“I’d never have thought Diriel would own a place in this neighbourhood,” Severus muttered, squinting out the window of the family’s grandiose black carriage, the hooves of skeleton horses clomping along outside. The mist that had plagued Hell’s depressing landscape had lifted since he, Malachi, and Moira had left the house some hours ago, giving way to an annoyingly bright overcast, heat rising off the cracked earth in waves.

“For a Lutum, he’s done rather well for himself, hasn’t he?” Malachi mused. Out of the corner of his eye, Severus spied his brother recrossing his long legs, one ankle over the other, his leather-clad feet just a breath away from Moira’s.

“I didn’t know he was a Lutum.”

“Low class status, no notable parents to speak of, no wealth, no special abilities.” The chaos demon uttered something between a scoff and a snort. “Of course he’s a Lutum.”

While nearly every middle- and upper-class clan of demon had a family name, a branding that would carry them through this world, lower-class creatures of no real significance all shared the same last name: Lutum. Dirt. Severus might have been looked down upon by his peers, but every Lutum bastard would be sneered at by the upper echelons of demon society. Still, at least a lowborn Lutum had the chance to ascend. They could change their circumstances, just as Diriel somehow had. Severus would be a leech for life.

“I’d thought to look in the slums first, but one of my men insisted the wretch had been spotted here, of all neighbourhoods,” Malachi continued as he examined his claws, noticeably bored now. Severus couldn’t blame him; this ride had been mundane to an almost painful degree. With the heat outside and the stale conversation inside, Moira had fallen asleep almost two hours ago. Severus couldn’t blame her for that, either—it wasn’t like they’d gotten much sleep last night.

What had bothered him, however, was the way Malachi had offered his coat for her to use as a pillow. It seemed Severus’s jacket hadn’t added much padding, which she’d insisted was fine—and then there was Malachi, slipping off his blood-red trenchcoat and offering it to her. The plush material cushioned her head far better, untouched by whatever moths had dug into the outfit Severus had seen yesterday, and Moira had been out like a light within minutes.

Sighing, he stroked her hair, tucking it behind her ears, refusing to budge so much as a hint lest he wake her prematurely. With her head on his lap, she looked so peaceful, and given her nerves about facing Diriel again, she deserved the rest.

“When you’re through with him, I’d like to interrogate him a little myself,” Malachi said, his voice raised—petulantly, as if to steer Severus’s attention back to him. Dressed in a freshly pressed beige dress shirt, black trousers that had seemingly never seen the light of day they were so pristine, and their father’s old gold and ruby cuff links, the demon actually looked presentable.

“Oh? And why’s that?” He had been questioning his brother’s motivations behind all this since their talk last night. Malachi had never been one to help before, especially if it was Severus who was doing the asking. All that bullshit about being a better brother and fuck our terrible father and blah blah blah—Severus didn’t buy it.

For now, however, it seemed he’d come through. He’d had Diriel’s location in hand as soon as they concluded the most uncomfortable breakfast of Severus’s life.

Apparently, Malachi had heard him and Moira on the balcony last night.

And he enjoyed bringing it up.

A lot.

Much to Moira’s embarrassment.

“I want to know how some Lutum fuck wormed his way into the Periculum borough,” his brother insisted with a roll of his eyes. Periculum housed demons who just missed the mark—the ones who were so close to elite status they could taste it. Riddled with greedy, dangerous, narcissistic climbers of Hell’s social ladder, the borough was adjacent to Severus and Malachi’s own crème de la crème suburb, and the more Severus thought about it, the less it surprised him that Diriel had settled here.

“He’s made a name for himself in Farrow’s Hollow over the last two decades or so,” Severus told his brother after a moment’s consideration. “A slow, gradual climb, but I’ve always wondered where he acquired all that influence.”

“And wealth, surely.”

Severus nodded, absently looping and unraveling a lock of Moira’s coarse white hair around his finger, his gaze drawn back to the window. Although he wouldn’t say he had devoted an obscene amount of time to thinking about Diriel over the years, he had wondered, here and there, how the demon had managed to rise through their society. He hadn’t come from money, yet, out of the blue, one day he had cash to burn and minions at his heels.

And now he was living in the second-plushest demon suburb in Hell. Severus’s frown deepened as he watched the houses pass by. While still large, still surrounded by towering walls and impenetrable gates, they weren’t quite as substantial as the homes in his neighbourhood, and they were planted much closer together. Every ten minutes or so, they would pass another property, as opposed to the half-hour to forty-five minute gap of barren nothing between estates in Severus’s neighbourhood.

Still, it was far better than the Lutum slums where he’d expected to find a coward like Diriel.

“Nearly there,” Malachi told him, nudging at his foot. “Wake her.”

Severus shot his brother a scowl, then gently roused Moira, the backs of his knuckles brushing against her cheek. Her eyes snapped open, breath catching, but she settled quickly, as if realizing where she was, and sat up. One of the jacket’s thick gold buttons had left an indent on her cheek, and as she rubbed at it, she sheepishly handed Malachi’s coat back.

“Thank you.”

His brother shot her a quick smile before slipping the garment back on. Clearly he was far more accustomed to this outrageous heat; Severus had grown soft on Earth. Dressed to impress in his priciest black suit—a three-piece Alexander McQueen number with silk lapels and skull buttons—Severus was positively roasting and they hadn’t even done anything yet. He couldn’t imagine how Moira fared either; her dark grey slacks had very little give, but at least her frilly white blouse was thin. The bright red bra underneath all that refinery was a fucking tease, however.

