Prologue
Meesha Patel had never failed. Not once in her long life. And yet, Dahlia Clark’s spawn was proof of the opposite.
The air of the Fourth Circle swamp was cloying; the humidity caused her leather jacket to stick to her body like a second skin. A coating of moisture had wreaked havoc on her ebony curls. A frizzy texture that hadn’t been seen since she had been sent deep into Mexican rainforest. Meesha had once retrieved a child soldier from the Cartel as a favour to one of the Elite Daemons of London Society.
Meesha wasn’t like Luiz, and for that she was glad. Luiz Ramirez was a sorry excuse for a Hound. He had no ambition. Hounds were above the scum. The corrupted once-human ‘Daemons.’
Meesha may have done ‘favours’ for them, but she was not owned by the sordid London families and their silly hierarchy.
Meesha had been created by Lucifer, in order to serve the First Circle.
Until she fell in love.
A water droplet splattered from an overhanging leaf onto her shoulder and her heeled boots sunk into the sticky mud when she reached the Jade Lake’s edge.
Meesha did not have any other option. The Hound would have a target right between her eyes, once Lucifer had seen what she had done. That was if Lucifer wasn’t wearing someone else’s face already, waiting for her to let her guard down before he struck his fist through her brain stem.
Hellhounds were resilient, but no one could survive being brained by the Devil.
The water was as still as glass, not even a ripple. The rushing influx from the golden river Styx filled the air with a roar of whitewater, but the motion did not disturb the Jade Lake. Meesha would have tapped her foot impatiently, if not for the mud slowly claiming her shoes for its own.
Chewing her bottom lip and looking over her shoulder, Meesha debated the path back to the City of Dis at the centre of Hell. She did not trust the river; Charon was known to be a close friend of the Queen of the First Circle. If Meesha touched the river, then the Ferryman would know and would likely kill her.
Perhaps, Meesha thought, I can find a magical article in Dis to defend myself? She straightened her filthy jacket and decided that was plan B.
The Leviathan was plan A.
The water began to tremble as if summoned by his name on her thoughts. Ringlets formed from the centre as the peaceful atmosphere quickly melted into the tense aura of danger.
The eyeballs of the serpent were the size of footballs. The thin slit of his reptilian pupil reflected Meesha’s face back to her. She forced her expression into something benign when she saw her fear as plain as day on her features. His tongue was long and barbed as it swept from the beast’s lips. He continued to rise to his full height. His scales glinted in the low light, a combination of gold and the Jade colouring of the lake.
“Leviathan King!” She shouted as the sea monster continued to rise onto his legless haunches.
He opened his mouth and a resounding boom shook the moisture from every leaf on the trees lining the water’s edge. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Meesha ignored the sound of his poisonous ebony saliva hitting the water. Meesha opened her mouth to speak again.
The Leviathan folded in on himself, as if the laws of physics were nothing at all. A man stood in the shallow water of the Jade Lake where a beast had been only seconds before. The Leviathan King was a swirling mixture of gold and green, with eyes that couldn’t decide which colour to become. Clothed in armour, not unlike his scales, his grin was stained black with his poisonous bodily fluids. When the King of Envy closed his lips, and swallowed his saliva, his teeth were pristine and pearlescent in human form.
Meesha knew that it was all for show. Envy was poison, or perhaps an infection. Once it wormed it’s way inside of a body and mind, it was impossible to remove without cutting it out like dead flesh.
“Meesha,” He opened his arms as if to hug her. The Hound flinched and stepped back before she could stop her natural reaction.
“Leviathan,” The Hellhound nodded.
“I see that you are taking up my offer of sanctuary.” The Leviathan King was smug.
“I haven’t seen a Devil’s Mark, but I am expecting one any second.” She replied, much more casually than she was feeling inside. A Devil's Mark was a Sigil on the back of someone's neck, marking them for death at the hands of the King of the First Circle. “I did as you asked. I killed the Queen.”
“Lucifer is unaware of your involvement with the death of his Mate.” The King of Envy assured her, but his lips were pulled into a wide grin. His words were not meant to be comforting.
“Consort.” Meesha corrected. “They never Soul Bonded.”
Levi snorted and waved his hand dismissively. “And I see that your petty infatuation with the Queen of the First Circle did not end with her death.”
Meesha ignored his barbed comment but the Leviathan continued. “Anyone would think that you were born of the Fourth Circle, Hound, because you wear my Sin so well.”
