Page 29 of The River of Hatred

My breath catches at the audacity of his immature joke and I cough my way through strangled laughter.

“If you two are quite done,” the angel’s haughty voice floats from ahead. “We need to start walking in a line, one by one.”

With one last caress against my pulse point, Sariel lets go of my neck and falls back. When I reach Itha, I see why he wants us to form a line. We’ve reached the tar-filled trench.

The path takes a sharp downward turn from where we stand, elevated. I follow it with my eyes, tracing the twists and bends it takes through the bubbling black pitch. In some places, it’s nearly level with the black substance. Misshapen figures stand there, small due to the distance between us, poking at the sinners boiling in the tar. In other places, the path climbs upward again, a narrow trail with cliff ledges on each side. Several of these cliffy areas are joined by rickety-looking rope bridges.

“We have to walk across that?” I ask the stoic angel in disbelief.

He looks down at me and his eyes soften. He lifts his hand and tentatively places it on my shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze. “It will be alright, Jess,” he says softly, then releases me and turns down the path.

I fight to keep my mouth closed. That’s the first time he’s given me a casual touch. A kaleidoscope of butterflies takes flight in my stomach.

Sariel leans close to my ear. “Good job, babycakes.” His warm breath tickles my earlobe and I shiver. With a chuckle, he gently nudges me to follow our angel. I suddenly realize it’s been days since I’ve seen their wings. I miss the majestic sight of them.

It doesn’t take us long to reach the bottom of the trench and I get to see the Malebranche for the first time up close. They’re as bad as Itha said; their flesh is black and slimy, almost like they’re made of tar themselves. When they see us, their large mouths open into too-wide smiles, displaying sharp fangs, each as long as my finger. I wonder when someone just took a long stroll through the Malebolge like this. If they see visitors often.

Our presence doesn’t stop them from using their claws or long hooks to prod at the wailing sinners. I don’t see the necessity for it; the poor fuckers are already red and pink from the steaming liquid, all the hair on their bodies melted off. Some have oozing black holes where their eyes used to be. The stench is unbelievable.

When we climb back up and away from the demons and sinners, the ground opens on each side of us and I don’t really feel relieved. Each step of the way through these trenches unlocks a new fear.

The first time we cross one of the suspended bridges, my foot goes through a dried-out plank and my stomach falls to the bottom of the chasm.

“Fucking Hell,” I gasp, breathless as Sariel holds me up from behind me.

“Jessica!” Ithuriel’s voice is brimming with concern. He starts walking back toward us.

“Don’t!” I warn him. “I’m fine, we’ll be right there.” The last thing I need is for him to step through a bad piece of wood as well.

We reach the pale angel and he takes us both in, checking for injuries. Sariel reaches over my head to lightly punch his shoulder. “Were you worried about us, buddy?”

“I’m not your buddy,” Itha mutters, but there’s no heat behind it; it's just a routine reply at this point.

“Well, I was worried,” I say dramatically. “I thought my soul had left my body.”

Sariel squints at me playfully. “Nope. Still there.”

I gasp. “What does it look like?”

The wicked fallen angel’s grin widens. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Ithuriel sighs and turns around.

“That’s as good as an eye-roll,” Sar whispers and I giggle. If you told me weeks ago, when we met to plan this mission, how much fun I’d be having in their company, I’d laugh. And probably faint.

“There’s another bridge ahead. Attempt to control yourselves.”

“Yes, Daddy,” I chirp at the angel, enjoying the way his steps falter. Sariel tugs on my ponytail. When I look back at him, he gives me a double thumbs up. Grinning, I follow Itha onto the next bridge.

I’m more careful this time, making sure each plank is good before putting my full weight on it, holding on to the ropes tightly. As the bridge sways with our movements, suspended between the cliffs above a deep chasm filled with boiling tar, my heart pitter-patters wildly in my chest.

We’re almost at the end when there’s a loud creaking sound.

“Um, what was that?” I whisper. Maybe if whatever it was doesn’t hear me, we’ll be okay.

Ithuriel stops and turns around, slowly. His elegantly pale face is now downright pallid.

“What?” I hiss.

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