the infernal tongue. They weren’t listening anyway.

Hannah gasped and slid back, but the demon’s meaty hand closed on her ankle. Her skirt slid up her hips as the demon dragged her into the street.

James lunged after her, jumping out of the back of the vehicle they had been riding in.

His feet connected with the red concrete, and a dizzying wave of energy swept over him, as though centuries of ancient magic shocked through his bones. Earth became sky, the buildings tipped underneath him, and he felt like he was going to fall into the dust-clouded air.

Hannah was shrieking, but he couldn’t see her through his blurred vision. His fingers brushed hers, then slipped. His eyes cleared in time to see the brute wrapping Hannah in a tight embrace, hauling her off of her feet, and dragging her toward the milling crowd.

“No!” he yelled.

The nightmare swung. Its fist struck James’s face, and stars flashed in his vision.

Between the multiple blows and the strange swells of arcane magic, James couldn’t keep his footing. He slipped. Staggered. Flung his hands out to catch himself, and failed. His side hit the concrete. He glimpsed the vehicle that he and Hannah had been transported in—an old, dirty pickup truck that had patches of leather covering holes in the metal—and then his gaze focused on what lay beyond it.

The spires of the Palace jutted into the sky, shining with glass panels and iron arches. The truck was waiting at the elaborate gates separating the demonic city from the Palace itself.

The nightmare was taking James to the Council.

His stomach pitched, and he tried to get to his feet. “Hannah!”

James’s captor drove a knee into his gut, and all the breath rushed out of his lungs. “Easy money,” laughed the nightmare as it tossed James into the back of the truck again.

He heard the door close and latch again, leaving him on the inside, and Hannah on the outside with the riot.

“James!” she screamed, her voice distant in the crowd.

He slammed his fists against the door. The wood rattled, but held strong. The vehicle shifted underneath him as it began to move again, making the bars of harsh light slide across the floor once more.

Then he was inside the gates, and all light vanished.

J
ames wasn’t given
enough time in the truck to plot his escape before it stopped again. The back gate opened, and the nightmare blindfolded him before he could see where he had been taken. A cloth was shoved into his mouth and bound with a leather strap. The material tasted like sweat and dust, and he gagged on it.

“Let’s move,” the nightmare said. Its hands dug into his arms as it pushed him forward. He tried to grunt a protest, but he couldn’t speak around the gag. All he could do was walk.

Although James couldn’t see where he was being taken, he could gather some clues from his other senses. The sound of the nightmare walking was joined by another set of footsteps, maybe two. The strides were short and shuffling. Were they more demons, or human slaves? There was no way to distinguish one creature from another. Everything around him felt powerfully infernal, to the point that he thought he might vomit again.

The air turned hotter and drier; the ground crunched beneath his feet. A door opened, a door closed. The air grew cooler.

There was the hissing of steam and the sensation of dropping. He smelled brass and oil, smoke and vapor.

Stubby fingers jabbed him in the spine, urging him onward. And then it was hot again, and he was going down a long set of stairs.

Hinges whined. A hand shoved him in the back, and his knees hit stone.

The blindfold was whipped from James’s face.

He knelt in the center of a stone ring that was as warm beneath his knees as the hearth of a fireplace. The only light came from grates set into the floor—a dim red glow that danced like flame. A smoky haze gathered around the floor, making his eyes sting. Stands loomed over him, like the seats of a judge and jury. Perhaps a dozen of the seats were filled, though there was enough space for a hundred creatures to watch him. Every one of the watchers wore robes that concealed their faces.

He shifted on his knees and inched toward the edge of the ring. Demonic runes were carved into the edge. It stung his knees with heat when he approached, and he shrunk back. The onlookers didn’t react to his weak escape attempt.

The door opened again. A slender woman with a severe face that looked like it had been carved out of wood stepped through. She wore a leather uniform and had a butcher knife strapped to each hip.

He tried to ask what was going on, but all he could do was mumble.

She drew one butcher knife. He shirked back, and his foot touched one of the brands. Instant pain shocked through his leg.

The guard pushed him to the floor and began to work.

She sliced his shirt down the neck, baring his chest and stomach. He had a scar on the upper right side of his chest that was shaped somewhat like a sunburst; another mess of scars marked his solar plexus. The creatures hidden inside the robes muttered among themselves when the scar was bared, speaking so quickly and so softly in the infernal tongue that James could make nothing out.

After two more slices to open his sleeves, James’s shirt was gone. He gave a grunt of protest as she dragged his pants down over his hips and tossed them aside. His shoes and socks followed. Then his watch.

It wasn’t until he was naked on the floor that the guard cut the gag free and stepped back.

He groaned and rolled onto his knees.

“James Faulkner.” The voice boomed through the stone around him, making his bones shake. “You have been brought before me, Judge Abraxas, and standing members of the Council to be indicted for crimes against the Treaty of Dis. How do you plead?”