“Green is a beautiful colour,” Meesha replied sarcastically.
Levi fluttered his eyelashes and placed his hand on his heart as if he was wounded. “That’s hardly any way to speak to your saviour.”
“We both know that I’ll owe you for this. Stop trying to dress it up as some great favour.”
“The term is boon.” Levi’s eyes sparkled. “You’d think that being around Dahlia would have broadened your language skills.”
Meesha crossed her arms over her chest, “I can always go elsewhere.”
“You won’t make it to the edge of the Fourth Circle without my help.”
“That’s a lie.” Meesha snarled.
Levi shrugged. “Lucifer is not aware of your involvement in his Consort’s death, to my knowledge. All it would take is one message from me, and that could soon change.”
“You basta—”
The Leviathan’s pupils had lengthened as the serpent inside of him awakened beneath his skin. “I did not become the King of Envy by braiding Lucifer’s hair.” He warned in a low voice. “Consider your station before you insult me.”
Meesha thought about shifting into her Hound form and tearing out his throat, but she knew it would take a lot more than that to kill one of the original Seven.
Meesha was a realist, no matter how much she loved to profess the extent of her Hound abilities to others.
Except when it came to her infatuation with Dahlia Clark.
Dahlia had once been an unobtainable and malevolent goddess to Meesha, made weak by her attachment to the Devil. Meesha had been allowed into her bed only once. The Hound had thought all her dreams had come true that day, only to find that she was nothing but a plaything. Someone to laugh at and cast aside.
Now Meesha saw her for what she was, an overpowered bitch who had everything handed to her on a plate.
The pregnancy had been what had pushed Meesha over the edge.
After years of entertaining the idea of Dahlia’s demise in her mind, her plans were suddenly thrown into overdrive.
Dahlia had made an enemy in Meesha Patel, and she had decided that she was not going to stand by and let the Queen of Hell walk all over her.
Meesha had convinced herself deep down in her mind that, one day, Dahlia would wake up and finally see her. Lucifer had been out of the picture, after all. More unbelievable things had happened.
Meesha had never expected to have known what it was to be loved by such a glorious creature, her Queen, if only for a short while. But she had.
She had held onto the tiny possibility of Dahlia waking up to her affections, even after her Queen had rejected her. That hope had died when the Queen fell pregnant. Meesha had been the one she had called, time after time when the darkness had grown too much.
Meesha shook her head to clear it, and Levi rocked back on his heels with a splash. She had forgotten that Purebloods could skim thoughts from the surface of another person’s mind. She must have broadcasted her entire internal monologue.
If she could have blushed, she would have.
“I want information.” The Leviathan scratched his chin. “And when the time comes, I want you to help secure my freedom. I want Ba'el's Sceptre.” The conversation seemed to amuse and bore him in equal measure.
“Ba’el’s sceptre is a myth,” Meesha replied. “The Sceptre can never be found. Ba’el has disappeared. There is no way.”
“I need it,” Levi replied in a low and dangerous voice, but it had taken on layers as if someone else was speaking through him.
Meesha felt a pang of loyalty to the First Circle, but that quickly dispersed like ink in water when she recalled Dahlia’s smug little face upon finding out about the baby inside of her. Meesha felt her knuckles clench and crack by her side. She forced herself to meet the King of Envy’s penetrating gaze.
“You want to destroy the First Circle?” Meesha asked, her calm façade masked the tremble in her voice.
“I want to rule it.” The Leviathan licked his lips and held out his hand for her to take. His fingernails were no longer human, but long hooked talons.
A deal was made.
Uriah watched the young Angel’s wings as they fluttered with unease. He stared at the unusual sight with his arms crossed over his broad and marked chest, unable to help himself.
His choice of partner had been out of his control. His mission was to venture into the Ice Prison on the edge of the Summerland and report back to the Choir.
Uriah Celeste did not know why the Lord had ordained the venture into one of the deadliest places in the entire spectrum of worlds.
“Prison does not make me feel at ease,” Alistair explained with a shiver.
Uriah bit back the twitch of his lips and held himself back from slipping into his signature mocking smirk. “Orders are orders,” Uriah shrugged, “Everyone knows the Ice Prison is empty. Lucifer may be running Hell into the ground, but he's free.”
“Mad as a hatter.” Alistair’s smile was shaky at best.