“How are you feeling?” he murmured, smoothing some of her wild, staticky hair down as she righted her clothes. His little hybrid shrugged, and he pretended not to see the way her fingers trembled.

“Fine. Ready to get this over with.”

“Now remember, I will do all the talking,” Malachi drawled, sounding bored already. “Just stay out of sight until I’ve confirmed he’s there.”

“We know, brother.” If Diriel had people watching the hell-gates, news would have reached him that Severus was in the underworld again. The demon would be on the defensive, and they had all agreed it best to let Malachi approach his hideout first. Malachi carried more prestige than Severus. He commanded respect, even if privately the family home had fallen to ruin. Perhaps Diriel would think he had come to talk terms—when really, Malachi intended to drag the coward back to the carriage, wherein he and Severus would drive him out to the wastes and torture him into talking.

And Moira would…watch. Severus cast her a wary look, still uncertain of her response. She hadn’t offered to lend a hand, nor had she inserted herself into the planning of today’s events. In fact, she had been oddly quiet the entire time, merely nodding and agreeing whenever Severus checked in with her.

He wasn’t sure where her head was at—and he didn’t like it.

“There’s a bit of foliage in front of his villa, maybe ten, fifteen feet from his exterior wall,” Malachi announced, all but pressed up against the carriage window to get a better look. “We’ll stop there and I’ll approach his speaker. Stay in the bushes, brother, until I’ve got him.”

Severus grunted, eyes still fixed on Moira. She sat stock-still at his side, shoulders back and hands in tight fists on her thighs.

“You all right?”

“Fine,” she said firmly, staring ahead as they both ignored Malachi’s very obvious eavesdropping. “Locked and loaded, I guess.”

“You needn’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with—”

“I said I’m fine, Severus,” she told him, their gazes meeting sharply. While her tone might have sounded unkind, her eyes were pleading: let me do this. So, as Malachi grinned from across the way, as if hoping for a show, Severus merely nodded and sat back.

“And your men have confirmed he’s still inside?” he asked.

“Would I be here if he wasn’t?” Malachi droned with another roll of his eyes. Honestly, Severus had never realized what a ridiculous drama queen his older brother could be; was this the outcome of a century of solitude?

“Now, take this,” his brother continued, pulling what would look to Moira like a flare gun out from under his seat. “Only use it if absolutely necessary. I’ve already got two strikes, and I’ll be damned if I have to spend the next fifty years working check-in at the arrivals hall.”

“Noted.” Severus accepted the firearm with a smirk; it was difficult to find compelling punishments for hell-born demons, given they so delighted in torture. Working the arrivals and departure terminals, where they were forced to be pleasant to nervous first-time visitors, was deterrent enough for some. For his dear brother, it would likely be his pride that would hurt most should he be sentenced to don the uniform and smile for tourists.

The carriage came to a smooth stop, and as Malachi exited, Severus studied the foliage outside. A collection of black, gnarled, trees clustered together, thorny underbrush crawling up the bottom three feet of their thick trunks. Their shadows stretched long and lean, cutting across the cracked grey earth and looming over what he assumed was Diriel’s estate.

After the door slammed shut, he shuffled across the carriage quickly and peered through Malachi’s window. While the home was substantial, a giant block of onyx surrounded by pristine beige walls, along with intricate yet oppressive wrought iron gates next to the wall-mounted speaker, it wasn’t the nicest in the neighbourhood by any means. Good. Diriel didn’t deserve to ascend that high.

“What did he give you?” Moira asked, and Severus shifted the gun out of reach at the sight of her creeping fingers.

“A last resort.” Frowning, Severus tried to figure out where he was going to tuck the damn thing; his suit didn’t leave much room for extras. In the end, he opted to hold it. When he spotted her studying him, white brows furrowed, he added, “Should things go south, think of it as a flare gun, only the flare is magic. Once fired, it summons all the Saevitia clan vassals to our aid.”

Those furrowed brows shot up. “Your family has vassals?”

“Demon families who have sworn loyalty to our clan, yes,” he told her with a nod. “Most vassals are low-ranking, occasionally middle-tier, demons who want to better their family. Heads of the clan support them—financially, but in theory we’ll stick our necks out, when warranted, should a vassal find themselves in trouble. If we run into trouble, we have backup.”

“Good to know.” She glanced out the window, nibbling her lower lip. “And what’s a strike? Malachi said he had two?”

“For all the evil bullshit talked about Lucifer on Earth, he generally wants to keep the peace below,” Severus said quickly, knowing they needed to get outside to watch the proceedings. “If you incite conflict without a just cause, spill a great deal of blood unnecessarily, you’re given a strike. Three strikes and you face punishment. The demons working at the check-in hall don’t clock in for the benefits, darling.”

She snorted, then pressed a hand over her mouth, flushing. Unable to stop himself, Severus tugged her hand away by the wrist and stole a quick kiss.

“Now, come along. Let’s make sure Malachi doesn’t fuck this up.”

The pair slipped out of the carriage through the door facing away from Diriel’s supposed residence. Severus crouched low, using the tires to hide his legs, and motioned for Moira to do the same. Together, they crept around the back of the carriage, then scurried into the thorny shrubbery. As they knelt out of sight, he kept her back enough that the grasping thorns didn’t snag on her clothes.

