Page 74 of Samhain Savior
When we’d been sufficiently cleaned the women retreated back against the wall, dropping to their knees and resuming their place among the legion of other servants waiting to do Astaroth’s bidding.
“Well, that’s better, isn’t it? Now, let’s eat.”
He gestured, and behind us, the previously empty hall was suddenly filled with a long table and three chairs, all gathered at one end. Astaroth took the seat at the head of the table—a huge, throne-like monstrosity that couldn’t possibly be comfortable—leaving the other two, one on each side, for us.
But there was no fucking way I was putting Delilah anywhere near him. Picking up one of the chairs, I deposited it on the other side of the table then sat, placing myself between the wide-eyed witch and the smarmy incubus.
“Sit, witch,” I grumbled, gesturing to the empty chair beside me, needing her close. I shifted in my own seat, my wings not allowing for a very comfortable position, but I was sure that was Astaroth’s intent when he had chosen the chair.
“He’s so growly, isn’t he?” Astaroth asked her, his tone jovial even if his slitted eyes told me he was annoyed at my behavior. “Although I suppose that comes with the territory. I must say, it’s been some time since I’ve seen you in this form, Archer,” he taunted me, knowing that my being in the Void meant I’d lost the ability to control my own appearance. After all, he’d engineered his kingdom that way. “I think it suits you.” After a moment, Astaroth grinned, then added, “And I think your pretty little witch agrees with me.”
The response was instant, my cock stiffening at the idea that Delilah found my true form attractive. That she would see me as I was and still welcome me.
Want me.
I pushed those distracting thoughts aside, instead focusing on the table before me.
As soon as we had sat down, more of his servants rose and were now scurrying around like little mice, delivering plates and crystal goblets, pouring wine and filling the table with heaping trays of food.
All of it rotten and stinking, crawling with maggots and flies.
Beside me, Delilah gagged, her face going a little green at the sight of the roasted boar’s head in front of her, empty eye sockets filled with fat, white, larvae.
“Is there something wrong?” Astaroth asked, his eyes narrowing at her. “You’re not eating? Are you so high and mighty that you’ll reject my hospitality? Insult me in my own home?”
His voice rose, booming off the high walls, and above us, I could hear the wyvern screech again, its own mood shifting to match its master’s.
“Leave her alone, Duke,” I warned, using his title in an attempt to placate him. “She means no harm. This is her first visit to the underworld. Can you really blame her?”
Taking a breath, Astaroth considered my words, his angry gaze still locked on Delilah, who trembled by my side. After a moment, he relented, sitting back in his chair again and picking up his goblet, the easy smile returning to his face.
“Well, of course she’s struggling. She’s new. I’m sure you’ll have herwhippedinto shape in no time, hey Archer?” I didn’t miss his emphasis on the word whipped, nor the way the servant at his side cowered when he said it. If the wide welts on her back and arms were any indication, she was all too familiar with the word herself. “Now,” he continued, taking a long drink from his goblet. When he finished, he leered at us, and I realized that the servants hadn’t filled them with wine at all, but blood, and from the way Astaroth slowly licked his lips, he was very much enjoying it. “How about you tell me what you’ve been up to since I last saw you and what the fuck you’re doing in my realm?”
Chapter thirty-three
Delilah
Tension radiated through the room like an insidious presence, creeping along my skin and making me sweat beneath my horrid dress. The air felt thick and sulfurous, each breath an effort that filled my lungs with the sharp essence of despair and the palpable hatred these two clearly held for each other.
Archer had asked me to cooperate with him, and part of me truly wanted to, but the longer I sat, staring at the tortured souls that surrounded us, smelling the nauseating rot that rolled off the disgusting feast Astaroth had offered, the less I believed he’d actually get us out of here.
Because we were in Hell.
Literal, actual Hell.
It was different than I’d imagined. Not that I spent a lot of time imagining what the underworld might look like, but there were some pretty solid theories that had been around for ages, and at the moment, most of them were proving false.
For one, there had been no lakes of fire, no flames burning the condemned for eternity.
Nothing but dead trees and endless fields of ash and a demented castle occupied by a maniac.
Not to say that there wasn’t evidence of the torture Hell was so famous for. The poor souls kneeling in the shadows bore silent testimony to Hell’s true nature. Their ruined bodies were on display, open wounds exposing muscle and organs that gleamed wetly in the dim light of the room. Some trembled continuously, eyes vacant, yet still somehow capable of expressing the endless anguish of their current existence. Their mutilated bodies twitched uncontrollably, memories of a pain that would never fade, each movement appearing to offer nothing but sheer agony.
No lake of fire could hope to match the intimate horror of their eternal suffering.
“What we’re doing is trying to leave,” Archer replied, sounding bored. I could tell by the tension rolling off of him in waves that he was anything but.
“I want to know how the fuck you even got in. The ways have been closed for decades.” Narrowing his eyes, he assessed Archer carefully. “Are you keeping secrets, Archer?”
