Reaver (6 page)

just the
croix viper
, but every demon within a hundred-yard radius. Another assassin, a werewolf

named Matt, was lucky to have escaped its fiery wrath. Reaver had been forced to destroy his own

weapon before it ate the guy alive.

Fortunately, all three assassins turned out to be excellent fighters. Tavin’s ability to explode

eyeballs with a touch was especially impressive. It had definitely come in handy against a ten-foot-tall

demon with butcher-knife-sized teeth and two dozen eyes.

Pop! Pop! Pop!
Eyes everywhere. Some powers were meant for fun.

“How many times have you been to Sheoul before this?” Matt asked warily as he pulled his brown-

and black-singed hair into a low ponytail.

“Thousands,” Reaver said. “Hundreds of thousands.” He shrugged. “It was nothing like this, though.

Angels are extremely limited in where we can go and how long we can stay. Coming here is usually a

quick in and out.” He took a bite of some ugly little animal Tavin had caught and roasted over their

fire. They’d camped on the banks of the Inferno river, in a region Reaver had never explored before.

“Get out before the devil knows we’re here.”

“Just like that country song,” Tavin chimed in from where he was sitting next to Matt.

The third assassin, Calder, was on patrol, which was fine with Reaver. The Nightlash demon

smelled of cigarettes and mildew, and he was a crude, violent bastard on the best of days. Once,

Reaver had even been forced to stop him from assaulting a female enemy following a battle. Reaver

might have actually killed the fucker if not for Tavin and Matt pointing out that what made Calder

abhorrent to Reaver made him an asset in Sheoul. And of the three assassins, he was the only one

familiar with the regions surrounding Satan’s stronghold.

Reaver cocked an eyebrow at Tavin. “You don’t strike me as country guy.”

Tavin snorted. “I’m not. Our assassin master took Sin’s idea to make an inspirational playlist of

every song that mentions hell and run it on a constant loop in the assassin den.”

“I’m guessing you’re not as enamored with the music?”

“Only if
enamored
is code for wanting to slit your wrists just so you can hear the sound of your

blood pumping out instead of the twang of some annoying human yammering about sin.”

“Ah. In that case, I’ve been
enamored
a few times myself.”

“By annoying music?”

Reaver shot Tavin a pointed look. “By annoying, yammering demons.”

Tavin took a swig of water from his canteen. “And people say angels aren’t funny.”

“Who says that?”

“Everyone,” Tavin said, and Matt nodded in agreement.

Well, Reaver couldn’t dispute that. Most angels he knew were all serious and dour. The ones who

weren’t were sweet and happy and… floaty. Like Mary Poppins on an acid trip and a pot of coffee.

Reaver didn’t know which was worse.

Standing, Tavin stretched his arms and worked the kinks out of his neck. “I’m going to go find a

female. You gonna get some rest?”

Reaver shook his head. “I need to log our travel today. Go.” He waved the demon away. “I’ll plot

out our trek for tomorrow.”

“Just make sure we take the southern route through the Razor Eyelets. The northern track will put us

at the desert edge of Satan’s region. We don’t want that.”

Reaver didn’t ask why. If Tavin didn’t want to go there, it must be bad. The demon was fearless and

resourceful, but he didn’t have a death wish.

Matt left to join Calder on patrol as Tavin took off for a Harrowgate he’d sensed a quarter of a mile

away. Reaver kicked back with his journal and noted the day’s events, including mapping out the areas

they’d been through, places no angel had ever seen. His journal would be a priceless record if he

survived the trip home, likely studied for centuries by the greatest minds in Heaven.

Of course, he probably wouldn’t be around to see how the fruits of his efforts paid off. Not if the

archangels had their way. Rains of fire, severed wings, maybe death… those were what he had to look

forward to.

Shoving his possible impending wingectomy and death aside, he recorded the demons, plants, and

animals he’d come across, including descriptions, strengths, and weaknesses he’d observed, and the

locations where he’d found them. He finished with personal notes about the journey so far, and then he

tucked the book away and dug out the crude maps Tavin had brought with them.

They didn’t have far to go, maybe two days’ travel, but the remaining distance was going to be

brutal. In approximately five miles, they’d hit the Wall of Skulls, a massive barricade that surrounded

an entire region and extended hundreds of feet upward. The things that guarded the openings varied

from nearly microscopic parasites that drilled into the body in search of vital organs to massive

dragon-like beasts with teeth as tall as three-story buildings. Then there were the squads of vicious,

eyeless Silas demons that patrolled the ramparts, killing intruders to add to the skulls lining the walls.

Next, they’d have rivers of lava, dead forests full of pain-feeding monsters, and an entire region

dedicated to torture devices to navigate before reaching Satan’s territory.

From there, Reaver would be on his own. Their group would draw too much attention, so the plan

was for him to sneak in to Satan’s torture complex, grab Harvester, and meet up with Tavin, Matt, and

Calder for the journey home.

That was the plan, anyway.

In the distance, something shrieked. Something else screamed. And a few somethings snarled. Here,

in hell’s underbelly, those were probably comforting sounds. No doubt someone had developed a sleep

app with the lulling white noise of pain, misery, and fighting.

Ah, Sheoul.