As far as he could tell, no one had witnessed their dash from carriage to foliage, the next house positioned far enough away that Severus was forced to squint to see it properly, but he knew he must act as though there were a dozen eyes on them.

“Stay low,” he whispered. Moira shot him a look.

“Duh.”

Smirking, he gave her cheek a little chastising pinch, then crept around the spiny underbrush to get a better look at things. Malachi was already crooning into the speaker on the wall next to the gate, the same communication device outfitted to all estates, grandiose and pathetic alike; Hell had no electric lighting inside its homes, but a speaker box fuelled by magic? No problem.

From the distance, he couldn’t hear what his brother was saying, nor could he hear what was said back whenever Malachi paused, but as he stabbed lazily at the talk button, pushing it like it might infect him with the stench of poverty, he certainly looked smug.

But then again, that might just be Malachi’s face these days. In their youth, it had only been cruel; Severus remembered that far better than this new mask.

However, that smug, drawling façade fell away when something shot out of the wall directly below the speaker—a spear, its head a jagged grappling hook.

A grappling hook that pierced straight through Malachi’s gut and out the other side.

Blood spurted from his mouth, spraying the once-pristine wall, and Severus reared back to clamp a hand over Moira’s mouth when she shrieked.

Heart in his throat, Severus pressed the tip of the gun to his lips, holding Moira’s stare until she nodded frantically, and then stood. Through the dead trees, their limp branches and curled leaves chattering in the breeze, he found his brother staring down at the harpoon that had impaled him. Mouth gaping, Malachi staggered back, dragging the spear with him as blood oozed onto his shirt and dribbled down his chin. The spear gave him some leeway, a chain rattling out of the wall—only to stop sharply at about two feet. Malachi reached behind him, grabbing uselessly at the tip, and Severus shook his head, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to reach it the way he needed to.

His brother tried to pull it out the way it came in, lips peeled back in a snarl, black blood splattering the ground, watering the scorched earth.

“It’s hooked at the ends,” Severus whispered. “It’s a fucking pronged hook.”

The claws bit into Malachi’s back as he attempted to drag it back through his body—stuck. His roar echoed through the suburb, the carriage windows rattling and the skeletal horses snorting while he flailed about, a fish caught on the line.

“Severus, what do we…” Moira trailed off as a new sound resonated through the air: the cries of baying hellhounds. Severus stilled, Malachi too, and they listened to the snarls, the snapping of razor-sharp teeth, the low, eager whines—all culminating in a horrific symphony on the other side of the wall.

Fuck. “He’s going to kill Malachi.”

“I thought demons couldn’t die in Hell,” Moira countered, and he pushed her back down, a firm hand on her shoulder when she tried to stand.

“You can die if a pack of hellhounds eats you,” he hissed, “bones and all.”

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Malachi was supposed to do what he did best and charm his way inside, or possibly coax Diriel out. Either outcome resulted in Diriel being hauled into the carriage for torture. Simple. Straightforward.

Diriel wasn’t supposed to fight back—they hadn’t even started yet.

As the chorus of howling hellhounds reached a crescendo, Severus sprang into action; it was either move or watch his brother die. Lurching forward, he grabbed at the large metal carriage wheel, ripping one of its spokes clean off.

“Get in the carriage,” he barked, pointing to it with the spoke, his glare so fierce that Moira shrank back, cheeks red. With no time to apologize, to coddle, to explain, he sprinted toward his brother.

As soon as the iron gate swung open, a pack of savage hellbeasts bounded straight for Malachi, and Severus pointed the gun up and fired. A fizzing red ball of energy shot up and exploded, blitzing the landscape like a nuclear shockwave. He heard Moira cry out behind him, but there was no time to see to her.

Because within seconds, all Hell broke loose.

Literally.

* * *

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Malachi and Severus had been so sure of their plan—so sure that Moira had gone along with it unquestioningly. She couldn’t help it; ever since she woke up that morning, she had been lost in her own head, battling the anxiety of coming face-to-face with Diriel again. Hoping she’d be brave enough to do what needed to be done. Fighting the fears of being in Hell, of facing her torturer, of the way Malachi looked at her. Her head had drowned in it all, so much so that she’d passed out midway through the carriage ride and woken up here, better rested but still lost.

And then…this. All of it. Malachi getting skewered. Severus rushing to help the brother who had always tormented him, firing that gun. The shockwave knocked her on her ass as it washed over her, and by the time Moira had pushed herself back onto her feet, bits of crusty ground stuck in her palms, everything had changed.

Demons materialized out of nowhere. Demons of all shapes and sizes, of all skin hues and horn lengths. All savage. All fierce. All glowing with a gold and red hue—symbolic of Malachi, maybe. Vassals. The cavalry had arrived, but as Severus sprinted toward the pack of enormous wild dogs attacking his brother, more demons appeared out of nowhere. Blink and you miss it. Blink and there’s chaos. Silver and blue hummed around the second wave of demons, and as she ducked down behind the scraggly underbrush, Moira couldn’t help but wonder if they were Diriel’s vassals, summoned to protect his home.

Because as soon as the demons saw each other, the bloodshed began, titans colliding on the battlefield, the opposing sides made distinct by the shimmer glowing around them.

