Page 73 of Hades

So what’s ahead for the rest of 2023 & then 2024, Lets see, Reaver will be out next (I pinky swear), then … a SUPER SECRET PROJECT that will hopefully be released at TNTNC24 in March, Then Readers Take Denver in April, RomatiCon in July and TNTNYC24 in October. WOW, I am going to be a busy chick, I better get writing.

Until we meet again, Hugs!!!

Jennifer

For all my contact info and latest news on releases and all sorts of stuff Jennifer related, just scan the QR code below.

REAVER

PROLOGUE

Treachery Prison – Date, unknown.

All I can do is tug at my metal bonds and listen as they clank and rattle against the damp stone wall behind me. I imagine that the dampness is just water. But I’ve been here long enough to know better, and when you’ve been imprisoned in the deepest, darkest part of Hell, the saying shit flows downhill takes on a whole new meaning.

Whatever this pathetic excuse for an existence is, it’s been my life for so long that I don’t even remember what life is like outside these walls. Can I even call this living, for that matter? It’s more of a cruel joke by the gods than anything else. Here you have no purpose. You are nothing, not even a number.

How long have I been here? This question is always rattling around in my head.

Occasionally, when I’m feeling particularly lucid, I like to try and calculate just how long it’s been. Fuck, I don’t even know—a long ass fucking time, or maybe it was just yesterday. The concept of time, much like living, means nothing.

My brother, Barachiel, was supposed to put me out of my misery, and gift me permanent death. We had the perfect plan, or so I fucking thought. Even now I can feel the anger boiling up inside me. Leave it to my twin to fuck up something as simple as killing me.

I can still feel a twinge of pain every time I breathe where Barachiel’s angelic blade pierced my chest. -If I weren’t chained to the wall, I’d rub the scar his blade left as it seared through my flesh. It feels like it’s been a millennium since I’ve felt joy, and even my dreams now are shrouded in darkness. My nightmares continue to be plagued with horrific images from my final day as a warrior and Archangel.

With nothing left to do, I let my head lull forward and let the barrage of memories pour through me.

A battle raged around us as we swung our flaming swords and took down our enemies one by one. My brother and I had always been unstoppable. We had been a team since the day we were conceived, born only minutes apart—each of us born with the unmistakable golden wings of an Elite Archangel. We had been unique in so many ways. Twins are seldom born. If they are, they are never Elite. But Berachiel and I were.

The gods themselves had come down from their golden thrones to see the miracle of all miracles. They stood in awe of the twins that would set forth a new age for the Archangels.

We trained together, fought, and protected one another as only brothers could. That was why I asked him to take my life and why he agreed –because that’s what brothers do. They have your back when no one else does. His betrayal is still a raw, open wound left to fester.

Now, I wake up and hang around—quite literally—and wait for the torture to begin. Treachery prison isn’t where I should have woken up. I shouldn’t have woken up at all. Nonetheless, here I am.

I don’t know what comes over me as I hang here thinking about shit I have no business thinking about. But uncontrollable laughter bursts from me.

Great, it’s only taken half of fucking eternity, but I’ve finally gone insane.

“Swing low, sweet cherry tree…” I bellow through my bouts of hysterics.

“Shut the fuck up!” I hear someone yell from another part of the prison.

Fuck them. It’s not like my voice is terrible. I have a fantastic voice. Angelic, if you will. It’s deep and sultry, not unlike myself.

“I’m also taking requests!” I yell back as I try to adjust against the cell wall. The shackles that have adorned my wrists for the better part of forever are practically part of me now. The enchanted metal has embedded into my flesh over the years. So much so, that I hardly even notice them any longer.

What I do see, however, is the fucking putrid stench that wafts up from the lower levels. As far as I know, there are at least two below me. Those cells remain reserved for the vilest of criminals. Thankfully, I don’t fall under that category… at least, I don’t think I do. Maybe the stench is coming from above, and I am on the lowest level, which would make sense. An Archangel in Treachery would fall under the terms of being one of the most despicable creatures ever to exist.

“Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen,” I continue to sing. After all, I don’t fucking care what the masses have to say about it.

“We all know!” another disembodied voice yells from the pits. “And we don’t fucking care.”

“Sing Brittany!” another voice echoes, and a slew of screaming retorts, begging me not to emanate into my call.

Not wanting to disappoint my fans, I belt out my best rendition of “Oops!… I Did It Again!” I’d like to imagine the screams and shouting of my fans are begging me for more, not telling me how they will rip me limb from limb and toss what’s left into the pit of souls.

“You really do have a good voice,” a sultry, distinctively feminine voice purrs from the entrance to my cell.

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