He stared at the shadowy figure that had spoken. Abraxas sat on the tallest chair directly in front of him, which was carved of elaborate black stone. He was draped in the same crimson robes as everyone else in the room.

James tried to speak, but his throat was ragged from breathing the harsh air for too long. All that came out was a croak.

Silence responded. The shifting of bodies in chairs.

“How do you plead?” asked the voice again.

His heart started beating faster. He struggled to gather saliva on his tongue and swallow it down. There was little moisture in his body—too little to blink, much less salivate.

James finally managed to croak, “I don’t understand. Why have I been brought here?”

The guard with the butcher knives stepped forward again. This time, she didn’t approach James—she approached the stand.

A red-hooded creature handed her a piece of paper. The guard read off of it. “Blood will remain pure. Infernal and ethereal creatures can interbreed with mortals, but angels cannot breed with demons. Angels can fall, but cannot become mortal. Demons can ascend within Hell, but cannot become ethereal. Mortals must not possess immortality, and a human that is born without mixed blood must remain human. This is The second law of the Treaty of Dis.”

More shifting in the stands. Someone in the stands muttered, “So mote it be.”

James waited for an explanation, but the guard only stepped into the shadows under the stands again.

“But I haven’t broken any laws,” he said.

The judge spoke once more. “This is our accusation: you have tampered with fate, turned yourself from a human into a demon, and now possess immortality. Your blood is impure. You are charged with violating the Treaty of Dis. How do you plead?”

James’s head spun, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the smoke, the heat, or the accusation. “Innocent,” he said. “I’m innocent. I’m not a demon.”

“Then we will collect the full Council, and you will go on high trial.” A hand rose from within the robes. It looked like a human hand, just like any other, but the skin was pale and the fingers were delicate. “Take him to the prison.”

III

DECEMBER 2009

I
t was almost
midnight on a cold, snowy evening, and Gary Zettel was patrolling the Union warehouse’s perimeter. Leather gloves and a black scarf protected him from the chilly wind, and his gun, vest, and slacks blended in with the darkness of the night. Only the white, six-inch letters stamped on his chest in reflective tape caught any light.

He shifted his grip on the gun to keep his fingers limber as he headed down the south side of the fence. The dirt had been packed down and laced with pressure-sensitive wire that could pinpoint the position of an intruding mouse, but beyond the barbed wire was nothing but wild, unguarded desert. Sagebrush and sparse trees made formless shadows that Zettel could imagine as a hundred hostile beings—a mob of angry human survivors, possessed demons, or some other foe they had yet to face.

But the night was quiet. An icy breeze whispered through the sagebrush. His footsteps crunched on the dirt, and his leather gloves creaked as he checked his gun’s safety yet again.

Zettel reached the corner of the fence, swiveled, and headed in the other direction.

His aspis, Allyson Whatley, hurried out of the building. She was bundled in a heavy jacket zipped to her chin. He felt her approach an instant before he saw her; he always knew where she was, even when they were in different states.

Her square face was triumphant. “I did it.” She faced the cold desert as she spoke, and she barely moved her lips. “I finally did it.”

Zettel turned off his earpiece. “Let me see.”

She removed a scrap of cloth from her pocket. A complex symbol was embroidered in the center of the white linen square and stained by a bloody thumbprint. From her other pocket, she took out a folded piece of paper on which she had drawn the same symbol.

“Watch,” she said, and she flicked the paper in the air.

It burst into flame and turned to ash in her hand. The paper was gone so quickly that Zettel almost didn’t believe that he had seen it.

Allyson had finally replicated written magic.

“Does this mean you can make the wedge?” he asked, pulse speeding.

“I’ve already started.”

Zettel struggled to suppress his excitement, but the implications of this were dizzying. He punched his fist in the air. “Yes,” he hissed. It was the only moment of celebration he would allow himself.

“I’m going to finish it,” she said. “You can contact HQ when you’re ready. But…quietly.”

He nodded. Yes, quietly. Nobody could know what they had found. Not yet. And especially not his commander.

“I have two hours left on my shift,” he said. “Do you think you’ll be done by then?” She hesitated, and then nodded. “Good. Great. I’ll see you in two hours.”

“We’re so close,” Allyson whispered.

He nodded stiffly as she stuffed the cloth back into her jacket again. It took all of his strength not to follow her as she spun on her heel and returned to the building. Instead, he stared at the flakes of ash settling on the tightly packed earth and felt his stomach flip-flop. Not with nerves—Zettel didn’t get nervous—but with anticipation.

So close.

But not for a few more hours.

He flicked his earpiece back on. Composed his features. Resumed walking the perimeter of the fence.

Zettel was so distracted by the heady, dizzying sense of impending victory that he didn’t feel the tingle at the back of his neck until it was almost too late.