Malachi’s roar echoed over the madness. Hands clenched in tight fists, Moira forced herself to move, ignoring the way her legs trembled, and spotted the chaos demon through the mosh pit between them. Severus had been pulled away; he slammed the metal wheel spoke down on a demon shimmering in blue and silver, a trio of his allies keeping the others at bay as black blood splattered across his face.

No one had stopped the pack of dogs—dogs the size of Irish wolfhounds but thicker, sturdier, deadlier. No one had stopped the hellhounds.

And Malachi was going to die.

“Fuck,” Moira hissed. Get in the carriage. Severus’s gruff order rattled around her head as she lurched toward the carriage—but she didn’t listen to it. Instead, her hands closed around another metal spoke, and she tugged with all her might. It didn’t move. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She pulled harder, propping a foot up on the wheel, needing a weapon. No one had bothered to give her one, but then again, the Saevitia brothers hadn’t thought it would go this way. Maybe there was something hidden inside the carriage, but she didn’t have time to root around. Malachi probably didn’t have that kind of time.

“Fuck you, you stupid wheel,” she whispered harshly, feeling the strain in her neck, her shoulders, as she pulled harder. Moira yelped when the spoke finally came loose, tumbling onto her back, adrenaline pounding through her. One of the skeletal horses at the front of the carriage glanced back, seemingly unfazed by the bloody battle raging in front of Diriel’s home. The creature continued to watch her as Moira scrambled to her feet, then took off in a sprint.

Not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention, Moira skirted around the conflict—far around. Offhand, she counted roughly forty demons, more glowing in red and gold than blue and silver. That had to be good, right? They stuck together tightly, wielding swords and axes and knives as they slashed at each other, the ground soaked in black demon blood. She tried to find Severus in the midst of it, but she couldn’t see him anymore. Her heart leapt into her throat at the thought, but she was already nearing the gleaming beige wall that had skewered Malachi.

Severus would have to wait—because Malachi had officially become a hellhound chew toy. Blood spattered the otherwise pristine white wall, coating the speaker and dribbling down to the ground. It soaked his clothes, stained his face, his hands. It was a miracle the guy was still standing, still fighting, still kicking, still swinging those enormous fists as the pack ripped into him, that too-thick red coat doing a half-decent job at protecting him, but not for much longer.

To his credit, Malachi hadn’t shed a single tear. In fact, as the furry black blurs ravaged him, anger rolled off him in waves—waves Moira could feel in her bones. As she watched, feeling somewhat helpless, somewhat overwhelmed, the chaos demon managed to pick one of the beasts up, raise it over his head, and hurl it some fifteen feet away. The creature landed with a yelp, grey dust flying up around it, but Malachi was already onto the next defense, body-checking a trio of hounds away. Not the kind of guy to go down without a fight—Moira could appreciate that.

“Hey!” Apparently his will to live had her thinking she could help with this fucked-up situation. Malachi’s head snapped in her direction, and she made herself as big as possible, hoping to attract some of the hellhounds her way. And then what, she had no idea—one step at a time. “Hey!”

One of the hellhounds turned its great black head toward her, red eyes narrowing as blood and spittle oozed from its mouth.

“Moira, don’t—”

“Shut up, Malachi, for once this fucking morning, just shut up,” she snapped, eyes fixed on the hellhound taking a few curious steps toward her. “Let me help you.”

She stumbled back, hoping to attract a few more, but the lone hound had its sights set on her. Moira screamed when it lunged forward, a great, terrifying black spectre made entirely of muscle and fangs and bloodlust—headed straight for her. Somehow, she managed to hold her ground, body responding instinctively; once the hellhound was close enough, its jaws snapping at her, its snarls the stuff of nightmares, she reared back and clocked it hard across the side of the face with the wheel spoke.

The beast lost its balance and barrelled into her with a cry, its mouth turned to the side, its body like a runaway train as it knocked her to the ground. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear Severus shouting her name, but she blocked it out, focusing on the lead weight on top of her. Grunting, she pried her arm out from under the hound, then slammed the spoke down into its side. The hellhound yelped again, the sound followed by a long, low whine, and she scurried away, leaving her sole weapon embedded in its side.

As she crab-crawled back, her heart racing, she couldn’t help but think that the hellhound sounded like any regular dog on Earth. Low whines. Whimpers. Wet, ragged breaths as it flopped to one side, panting.

The spoke stuck straight up, nestled between its ribs, ochre blood pumping from the wound. She must have punctured a lung.

Why did it have to sound like such a dog? She’d never admit just how much her heart broke at the sound of its cries. Forgotten by the rest of its pack, it just lay there, red eyes locked on her, pink tongue lolled out over its sharp white teeth.

Before she knew it, Moira was crawling back toward it, one shoulder pressed to her ear—as if that would muffle every wet, strangled gasp. With trembling hands, she grabbed the hellhound’s muzzle. Much to her surprise, it let her close its jaw—and then finally snap its neck. She turned hard and fast, yelping herself at the feel of bone breaking. The creature went limp. The sounds of demon snarls and growls, shouts and insults, were nothing but white noise as she stared down at the too-still body.

Her first kill.

Tears blurred her vision, and she wiped them away hastily, smearing blood across her face. It was warm. Too warm. Warm enough to make her stomach turn.

