Reaver

Eidolon shouted through the tent opening at a passing vampire paramedic, something about checking the duty schedule, and then he turned back to Reaver. “How do you know where she’s being held?”

“Gethel mentioned Satan’s pressing machines,” Reaver said, and Sin shuddered.

“He has his own blood wine label,” she said. “His pressing machines are supposed to both chill the blood and squash it out of you.”

Reaver couldn’t even begin to imagine the horror of being “juiced,” and the idea that it was happening to Harvester only made him more eager to get her the hell out of there. Literally.

“His pressing machines are located in his main dungeon complex,” Reaver said. “That’s where she’ll be.”

Wraith shoved his hands in his jeans’ pockets. “How long before we consider you overdue and mount a rescue party?”

“Never.” Reaver shrugged into his shirt. “If I don’t come back, it’s because I’m either dead or in a situation that’s too dangerous to get me out of.”

“Oh,” Sin said brightly—and sarcastically. “You mean like the situation Harvester is in.”

Seminus demons were annoying no matter what gender. “Yes. Like that.”

She punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Good. Glad we’re clear. Try to come back soon or we’ll come after you.”

“Don’t do anything dumbass-ish, my fine feathered friend,” Wraith said.

Eidolon clasped Reaver’s hand. “Good luck. Something tells me you’ll need it.”

Luck? No, Reaver needed something more powerful than that.

He needed a miracle.

Four

Five days. Reaver and the three assassins Sin had hooked Reaver up with had been traveling through Sheoul for five days. Felt like five years. They’d been attacked by seventy-one different breeds of demons, over a hundred plant species, and more demonic animals than Reaver could keep track of.

They’d been scalded in torrential rains of boiling water. Nearly frozen by blasts of liquid nitrogen in a region of ice and snow. And they’d been singed by rivers of lava that leaked through stone retaining walls as tall as the eye could see.

Making matters worse, Tavin, the blond Seminus demon Reaver had been acquainted with for a couple of years, kept telling Reaver that they were still in the “upscale” parts of hell.

So far, the biggest dangers were environmental, since Reaver’s powers were more than enough to deal with most minor demons. The most pressing problem was that he recharged slower here even with Raphael and Gethel’s sheoulghuls, and as Eidolon predicted, his weapons sometimes went wonky.

Earlier, he’d summoned a ball of fire to throw at a croix viper, and the ball of flames had expanded to twenty times its size before growing teeth, claws, and a tail. The fire-animal had then devoured not just the croix viper, but every demon within a hundred-yard radius. Another assassin, a werewolf named Matt, was lucky to have escaped its fiery wrath. Reaver had been forced to destroy his own weapon before it ate the guy alive.

Fortunately, all three assassins turned out to be excellent fighters. Tavin’s ability to explode eyeballs with a touch was especially impressive. It had definitely come in handy against a ten-foot-tall demon with butcher-knife-sized teeth and two dozen eyes.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Eyes everywhere. Some powers were meant for fun.

“How many times have you been to Sheoul before this?” Matt asked warily as he pulled his brown-and black-singed hair into a low ponytail.

“Thousands,” Reaver said. “Hundreds of thousands.” He shrugged. “It was nothing like this, though. Angels are extremely limited in where we can go and how long we can stay. Coming here is usually a quick in and out.” He took a bite of some ugly little animal Tavin had caught and roasted over their fire. They’d camped on the banks of the Inferno river, in a region Reaver had never explored before. “Get out before the devil knows we’re here.”

“Just like that country song,” Tavin chimed in from where he was sitting next to Matt.

The third assassin, Calder, was on patrol, which was fine with Reaver. The Nightlash demon smelled of cigarettes and mildew, and he was a crude, violent bastard on the best of days. Once, Reaver had even been forced to stop him from assaulting a female enemy following a battle. Reaver might have actually killed the f**ker if not for Tavin and Matt pointing out that what made Calder abhorrent to Reaver made him an asset in Sheoul. And of the three assassins, he was the only one familiar with the regions surrounding Satan’s stronghold.

Reaver cocked an eyebrow at Tavin. “You don’t strike me as country guy.”

Tavin snorted. “I’m not. Our assassin master took Sin’s idea to make an inspirational playlist of every song that mentions hell and run it on a constant loop in the assassin den.”

“I’m guessing you’re not as enamored with the music?”

“Only if enamored is code for wanting to slit your wrists just so you can hear the sound of your blood pumping out instead of the twang of some annoying human yammering about sin.”

