Page 130 of Soul of a Witch

Nothing could compare to the sunrise in Hell. As Everly slept peacefully in my arms, I watched that massive fireball rise, straight out of the churning sea, bathing the city in its light. It warmed my face, kissing my skin as it streamed through the open windows.

It had been so long since I’d set foot in this home, laid in this bed. Yet it remained unchanged, as if I’d never left. No demon in Hell was left wanting for shelter, so if a living space was abandoned, it usually remained untouched. But I’d spent so long on Earth that I still felt surprised when I walked in the unlocked door and found the suite exactly as I’d left it.

Some demons preferred massive living quarters. I did not. The suite was simple, occupying one floor of a great tower overlooking the sea. Demons lived both above and below, but I couldn’t hear them. The walls were well-insulated, even for one with such sharp hearing as me.

A thousand years ago, I’d left this place because I couldn’t bear the pain. Everywhere I went, every site, every smell, every poignant memory, was so filled with agony that I couldn’t bear to remember. I cast it aside, I put it behind me. The work of a warrior is never done and that was what I clung to: the war in Hell may have ended but the war against the gods had only begun. What else could I do except fight? It was all I knew.

Except it was different now. The memories were still there, and fuck, they still hurt. But like precious ancient relics, I could handle them with care. Turning them over in my mind, remembering with as much delicacy as I could manage. Happiness was sheltered in those memories, buried within them like seeds waiting for winter’s frost to thaw.

Perhaps grief didn’t ever truly end. Perhaps it only changed, growing with me. It no longer led the way, it merely existed beside me. Sometimes, in moments like this, I could forget about it entirely. The memories of those I’d loved and lost were as soft and warm as the rising sun.

This could very well be the last sunrise I ever witnessed. This journey to Hell could be the final time I set foot here. Death did not frighten me, nor did pain or suffering.

I feared emptiness. I feared the lonely expanse of a future without the one I loved. As I looked down at my witch sleeping soundly in my arms, I was filled with an emotion that wasn’t rage, or terror, or desperation, but felt like all three at once.

I wanted to hoard her like precious gold, lock her away like a work of art to be protected.

But no art gallery, museum, or gilded cage could possibly be worthy of her. None of them could contain her. A life being sheltered and hidden away would be poison for her beautiful mind. She needed freedom. She needed to spread the wings of her power and fly as high as she could go.

I wouldn’t stop her. I’d gladly risk my own life if only to stand beside her every step of the way.

She stirred as the sun fell over her face. I sheltered her with my wing for a while, to give her a few more minutes of rest, before allowing the light to wake her. She lifted her head, her arm moving lazily to drape over my chest as she snuggled into my side.

She surprised me when she gave a long groan and swore under her breath. “My ass is so sore, Callum. It’s all your fault.”

“Allmy fault? Don’t tell me my wicked witch won’t accept some of the blame.” She groaned even more, and I laughed. “I seem to recall you wantonly begging me for it.”

“Oh, hush.” She slapped my chest and leaned in for a slow kiss. “As if you’re abovewanton beggingyourself.”

She reached down, wrapping her hand around my cock. When she slid off the bed and onto her knees, she swiftly proved herself right that I wasn’t above begging at all.

No one, not even the eldest of demons, knew how the onyx citadel came to be built. It crested a mountain comprised entirely of black stone; its shining towers so tall they disappeared into the clouds on overcast days.

A long, steep stairway was carved into the mountainside, surrounded by a forest of moon trees, with their pearlescent white bark and emerald-green leaves. Thin streams of water trickled over their roots, spilling eternally from the wellsprings deep underground. The water flowed through the city below, nourishing our plants and churning the great water wheels until it eventually reached the sea.

Standing at the foot of that stairway was meant to be intimidating, an experience of shock and awe at the sheer size of the castle above. It was impossible to look at those towers and not feel something: whether it was fear or awe, joy or comfort.

The first time I’d ascended those steps was when I’d been named the leader of Hell’s army. When Lucifer promised me a seat on the council if I returned victorious.

The last time I’d made this arduous climb, I had indeed returned victorious. But it was a poisoned victory, toxic and rotten. The accolades they’d offered me meant nothing. The praise for my strength and bravery were empty words.

None of it brought back the dead. The glory I’d thought I wanted was empty and cold.

Everly took my hand and squeezed, wrenching me back to the present. She was dressed in a sheer skirt that brushed her ankles and a short top that wrapped around her throat and exposed her stomach. It was difficult not to stare at my sigil, scarred beautifully onto her slightly rounded belly.

She’d been eating more since living in House Laverne, finally having access to enough food whenever and however she wanted it. Her scent had changed since coming here too, becoming even sweeter and brighter.

“Are you ready?” I said.

“Are you?”

Lifting my hand, I kissed her knuckles. “With you by my side, I’m ready for anything.”

The moment we set foot on the stairs, the council became aware of our presence. There was no visible change; no ringing of bells or sounding of an alarm. But high above, the archdemons who watched over Hell were assembling, readying themselves for our presence.

As we neared the courtyard at the peak of the staircase, clouds billowed around us. The cool air shrouded Everly in a haze, making her appear ghostlike as she walked ahead of me, still holding my hand. We passed under a stone archway, dark red vines twined around its surface, and entered the citadel’s courtyard.

On the opposite side of the yard, six silhouettes were visible in the fog. Hell’s council was composed of some of the oldest and most powerful demons ever known; dwarfing me in their age and the magic they controlled. Bael and Paimon, the oldest of the six, covered their faces with red veils, pinned to their hair with metal circlets encrusted with jewels. In all my years of existence, not once had I seen either of their faces. Then there was Caim, with his long jet-black hair and coat of dark feathers. Murmur was his opposite, her hair as white as fresh-fallen snow and long enough to brush the ground like a cape.

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