“Don’t cry!” Malachi’s voice cut through her stupor. She looked up, brain muddled, and suddenly all the sights, sounds, and smells of the moment slammed back into her with such ferocity that Moira gasped. Severus’s brother glared daggers at her some ten feet away, still impaled as hellhounds shredded his trousers, hands thrown up in an are you fucking kidding me?! sort of way that had her cheeks burning.

“Right—”

“Don’t fucking cry, for Lucifer’s sake!” the chaos demon bellowed as she staggered to her feet. He was right. Nothing in this hellscape deserved her tears—nothing and no one but the demon she loved. Moira took two steps forward, then hurried back to grab the wheel spoke as Malachi flung a steady stream of curses at the creatures tearing into him. Whenever he managed to throw one off, there were three more to take its place, and three others still going to town on him.

Severus had been right; without her help, those hellhounds would devour him.

Moira charged in screaming, hoping the sound would distract them, maybe even frighten them, but they had such an intense, laser focus on Malachi that nothing could deter them.

That didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.

Moira swung at their legs, their backs, the spoke landing hard enough that she felt every blow radiate up her arms. She wrenched tufts of fur from their raised hackles. She kicked and pushed and screamed, fighting alongside Malachi, but after all that, only one fought back. As she tried to wrestle off the hellhound ripping at Malachi’s right arm, another lunged at her and slammed into her side. She toppled down, the spoke flying from her hand, bouncing, then rolling a few feet out of reach.

Not wasting a single second on the loss, Moira rolled over, narrowly avoiding the hellhound that would have landed on top of her had she stayed still, then pushed onto her feet.

“Leave him alone!” she cried, clapping in the face of the charging beast.

As soon as her hands collided, a spark of bright white angel light flickered between them. Moira stared down, stunned. Malachi had fallen quiet. And the hellhound in front of her blinked its red eyes furiously, then wiped at its snout with a snort. She looked up, quickly meeting and holding Malachi’s gaze, an unspoken plan forming between them. As he hid his face in the crook of his arm, Moira clapped again. Nothing. The hellhound facing her growled, its hackles rising as it stepped toward her—and the pack behind continued to rip into Malachi.

They’re going to kill him. Do something!

“I said, leave him alone,” she shouted, just as she had that night at the Inferno, the night she had tossed Diriel clear across the room with her white light. Moira clapped again, this time harder—and finally the light did as she commanded. A bright white beam erupted within her clasped hands, shooting out between her fingers.

The hellhound yipped and turned tail the second the light touched it, skirting around the pack and making a beeline for the still open gate. Her light disappeared seconds later. Moira clapped again and again, each time temporarily bringing back the angelic glow, charging the hellhounds, ordering them back, ordering them not to touch Malachi. She wished she didn’t have to look like a clapping lunatic to make her powers work, but she’d take what she could get for now. One by one, the hellhounds fled, tails tucked between their legs, slinking low and fast for Diriel’s property beyond the wall.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much time to revel in her victory.

“Get me out,” Malachi snarled as he sank to his knees, coughing up a mouthful of black blood, his shredded hands grabbing at the spear still embedded in his torso. “Get it out.”

Moira rushed to his side as the demon somehow managed to stand upright again. The wound was bad—really bad.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she muttered under her breath as she examined it from both sides—the entry and exit point. “Oh my god.”

“If you say that one more time—”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Malachi snorted, the sound forcing her to look up as she fiddled around with the hooks digging into his back.

“When did human females get so mouthy?” He cocked his head to the side, as if considering it. “Have I really been gone so long that they— Fuck, woman!”

Moira had tried to tuck the hooks into the wound so that maybe he could pull it out from the front—no dice. Malachi glared at her over his shoulder, the battle cries of the demons behind her growing louder by the minute. Out of the corner of her eye, she swore a demon shimmering with Diriel’s colors had charged her, but two of the Saevitia vassals dragged him back before he got close enough. She gulped, wishing she’d just stop shaking already.

“It’s bad,” she said, hands smeared in black blood. “It’s… It’s really bad.”

“I know, Moira. I can feel it ripping into my bowels.”

She tried to bend the hooks around, to straighten them out, but she wasn’t strong enough. However, an idea sparked to mind, and she darted away to retrieve her discarded spoke.

“Hold your side as still as you can,” she ordered, then tucked the spoke into the curve of a hook. A gargled protest came from Malachi as she planted her foot on his bloody upper thigh and pushed off him, tugging the spoke with both hands.

The hook gave way—and soon straightened. With a victorious cackle, Moira worked through the others, eventually turning what had looked like a grappling hook into a pronged spear.

“Pull it out on your side,” she ordered, giving him some space, the spoke falling from her hand. Exhaustion was starting to sink in; adrenaline had pumped her up, but she’d never done something like this before. She had never battled a pack of hellhounds, then rescued a skewered demon.

She wasn’t sure she was cut out for the long-haul race. Sprinting. Moira had always been good at sprinting.

With a roar that rattled between her ears, Malachi wrenched the spear out, slowly dragging it back through his body. Fresh blood splattered the wall, and he whirled around in a flash—only to embed the pronged end of the spear into the face of a charging demon. Moira screamed, staggering back against the wall as the spear sank deep into the demon’s skull; within seconds, the blue and silver hue vanished, and he crumbled to the ground as Malachi fell into her. She caught him with a grunt.

“How you feeling, champ?” she forced out, struggling to hold his immense weight.

“Better by the second,” he growled back, his hot blood seeping through her clothes, staining her skin. “You surprise me, half-breed. You’re good in a fight.”