“Ah. In that case, I’ve been enamored a few times myself.”

“By annoying music?”

Reaver shot Tavin a pointed look. “By annoying, yammering demons.”

Tavin took a swig of water from his canteen. “And people say angels aren’t funny.”

“Who says that?”

“Everyone,” Tavin said, and Matt nodded in agreement.

Well, Reaver couldn’t dispute that. Most angels he knew were all serious and dour. The ones who weren’t were sweet and happy and… floaty. Like Mary Poppins on an acid trip and a pot of coffee. Reaver didn’t know which was worse.

Standing, Tavin stretched his arms and worked the kinks out of his neck. “I’m going to go find a female. You gonna get some rest?”

Reaver shook his head. “I need to log our travel today. Go.” He waved the demon away. “I’ll plot out our trek for tomorrow.”

“Just make sure we take the southern route through the Razor Eyelets. The northern track will put us at the desert edge of Satan’s region. We don’t want that.”

Reaver didn’t ask why. If Tavin didn’t want to go there, it must be bad. The demon was fearless and resourceful, but he didn’t have a death wish.

Matt left to join Calder on patrol as Tavin took off for a Harrowgate he’d sensed a quarter of a mile away. Reaver kicked back with his journal and noted the day’s events, including mapping out the areas they’d been through, places no angel had ever seen. His journal would be a priceless record if he survived the trip home, likely studied for centuries by the greatest minds in Heaven.

Of course, he probably wouldn’t be around to see how the fruits of his efforts paid off. Not if the archangels had their way. Rains of fire, severed wings, maybe death… those were what he had to look forward to.

Shoving his possible impending wingectomy and death aside, he recorded the demons, plants, and animals he’d come across, including descriptions, strengths, and weaknesses he’d observed, and the locations where he’d found them. He finished with personal notes about the journey so far, and then he tucked the book away and dug out the crude maps Tavin had brought with them.

They didn’t have far to go, maybe two days’ travel, but the remaining distance was going to be brutal. In approximately five miles, they’d hit the Wall of Skulls, a massive barricade that surrounded an entire region and extended hundreds of feet upward. The things that guarded the openings varied from nearly microscopic parasites that drilled into the body in search of vital organs to massive dragon-like beasts with teeth as tall as three-story buildings. Then there were the squads of vicious, eyeless Silas demons that patrolled the ramparts, killing intruders to add to the skulls lining the walls.

Next, they’d have rivers of lava, dead forests full of pain-feeding monsters, and an entire region dedicated to torture devices to navigate before reaching Satan’s territory.

From there, Reaver would be on his own. Their group would draw too much attention, so the plan was for him to sneak in to Satan’s torture complex, grab Harvester, and meet up with Tavin, Matt, and Calder for the journey home.

That was the plan, anyway.

In the distance, something shrieked. Something else screamed. And a few somethings snarled. Here, in hell’s underbelly, those were probably comforting sounds. No doubt someone had developed a sleep app with the lulling white noise of pain, misery, and fighting.

Ah, Sheoul.

Reaver closed his eyes and put his head back against the rock wall. Hold on, Harvester. I’m coming.

But would she welcome him or fight him? She hated him, and if the archangels were to be believed, she’d accepted her fate a long time ago. She might resist an attempt to rescue her.

Not that it mattered. Reaver was saving her if he had to kill her to do it.

In this case, death could only be a relief.

For the first time since Harvester had been brought to Sheoul for an eternity of torment, she wasn’t miserable. Oh, she wasn’t exactly comfortable, what with the way she was na**d and hanging by her wrists over a pool of bubbling acid, but at least she wasn’t freezing or burning or being tortured.

Granted, she couldn’t see, since her eyes had been gouged out a few hours ago, but the pain from that had dissipated as her body tried to heal and make new peepers. She couldn’t hear very well, either; her most recent torturer had driven thin spikes into her ears and shattered her eardrums. Again, the pain was long gone, and she was pleasantly numb.

So as long as she was by herself in this room, either forgotten or left to grow agonizingly hungry and thirsty, she was going to enjoy the break.

Enjoy. She was going to enjoy something while enduring an eternity of torture. The very fact that the word enjoy had broken through the gray matter of her brain at all was a measure of how high a threshold for pain and how low a threshold for pleasure she now had.

She wanted to laugh. A hysterical, mindless laugh that would end in tears. Except she had no tear ducts.