“But free nonetheless.”
They walked to the edge of Summerland, also known as all manner of other names. Heaven. Valhalla. Aurora.
The air rippled, it’s colour was not unlike oil when it encountered water. A kaleidoscope of colour. Their steps halted as it became difficult to walk when the two Angels approached the rip between the worlds. Uriah grabbed the crushed ingredients from the velveteen pouch on his belt with practised ease.
He flicked the powder made from crushed Seraphim feathers, Summerland soil and Holy Ash over himself and the younger Angel. He muttered a quick spell in Enochian before he watched the rip between worlds bloom like a flower. There was no other way to access the prison without becoming trapped, and the spell was only known by the Seraphim. The Lord's Chosen. The Almighty First Choir.
It was not known how Lucifer had escaped the prison that the Lord had created for him. The Devil was a wily bastard, and it went without saying that there must have been some degree of Trickery involved. Uriah often mused over the puzzle when he had a rare moment to himself, it had an obsession of sorts.
Alistair fiddled with the blade on his belt. The scent of his fear clung to Uriah’s nostrils like a heavy perfume. A better man would have slapped him on the shoulder and told him that everything was going to be fine, but the Commander of the First Choir was not in the business of offering false reassurances. Alistair was a recent addition to the Seraphim, and one that Uriah was not sure deserved to wear the golden wings of the Lord’s Chosen.
“Did the Lord tell you why we had to go to the Ice Prison?” Alistair calmed his voice and squared his shoulders as he faced the glistening rip between worlds.
Uriah continued to flick the powder over his own head until it coated his body like ash. He performed the action in silence, taking comfort in the soothing ritual to ignore the incessant prattling of the Youngling. Uriah stepped into the shimmering abyss without answering the lower Angel's questions.
Uriah did not want to give the young one any ideas of casual friendship. Angel's loyalty belonged to the Summerland.
Their bare feet crunched against the snow as the two winged men stepped onto the frosted bracken at the edge of the forest. Uriah took a deep breath and allowed the cooling sting of the frigid air to wash over him. He ignored the laboured breaths beside him, as Alistair hunched over and clasped at his throat. The change in atmosphere took some getting used to. The air was thicker in the Prison, much like the atmosphere in the Human Realities.
“Damn, Uriah. How do you walk through a portal like that without breaking a sweat?” Alistair shook the remnants of the spell from his hair.
Uriah crooked a brow in response and said nothing.
“I know that Seraphim don’t sweat, but you know what I mean.” Alistair rolled his eyes. “You’re too serious.”
“Praise be to the Summerland and our Lord. I need not laugh when my joy comes from serving my master.” Uriah said, by rote. It was ingrained in his very existence. “Perhaps if you spent more time praying rather than complaining, you’d have the fortitude to stay upright.”
“You’re a proper little Lordy's boy.”
Uriah held his finger to his lips and turned back to the burnt, decaying forest. The tang of death was a thick soup as it surrounded them. Every instinct told him to turn back and leave, but the Commander of the First Choir thrived on those moments. He rested his callused hands on the pommel of his Angelic blade and surveyed the gaps in the trees for an unseen enemy. Alistair shifted from one foot to the other and licked his lips nervously. Uriah saw his leg twitch as the Youngling fought the urge to run.
Uriah reached into his spell pouch and quickly found his most prized possession. A piece of Devil's Silver with an intense spell of Hell Magic attached. When held, it made the bearer almost impossible to kill. It twisted the intentions of any attacker, until they became convinced that their target was so vital to them that they would never consider killing them. Uriah had stolen it from one of the First Circle Purebloods. A trophy from besting a fallen Angel. Uriah Celeste would never admit to using it, but it had saved his hide more times than he would care to admit.
“What’s that sound?” Alistair whispered.
“The Guardian should be here.” Uriah studied the edge of the trees with golden eyes that saw everything. The Commander could not sense the Guardian’s energy, only the malicious intent of the woodland prison and its winter-touched trees. Their branches curled over like hooked fingers, creating a cage from nature.
Uriah reached down to the soil and rubbed a leaf between his fingers. He sniffed it once.
“No blood. No struggle.” The Angel said simply as Alistair began to fidget. Uriah ignored him; the younger Angel’s presence had quickly become more annoying than helpful.
It was difficult for Uriah to focus, even with exceptional hearing, when Alistair continued to flick his wings in ill-disguised fear.