Reaver closed his eyes and put his head back against the rock wall.
Hold on, Harvester. I’m coming
.

But would she welcome him or fight him? She hated him, and if the archangels were to be believed,

she’d accepted her fate a long time ago. She might resist an attempt to rescue her.

Not that it mattered. Reaver was saving her if he had to kill her to do it.

In this case, death could only be a relief.

For the first time since Harvester had been brought to Sheoul for an eternity of torment, she wasn’t

miserable. Oh, she wasn’t exactly comfortable, what with the way she was naked and hanging by her

wrists over a pool of bubbling acid, but at least she wasn’t freezing or burning or being tortured.

Granted, she couldn’t see, since her eyes had been gouged out a few hours ago, but the pain from

that had dissipated as her body tried to heal and make new peepers. She couldn’t hear very well,

either; her most recent torturer had driven thin spikes into her ears and shattered her eardrums. Again,

the pain was long gone, and she was pleasantly numb.

So as long as she was by herself in this room, either forgotten or left to grow agonizingly hungry

and thirsty, she was going to enjoy the break.

Enjoy. She was going to
enjoy
something while enduring an eternity of torture. The very fact that

the word
enjoy
had broken through the gray matter of her brain at all was a measure of how high a

threshold for pain and how low a threshold for pleasure she now had.

She wanted to laugh. A hysterical, mindless laugh that would end in tears. Except she had no tear

ducts.

Deranged laughter bubbled up but never got the chance to surface. A faint tremor prickled her skin.

Again. And again. The vibrations came in a steady beat, and she choked on a sob when she realized

what they were.

Footsteps
.

Cold terror knotted every one of her muscles, locking her up so hard she could barely breathe. As

miserable as she was now, at least she was alone. No one was making her scream in agony. No one

was demanding answers from her with sharp objects or torturing her with bloody threats they always

followed through on.

The tremors grew stronger. Someone was coming closer, and dread made her empty stomach churn.

Warmth spread over her back. Whoever was in the room was just inches away.

“Who are you?” Harvester felt hands on her, felt the whisper of someone’s words against her cheek,

but she couldn’t hear or see, and even her ability to think was being stripped away by impending

panic.

The chains looped around her wrists came free. She dropped toward the acid pool below, but even as

she started to scream, a hand covered her mouth and she was cradled firmly against a very broad chest.

This was a new torture. Usually while she was either blind or deaf or both, they struck her or cut her

or worse—making her go mad with anxiety over where the next pain would come from and how bad it

would be.

This was far more horrible. Whoever was hauling her away was being gentle. She didn’t like gentle.

Gentle always resulted in pain. Mental or physical, it always hurt.

She trembled, waiting for it. This asshole would skin her, or he’d stab her with a red-hot iron. Or

he’d impale her on a spike. Maybe he’d violate her over and over before handing her off to friends.

Perhaps he’d trick her into trusting him, and then he’d turn on her.

No matter what, it would be agonizing.

The whisper came again, a light, warm caress of air on her cheek. Soft lips brushed her skin, and she

wondered what species of demon they belonged to. He was likely hideous, but she was sure he was

male. Every place her body was in contact with his was rock hard and there was a very masculine note

to his scent—which was surprisingly pleasant.

And familiar. But why?

She wracked her brain for the answer, but fear of the unknown and the pain of the last round of

torture kept her brain too occupied to delve deep into the mystery. All she could do was wait for him

to take her to wherever her new, fresh hell would take place.

The lips again. Speaking against her forehead. The male’s hand came up to tuck her head against his

chest in what she could almost believe was a protective gesture before suddenly, he was moving fast,

his movements jerky and violent. Twice he almost dropped her, and she lost count of the number of

times he banged her against something. Each time, those lips would caress her skin, and deep in his

chest, a rumble would vibrate through her body.

What was going on?

It seemed like they went on this way forever, with him sprinting like a madman through an obstacle

course, and then occasionally stopping and going very, very still, with only his chest rising and falling

as though he were panting. His heartbeat was a fast tap against her chest that never seemed to slow

down. How could he go on like this? Surely his heart would explode or he’d collapse. And where were

they going?

She lost track of time, and she thought she might have even fallen asleep once. Sleep that was

brought to a painful, abrupt halt when she fell out of his arms and tumbled over what she assumed

were sharp rocks.

As she lay on the ground her ability to hear cut in and out like a bad radio signal. The earth around

her shuddered and shook… a battle was taking place. She had no idea where to go or how to protect

herself, so she curled into a ball and hoped she was out of the way.

Gradually, the sounds of battle died away, and the male returned, his scent now carrying the distinct

tinge of blood, sweat, and combat. Normally, she’d find those scents sexy. Now they just made her

shiver with the unknown.

His palms came down on her head and her breath jammed in her lungs. What was he going to do to

her? His hands roamed over her body and she cringed, waiting for a violation. Thankfully, after a rapid

check from her feet to her head, he picked her up and they were off again, heading God knew where

for God knew what.

Again, she lost track of time as he moved, sometimes running, sometimes skidding to a halt. Twice

more he put her down to fight, and twice more she scented him when he returned. The second time,

she welcomed his attention, because as frightened as she was, so far, he hadn’t hurt her.