Page 18 of The River of Hatred

Sariel chuckles at my irritable disposition. “Caves are the ideal place to hide a rift, Poppet.”

“I tend to agree with the mortal on this one,” Ithuriel joins the conversation. “If there was a rift in here, we would have sensed it by now.”

It’s remarkable how good the two of them are at pretending the grind and bump the other day didn’t happen. I think it’s a male thing. If they were women, they’d talk it out until they either made up or got into a hair-pulling fight.

“Unless Belial found a way to mask its presence,” I say reluctantly.

Sariel turns around and gives me a broad smile. “One point for angel-lite, zero points for angel.”

Ithuriel rolls his eyes. I feel like he’s humanized somewhat since we first met – his icy edges melted a few degrees. “By that logic, we could be combing up and down Hell for years. Perhaps he even hid it somewhere we would least expect, such as Ashtaroth’s territory. He wanted his consort, Lana, did he not?”

Sariel growls softly. “No, he has too much of an ego to put it in Ash’s ballpark. He tried to frame Asmodai for it. He had to have planned for it to be accidentally found, would want to have a passable excuse if it did. He put it somewhere around the edge of Asmo’s territory, either on his own side or this one.”

I gape at the Fallen. “That’s… actually brilliant.”

“I’m not just a pretty face.” Winking at me, he flicks my chin, then huffs out a laugh before pulling cobwebs out of my hair.

“Ew, ew, ew, ew!” I stomp my feet.

“Relax,” he drawls. “All the critters scattered the moment Holy Elvis entered the building.”

Giggling, I nudge Itha with my elbow and mimic Elvis’ signature lisp. “Thank you, thank you very much.”

The angel’s lip twitches once, and then again, before he finally lets a smile brighten his perfect porcelain features. “That was quite amusing,” he admits, the smile exposing brilliant white teeth. This is what people mean when they say something feels like angels smiling down at them from Heaven.Wowee.

The three of us are standing still in the flickering light from Itha’s torch. Sariel and I gape at the still-gently-smiling angel until he notices our attention, or maybe how close we all are. The smile slips off his beautiful face, and he looks at the ground. Surprisingly though, he doesn’t move away.

Sariel hums quietly before turning back the way we were heading prior to my encounter with the cobwebs. “C’mon,” he says.

A few minutes pass in silence before I feel a vibration starting at my feet. It’s just a gentle buzzing at first, then dust starts falling from the ceiling, joining whatever was still in my hair. Next thing I know, Sariel is yelling my name, Ithuriel throws the torch aside, and they both dive toward me, wings out and extended.

Thudding sounds let me know that the angels are using the appendages to shield me from rockfalls. Just as I think that’s all this earthquake is going to bring, weightlessness hits me for a moment as the floor crumbles, before the boys snap their wings out to slow our fall. Our landing is still rough but at least it isn’t bone-breaking. We roll a few times, the angels taking turns being on top of me, and, as titillating as the thought may be, being sandwiched between two gorgeous Celestials, I’m too scared and hurting to even begin to enjoy it.

As the world slows its spinning, I come to the realization that I canseethe world spinning. “Uh, boys? Why aren’t we underground anymore?”

Sariel pushes off me with a groan, then wipes off silvery blood that got in his eyes from a cut on his forehead. When he takes in the wide, desolate trench we’re in, a dark and muted orange sky illuminating the scene, he groans louder.

“Fuck. We’re in The Malebolge,” he growls lowly, making Ithuriel hiss. It feels like an angel cursing.

I get my shaking legs beneath me, hoping to make the nausea stop. “Why does that sound familiar?” I ask them.

Ithuriel eyes the dirt on his once-pristine white cloak with distaste. “Likely from Dante’s Inferno,” he replies.

Sariel scoffs. “The pompous psychopomp,” he mutters, Itha harrumphing in agreement.

My eyes flit between them. I can’t even appreciate them being in agreement right now. “Wait, Dante Alighieri was a Celestial?”

“Is,” Sariel corrects. “He’s still around here somewhere, moralizing.”

“He’s a Nephalem,” Ithuriel explains. “One who decided to take on the role of a guide to the afterlife.” The angel very nearly rolls his eyes. Guess neither of them like the poet.

“Remind me, what was the purpose of the bolge again?” I rub my arms with my hands, trying to ward off the shivers.

“According to Dante or according to me?” Sariel asks with a huff.

“Uh, both?”

“Ostentatiously, it was created to punish the fraudulent. Those souls who deceived others for their own gain,” Ithuriel begins.

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