“There’s someone here.” The Youngling whispered.
Uriah cocked his head to the side. The Enochian rune etched into his left pectoral glowed a cyan blue to signal the presence of a Demon. He scratched the raised skin absently.
“What does that mean?” The coward hissed.
“Hellion,” Uriah answered simply. Without further production, the Commander walked to the edge of the forest and did not wait for Alistair to join him. As soon as their feet reached the untouched path, the tree branches creaked and buckled to swallow their potential escape. Uriah Celeste had patrolled the Prison before and he knew the way it thought and moved. Alistair would have pissed his pants if he had a bladder.
If Uriah did not know any better, he would have thought that it was Alistair’s first mission for the Lord. Although, even the hardened Commander could attest to the Prison’s ability to bring fear out in even the strongest of the Angelic.
Uriah had been around for its conception. He did not fear it because he understood it. He had seen the Fall and what Lucifer had done. He understood the need for the prison’s creation.
The trees shifted as if uncomfortable with their Angelic presence. The Prison was used to mal-intent, and it appeared to be unable to stomach the presence of Divinity.
“Who's wandered into your web?” Uriah mused out loud. “Why has the Guardian left his post?”
Even when Lucifer had roamed the Prison, trapped and alone, the Guardian had always remained in the shadows, blocking the portal back to the Summerland.
The further into the forest, then the thicker the scent of blood became. It was a curious mixture of smells. Hell Magic. Angelic Magic. The scent of a Devil's Silver wound was prevalent. Uriah recognised it. The burning fragrance of cauterised flesh. The snow crunched under their feet, but the Angels could not feel the cold. The pristine white snow was marred with imperfect brush strokes of crimson red.
Her lips were parted. Her breath was too cold to fog in the air. Her eyelids were weighed down with frozen water droplets.
Uriah recognised her immediately.
It was the Queen of the First Circle. He had made a deal with her in exchange for a Lydian Coin so that he could save—
She had been pregnant then.
Everyone knew the Queen was dead. How had she come to be inside of the Ice Prison?
Her stomach was flat but her chest was open with a fierce slash. Blood stained her thighs. Her hair was as pure as virgin snow, and the comparison was jarring as she laid in the red sludge of her own blood and ice.
The sight of her mutilated body was not the most shocking thing about the scene.
It was the presence of the Guardian of the Ice Prison. The enormous white snow dog laid by her side, protecting her. Daring the Angels to come closer with his fierce bared teeth against his black gums.
Even Uriah feared the Guardian.
Why had the beast decided to protect her?
The Queen's body was not healing and Uriah was certain that it was a side effect of the Prison. Time moved differently and physics of the dimension were unpredictable at best.
Uriah lowered himself to the ground. The tips of his golden wings swept against the bloodied ice and created two grooves in the snow. He kept his gaze on the glowing red eyes of the Guardian. As the Commander knelt, he placed the smooth amulet made of Devil's Silver onto the stained snow. He heard the crunch of the ground behind him as Alistair bent his knee and showed fealty to the sizeable white Hound as well.
The Guardian’s red tipped ears flicked as his regal gaze surveyed both members of the First Choir. His expression held the kind of slow and smooth weight that came from eternity. Uriah had been told that his own appearance had the same disconcerting quality, and being confronted with it made him understand the gravitas of immortality.
Uriah could only have compared it to being judged and found wanting.
“What are you doing with the Queen of the First Circle?” Uriah asked, keeping his voice even and free from any malice.
The white dog tilted his head but his gaze remained constant.
“He's probably guarding his kill,” Alistair hissed, “We should get out of here.” He jabbed a finger over his shoulder to illustrate his point.
The Guardian flickered his attention to the young Angel for just a second and disregarded him just as quickly.
Uriah smoothed a throaty chuckle. “Yes. The young ones are rather foolish, are they not?” the Commander agreed with the dog.
The woman's chest heaved and stuttered, struggling against an unseen weight. Her eyelids fluttered as if she was trapped in a dream. The Guardian's stance widened, his massive paws stretched as he planted himself firmly in front of the Queen of Hell's prone form.
“She does not belong here?” Uriah guessed.
“Who is that?” Alistair craned his neck to try and see around the Guardian’s bulky frame. Uriah felt the shift in the entire situation when the Youngling recognised her.