“Thanks.” I guess?

“I didn’t think you’d help me—”

“You’re his brother,” she told him, eyes wide at the sight of his wounds mending. The gaping hole in his stomach had already closed, the skin sealing itself together, but the blood hid the rest. Her gaze raked across his body, broad and rippling with taut muscle, her breath catching when she discovered him watching her—more than a little intently.

“I am his brother,” he said softly, then cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. Try not to get yourself killed before we find Diriel, eh?”

He pushed himself away from her, striding, strutting toward the bloody battlefield.

“Oh,” Malachi glanced back and nodded at her, “and don’t get too close to the wall.”

Moira leapt away from it, her heart racing. Malachi might have survived such a monumental spearing, but she had a feeling she wouldn’t be quite so lucky down here. Even if last night’s wounds had healed completely, she suspected it more due to Severus’s healing salve than her own innate abilities. She was only half supernatural. It wasn’t worth the risk.

In fact, as she watched Malachi, a towering brute in tattered clothes, caked in his own blood, grab two blue and silver demons by the necks and slam them together, she realized what a risk she had taken coming this far out into the fray to begin with. Maybe she ought to go back. Maybe…

Not until she confirmed Severus was okay.

Arms crossed, she stood up on her toes, searching out his face in the crowd. Although two demons had already tried to charge her, the rest were too interested in beating the holy hell out of each other to pay her much attention.

“Severus?” she whispered, eyes darting here, there, and everywhere, unable to focus on a single face for long. “Where are you?”

A figure drifted by, dancing across her peripherals. Something about the way it moved, the familiarity of it all, had Moira’s gaze darting toward it. Her knees threatened to buckle—Diriel, in the flesh, just strolling along, flanked by a trio of armed escorts. Demon Diriel: leaner, gaunter, with a receding hairline and bright white horns. So different, yet Moira saw him, the face that stalked her dreams.

Dressed to impress in a decadent black suit, dozens of pearl necklaces clattering against his chest, sans crosses this time, he sauntered toward the battlefield with a sort of grace and arrogance that made her blood boil. Her knees weren’t going to buckle. He didn’t get to win that way—he didn’t get to haunt her anymore.

He glanced toward her, thin mouth suddenly twisting into the same sadistic smile he’d dazzled his eager audience with as he tortured her. Slowly, he brought a familiar jagged knife to his lips, kissing it, and then pointed it dead ahead. Straight into the fray—right at Severus.

She saw him now, her incubus, his pristine jacket torn at the sleeve, his hands coated in slick black blood. Her breath caught when a demon threw an arm around his neck from behind, only for her to cheer silently as Severus flipped the creature over his shoulder and Malachi finished him off with a dagger to the throat.

But they were distracted. There were too many of Diriel’s vassals around them—they wouldn’t see him coming.

Her gaze snapped back to Diriel. The demon winked as his escorts surged ahead, knocking demons out of the way like they were nothing. All three were roughly the size of Malachi, but she knew Diriel wouldn’t allow them to land the killing blow—he wanted to take Severus from her himself.

“Not today, you black-eyed fuck,” she hissed. Diriel wasn’t going to touch Severus ever again. None of them were. Not when she was finished with them. Shoulders back, she thought of Severus, of saving him, of annihilating a common enemy, and her hands started to burn with angel fire. Slowly, she raised her right arm, fingers stretched wide, palm out, waiting for the light to wash across the field—to drown Diriel where he stood.

She cried out, however, when a gloved hand clamped down on her wrist, instantly closing the tap. As lush, soft leather tightened around her, Moira looked back, panicked, to find another white-haired, grey-eyed, human-like creature gazing down at her. Her lips parted, her eyes drinking in the near-translucent skin as the being stared back, seemingly bored. He let out a huff, and in one swift motion forced her onto her knees.

Moira winced, the ground unyielding as ever, and then cradled her throbbing arm to her chest when the creature released her. He looked exactly like her.

Swathed in billowing black robes, he strode toward the battleground, and Moira crouched down, an arm thrown protectively over her head, as his entourage trailed after him. All white-haired. All with the same grey eyes that the hell-gate had given her. Their robes reminded her of priests’ black cassocks: long-sleeved and nipped around the neck, billowing to the ground; regal, yet mostly indistinct from one another. All that was missing were the white clerical collars.

“Are you angels?” Her question tumbled out in an embarrassingly squeaky voice. The last of the group looked down at her in passing, his thin lips curved and his white brow creeping up. He answered with a laugh—a cruel, cutting sort of laugh, the kind that made her skin crawl, and she shrank back further. Every fibre of her being screamed not to cross them—not to get up. So she stayed down, spared by the new arrivals, and watched as the leader of the group, his robes the only trimmed in gold, dramatically plucked one of his gloves off and snapped his long, thin, bony fingers.

In an instant, all the demons edged in glowing light, be it red and gold or blue and silver, vanished. Even the wounded, the fallen, the headless—gone. Only Severus, Malachi, Diriel, and herself remained. With some effort, Moira picked herself up and shuffled after them, careful to keep her distance.

“Malachi,” the group’s leader purred, lips lifted into another cruel smile as he appraised the demon, “we’ve got to stop meeting like this. Wouldn’t this be your, what, third strike?”

