Page 23 of Demon Sworn
My guys groan as if I’ve just spilled their most precious secret instead of a precious moment.
Joy’s hand goes to her big belly. “Last week, our toddler, Mistletoe, was screaming in pain because her tummy hurt. So my demons all took turns singing, ‘Get the tooties out’ to her. They made it into quite a catchy tune, harmonies and all.”
Her demons’ eyes all widen and stare daggers at her back, ones that are clearly dull and don’t even pierce the skin, because she calmly continues, “Now, what’s one of the sweetest things they’ve done for you when you’re alone together, something they wouldn’t ever admit to anyone else?”
Immediately, Cal speaks. His tone is desperate, as if he really, really does not want Joy to say what sweet, emasculating things he does when they’re alone. “Stop. Just stop. They can come in.”
Joy’s smile is wide and victorious. “Of course they can.” She reaches out with her gloved fingers and takes my hand, leading me over to the sleigh. “Come on, girly. You and I will ride home. The men can fly.”
I climb onto the bench of the sleigh in a daze, not quite sure what’s happening, but very sure that Joy is my new hero.
10
Zolroth
Hell isterrible for your complexion.
The searing, sweltering fires cause a fine sheen of perspiration to break out on my skin. I grab a handkerchief from the pocket of my newest suit, an Orazio Luciano in a rich, chocolate-brown hue, and dab it absently at my forehead.
When we went into the Christmas realm, I’d despised the cold, the way it chaps the skin and the fucking hideous snow gear that covers up my Katrina’s lovely figure. But now I think I might dislike this more.
“I hate Hell,” I murmur to Raz as we move down a pathway made entirely of molten lava. Yes, it runs through the clouds that make up the ground in Hell. It’s not logical. Don’t bother questioning it.
On either side of us, red and orange fire burns in large pools, casting strange shadows across our faces. In this particular section of Hell, there’s no sunlight or moonlight, the sky instead canvased in pure, absolute darkness. We have to rely solely on Hell’s fire to guide us, the flames flickering intermittently, lighting up the flat clouds beneath our feet. Here, in this part of Hell, the clouds are thin and flat, spread like peanut butter in smears across the sky. It’s easier to walk through than the canyons made of cumulonimbus clouds, but the fires are a damn nuisance.
“You’re a demon,” Van points out from in front of me, frowning when a geyser of fire erupts mere inches from where he stands. “You can’t hate Hell.”
“I’m getting ash on my shoes,” I point out, glaring at the white stain on my pitch-black loafers, polished so meticulously, I can see my reflection in them. Well, I could. Before I entered Hell.
I fucking hate this place.
“Is he always like this?” Cal retorts from in front of us, walking shoulder to shoulder with a man I recognize as Gus, a wrath demon. He’s covered from head to toe in tattoos with numerous piercings in his eyebrows and ears. He hasn’t talked much since we entered Hell, his face set into a scowl customary of all wrath demons.
Kastros and Akor chose to stay behind with Katrina in Christmas Village so she could spend time with Joy. The other three members of Joy’s murder—Nico, Bryn, and Dem—stayed with them as well.
But it begs the question—why the fuck am I required to traipse through Hell? Why me? Don’t get me wrong, I’ll do anything for Katrina and Adam, but daring missions through Hell are more of Akor’s speciality. But alas, the crazy pain demon told Raz in no uncertain terms that he would not leave his cherry’s side, even if maiming and murdering is involved on this quest.
“She needs me,” he’d said, his expression for once devoid of any of his usual malevolent mirth. And Raz had agreed, mainly because he didn’t want to know what would happen if hedidn’t.
Sometimes, I wish I was the crazy pain demon. Then I’d get my way too. Not really, though. Akor’s punk fashion is horrendous.
“We’re almost to Lucillania’s castle,” Raz growls out from the front of the group, his back muscles stiff as he stalks forward. I don’t know if it’s because he was forced to swallow his pride and apologize to Cal—something that I’m gonna hold over his head for the rest of my long life—or if it’s because he’s anxious as fuck to retrieve Adam. Either way, he resembles a rubber band just waiting to snap.
Finally, the devil’s castle materializes in the distance, painted in shades of bright purple and violet, similar to the devil’s hair. Numerous turrets and gables erupt from the massive stone surface, each one glistening in the now orange sky because Lucy is a true devil who prefers the colors to clash. I think the purple might also be a little fuck you to God’s stupid fluffy lavender castle. If that’s the case, I can forgive the color clash, because who doesn’t want to flip the Big Man the bird?
Though we can see the castle, we’re nowhere near it. There’s a huge expanse of dark water between us and it. And there’s only one way to get there because Lucillania doesn’t allow demons to just fly on in. She has magic preventing it. You have to walk in on foot, down a narrow bridge where she can spot you a mile away and decide whether she wants to let you in or simply disintegrate that bit of bridge and have it rebuilt tomorrow.
We step through the archway leading to the bridge, an arch that always causes a cold chill to skate down my spine.
Because instead of being made of marble or stone or wood, it’s constructed entirely of writhing faces. Faces of the damned, to be exact, each colored in a similar shade to the castle. As I watch, one of the faces opens its mouth wide, releasing a silent, mournful cry before another face takes her place. This one has anger emanating from his purple-tinted gaze as he desperately tries to free himself from the endless torment.
But there’s no escaping Hell or Lucy’s punishments.
The arch is made of demons who helped Heaven in some fashion…and now I think I realize why Akor didn’t want to come.
We travel across a drawbridge overlooking a multi-colored sea—dark black swirls dancing about inside the water, each one representing a different lost soul, those who didn’t know what to believe and therefore spend the afterlife just swirling in darkness—walking for what feels like hours.
I glance up and to my left, only to see blasts of color in the distance, and they’re not the normal fires, not the tornadoes made of blood that often ravage the land. In fact, they’re not quite chaotic enough to fit into Hell. The blasts occur at regular intervals. Each flash followed shortly after by a loud boom, the sound eternally chasing the light.