Alistair's nostrils flared, and his entire body became as taut as a bow. “Is that who I think it is?”
“Alistair, don’t.” Uriah held his hand up to stop the younger Angel, careful to not move too much.
It was too late. Drawing his blade, the novice flung himself forward with all the grace of a barely stable fawn. Alistair raised the Angelic weapon over his head. Determined to hurt the Devil's Bride.
Uriah closed his eyes and shook his head at the foolish Angel. He heard the wet and meaty sound of Alistair's throat as it was torn out. The sound of bones being crunched and eaten.
“Would you allow me to take the woman back to the Summerland?” Uriah asked the Guardian as the Hound licked the blood of Uriah's fallen comrade from his paw.
His answer was a slow nod as the blood of the young Angel dripped from his black lips.
The gateway to the Ice Prison was a stone's throw from the Fae Domain on the outskirts of the Summerland. Unfortunately for the three of travellers, the Fae did not take too kindly to Hellions even if their troop barely skimmed the edge of the Fae lands.
Tir na nÓg hovered on the edge of the Summerland, barely a wisp of presence to the dimension. Its existence was comparable to gossamer and unlike any of the other dimensions that Uriah had visited.
The only time Uriah had ventured into the cavernous wound of the Hell Dimension; he had likened it to chaos and leather. Mainly because of the smell of flayed human skin, and the dank scent of ash that covered Purgatory like a blanket.
The Angel carried the woman in his arms like a China doll.
It was difficult to make out her features under her veil of old and congealed blood.
She had suffered a wound to the stomach, as she had been cut from neck to nape. Her nostrils were rimmed with blood, which implied magic related trauma. Uriah had seen such wounds before.
Dahlia Clark.
It was hard to believe that the platinum-haired waif in his grip was the Queen Bitch of Hell. Uriah remembered her cold disdain, strong enough to rival his own, broken only by her desire to broker a deal for one of his feathers.
That was what the Queen excelled at. Deals for the Devil.
Uriah stood straight when he realised his part in her appearance in the Ice Prison. His feather had put her there.
It was strange that someone would have time to prepare for their death, let alone be able to prevent it. Perhaps it was suicide?
Her legs swung as they walked the path back to the Summerland. Uriah felt a prickle on the back of his neck that told him that their group was being watched.
The eerie sound of wind chimes teased the air, and the Angel sighed in annoyance. He had deliberately stayed on the Northern Path to prevent the Fae guards from picking up on their presence.
Ordinarily, the guards would not have bothered with him, but if they had sensed the Queen's Hell Magic then all bets were off.
“Lonely mercenary. The road to the Lord is longer this way.” One of the guards grinned, appearing out of thin air like smoke from a chimney.
“But more scenic,” Uriah grunted as he shifted the woman to his left side. The Commander gripped the pommel of his Angelic blade and eyed the guard with the coldest expression he could muster.
“I can smell a Demon.” The Fae male grinned, each of his teeth was needle sharp.
“You’d do best not to question one of the Lord's chosen, Hobgoblin.” Uriah felt the warmth of anger as his eyes to flashed a deeper gold.
“So uptight.” The Fae clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. His eyes drifted past Uriah's jaw until it rested on the corpse-like body in his arms. Quickly dismissing the woman as carrion, the guard took a step back when he saw the guardian.
“You broke the beast from his cage?” The Fae spat, brandishing his finger like a club, fear washed over his eyes until it poisoned his expression. “How dare you unleash the Archangel!”
Uriah rolled his eyes. If the Fae spoke of The Beast, aka Lucifer, then the guard had clearly been watching their group since they had sprung from the portal at the border. It was a fair assumption based on their exit from the Ice Prison, but incorrect.
The guardian's lips pulled back to reveal his own impressive teeth and Uriah turned away, content to leave the death of the Fae to his imagination.
“Get that beast away from me!” he screamed, as the Hound darted in front of Uriah, protecting them both. The Angel walked away without argument. The shrill screams of the Fae guard punched through the air and ricocheted off the empty landscape.
Uriah looked down to the peaceful face of the woman in his arms and traced her rosebud lips. He knew her eyes to be the tarnished grey colour of Devil's silver.
What had happened to her?
No creature could survive the Ice Prison. Only the Angelic. The divine. The First Choir of the Lord's Chosen.
As Uriah and the Guard crossed the border of the Summerland, the Queen of Hell did not stir.