“Asmodeus, please, you must listen to me—”

“I must do no such thing,” Asmodeus mused, his thin white brows shooting up, “but I am anxious to hear the cause of this… This…” He gestured toward the battlefield, the ground wet with black demon blood. The creature sighed, rolling his eyes. “This thorn in my side.”

Moira stood out of the line of fire, holding herself as she studied the impassive faces of the new arrivals. Only Asmodeus seemed to get some sort of pleasure in listening to the onslaught of arguments that followed, all three demons clamoring to be heard. Severus pointing wildly at Diriel. Diriel thrusting an accusatory finger at Malachi, all the while watching Moira. Malachi’s arms flapping about like he was a headless chicken, his voice the loudest of the trio. It was chaos. Unbridled chaos—but didn’t Malachi deal in chaos?

What little she could make of the clamor made her blood boil. Diriel had accused all three of them, Moira included, of disturbing the peace, butchering his vassals, and threatening torture. Ha. Diriel was one to talk. Malachi, meanwhile, in his shredded clothing and bloodstained skin, was snarling on and on about how this was his brother’s idea, and he was only here to defend the family honor, which Diriel had shit on in the first place.

Severus could barely be heard over the pair.

Enough of this. Moira slipped her hand into her pocket, clasping the polaroid she had carried around for weeks, and strode forward.

“Diriel is working for an angel,” she insisted, positioning herself between the three demons and Asmodeus. She thrust the polaroid toward him, her heart thundering, the whump whump, whump whump of it vibrating through her entire being. “He was ordered by his angelic master—”

“Why you little—”

Diriel grunted noisily after what sounded like a fist colliding with his jaw. A quick glance back confirmed Severus had been the one to do it. Good.

“He isn’t corrupting the angel,” she continued, knowing that, for some reason, was a big deal down here. “He’s doing his bidding. Diriel was ordered to kidnap and kill me, and when he failed, spending too much time on the torture, he ran back to Hell like a coward.”

Asmodeus appraised her for a painfully long moment—what could only have been three or four seconds stretching on for an eternity. Her arm trembled, held out between them. The rest of his party remained impassive, until he finally waved his gloveless hand back at them; briefly, she noticed a large red smear across his palm, like a permanent bloodstain. She blinked hurriedly as the group of white-haired creatures fanned out, soundlessly encircling the group.

“Let me see, little Nephilim,” Asmodeus murmured, plucking the polaroid from her with those long, spidery fingers. “And who is this angel you speak of?”

“My dad,” she said, her breath catching. Curious grey eyes flickered up from the polaroid, and her cheeks burned. “I don’t know his name.”

“He works for our local Seraphim Securities in Farrow’s Hollow,” Severus interjected. Out of the corner of her eye, Moira caught him moving forward, only to stop when Asmodeus fixed him with the same unflinching look. “Sire. We’ve been trying to find him. My theory is that he sent his dog Diriel after my…my…”

“His woman,” Malachi offered. She figured he was just trying to help, that maybe the connection between her and Severus, or his perceived ownership of her, would have some sway in this backwards society. However, the burn in her cheeks only intensified when Asmodeus smirked and returned to appraising her photo. On top of the fear, the nerves, the panic about how this day had gone, about standing in front of Diriel again, Moira just wanted to rip the polaroid out of his hand. Hadn’t he gotten a good enough look by now?

“Filthy, slanderous lies from the incubus and his whore—”

“Enough.” Asmodeus raised his gloved hand, seemingly bored again, and returned her photo. Moira stuffed it in her pocket, then scrambled backward until she knocked into a solid body that she hoped belonged to Severus. Mercifully it was; his hand settled on the back of her sweaty neck, holding her firmly under her hair. A quick glance up showed he too was coated in blood, but beyond that, everything looked intact. From the two thick black streams under his nostrils, now dry under this relentless heat, she assumed he’d broken his nose at some point. One of his claws felt like it was missing on her neck.

“Neither my brother nor I had any intention of going to battle,” Malachi said, and she couldn’t ignore the slight tremor in his voice when Asmodeus peered down at him. In fact, all the new arrivals looked down at them, pushing seven feet or more. Malachi cleared his throat, then finally shrugged off the tattered remains of his coat and shirt. “I merely requested a civilized discussion through his speaker when the coward speared me.”

“And I summoned assistance when Diriel set loose his hellhounds on my otherwise incapacitated brother,” Severus added, his voice low and even. Both were trying their best to appear submissive and respectful. Moira leaned back into him; she had no clue who these guys were, but the fact that they frightened all three demons had to mean something.

“I’ll hear no more,” Asmodeus remarked with a sigh. “A Truth Touch will be performed on both the girl and the Lutum—”

“But, sire, please consider…” Diriel shut his mouth as soon as Asmodeus shot him a glare withering enough to make even Moira’s blood run cold.

“Nephilim.” Asmodeus snapped his fingers sharply, making her jump. “To me. Berith, take the Lutum.”

As soon as those grey eyes returned to her, she froze. Instinctively, Moira knew she was supposed to move forward—go to him for whatever the hell a Truth Touch was supposed to be. But she couldn’t move. Her legs refused to budge, stick-straight and rigid. Mouth dry, throat like sandpaper, she just stood there, leaning back against Severus, the thunder of her heart growing louder the longer the creature watched her.

“It won’t hurt.” Distantly, she heard Severus whispering to her, and still she couldn’t move. Finally, he gave her a little nudge forward. “Moira, go on. I promise it won’t hurt you.”

Stiffly, she shuffled toward Asmodeus—only to gasp and reel back when Diriel started screaming. And not just any old scream either, but a deep, throaty, tortured cry that made the skeletal horses whinny excitedly in the background. One of the black-robed men, Berith, had a hand on Diriel’s forehead, the other pushed against his chest. The demon crumbled under the touch, his eyes shut tight and mouth twisted in terror. As he continued to scream, his back arched in an unnatural arc—any further and his spine would snap.

Horrified, Moira looked to Severus for an answer, for reassurance, but he merely shook his head and mouthed a single word: Go.

“You are neither demon nor hell-born,” Asmodeus stated over the racket. “There will be no pain. Come here.”

Moira snapped into action at the sharpness in his tone; no longer did he sound bored, but noticeably annoyed, which couldn’t bode well for her. Moira crossed the space between them in a few long strides, standing before him a quivering mess.

Yet she didn’t flinch away. Not as he closed in on her. Not when he placed an unexpectedly cold hand on her forehead, the other on her chest, and not when the light came.

It flooded every sense, the light. All she could see was a pure white shine. Her mouth dropped open, and she imagined the glow flooding from every opening—her nose, her ears, her mouth, the seams of her eyelids. Warmth washed over her, as if she’d been submerged in a bubbling hot tub. Warmth and peace. How strange—to find them here, in Hell.

Amidst the light, images flashed before her eyes, too quick to make much sense of, but clear enough that she surmised they were memories.

And then darkness. The light vanished, as did the images, and suddenly she was staggering backward, with Severus there to catch her. He cradled her close this time, both arms wrapped around her tightly, possessively, dragging her away from Asmodeus as she tried to gather her bearings.

“The Nephilim speaks the truth,” Asmodeus announced, the faintest glimmer of amusement twinkling in those unfeeling greys. “And the Lutum?”

It was only then she noticed that Diriel had stopped screaming. He sat on the ground, broken, cowering with his hands over his head as he shuddered. Moira had stopped shaking. In fact, she felt oddly calm about the whole thing. Her gaze darted to Asmodeus. Not an angel, but maybe…a fallen angel?

“He serves an angel by the name of Aeneas,” Berith announced. Like Asmodeus’s, the creature’s white hair curtained his sharp, angular features, his skin translucent and waxy. “Aeneas controls their city’s security office. He serves Heaven, and this traitor serves Aeneas.”

“Aeneas,” Asmodeus said, chuckling, showing humor for the first time since he’d arrived. “Naughty boy, consorting with humans.”

Moira inhaled sharply, no longer calm, as a prickling, deep-seated anxiety skittered across her body. Aeneas. Her dad’s name was Aeneas.

Aeneas. Kind of sounds like…

Onions.

Her knees buckled, and Severus’s grasp tightened, holding her up, her back to his chest—but she couldn’t feel him. Moira couldn’t feel anything. Not the sweat dribbling down her face. Not the uncomfortable tightness of her blood-soaked clothes as she broiled in Hell’s heat. Not her lingering aches from battling hellhounds.

She just heard her mom’s voice. She saw the intensive care unit, all the wires connected to her, the beep, beep, beep of the heart rate monitor.

Twenty-two and onions. Twenty-two everything would change.

“No onions, honey.”

“I know, Mom.”

“Onions…bad.”

“Okay, Mom. Sure.”

“Onions will kill you.”

“Mom, I really don’t like onions that much. You don’t have to worry about it. I pick them out of all your salads, remember?”

Holding her mom’s hand. Fighting back tears. Smiling when Moira just wanted to die inside. Nodding. Laughing. Yes, Mom, I’m sure twenty-two is a big year for everybody. Are you sure you don’t mean twenty-one? No, Mom, no onions. Promise.

She’d said whatever she needed to at the time to soothe her mom—her best friend—waiting on death’s door.

She was trying to say Aeneas.

All the pain medication, all the other medication for whatever the doctor’s theory of the day had dictated—she hadn’t been able to speak well, not at the end. But Moira thought she had been able to understand. She had smiled and nodded, thinking she knew what the woman was saying because this was her mother. She would always understand.

Oh my god.

“For your crimes of serving the enemy and inciting bloodshed without just cause, Diriel Lutum,” Asmodeus crooned, his serpentine voice cutting through her jumbled thoughts, her panicked musings. He was much closer now, hovering over a cowering, whimpering Diriel—and he seemed to delight in it, the sentencing. “You are hereby banished from Hell for one full Earth-bound century. You will be marked, unable to cross through a hell-gate, nor will you be permitted to reside in a city with a hell-gate.”

“Mercy,” Diriel wailed, “please, sire! Mercy!”

“Consider this mercy,” Asmodeus said sharply. He then looked to Moira, his gaze lazily sliding across her to Severus, then to a silent Malachi. “I trust you’ve found the answers you needed.”

“Yes, sire,” Severus insisted. Asmodeus gestured toward the carriage.

“Then consider yourselves free to go.”

Before she knew it, Malachi had grabbed Severus’s arm, and Severus all but lifted her up as they collectively sprinted across the bloody battlefield straight for the carriage—a single entity with six legs, always touching, clinging to one another. As soon as the door slammed shut behind them, the skeletal horses spirited them away.

In the distance, Diriel’s forlorn screams echoed. The horses whinnied. And Moira buried her face in Severus’s chest, sobbing.