Lost in Prophecy: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Ascension Series) (Volume 5)
Read Lost in Prophecy: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Ascension Series) (Volume 5) Online
Authors: S M Reine
Lost in Prophecy
The Ascension Series - Book Five
SM Reine
Copyright © 2014 Red Iris Books
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This book is sold DRM-free so that it can be enjoyed in any way the reader sees fit. Please keep all links and attributions intact when sharing. All rights reserved.
Text and cover art copyright © SM Reine 2014
Published by Red Iris Books
1180 Selmi Drive, Suite 102
Reno, NV 89512
THE ASCENSION SERIES
Reading Order:
Sacrificed in Shadow
Oaths of Blood
Ruled by Steel
Caged in Bone
Lost in Prophecy
Torn by Fury (
Summer 2014
)
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About Lost in Prophecy
Elise Kavanagh is too busy liberating slaves in the City of Dis to worry about what’s happening on Earth. She hasn’t even noticed that more than three thousand people have gone missing—not until an anonymous client hires her organization, The Hunting Club, to rescue them. The man asking for help doesn’t seem to exist. But the trail of clues is too strange to ignore, and she finds herself caught in the investigation.
Werewolf Alpha Rylie Gresham is absorbed in troubles of her own. The pack is disobeying her, and the cult camped out in Northgate seems to be the source of the problem. Her mate, Abel, has resolved to fix it one way or another—even if it means going over Rylie’s head.
Through secrets, lies, and assassination attempts, Elise and Rylie find that they have a new enemy in common. And what it takes to prevail might mean shattering the universe…
THE CHILD WAS
playing outside when Heaven began to fall.
Marion was sitting in a meadow lush with ice melt. It had been an unusually warm winter, and the foothills were flooding; the fresh growth was taller than her nearly four-year-old body, sheltering her in slender, swaying grass and wildflowers. She smiled widely at a dandelion gone to seed. The wind tugged white puffs away from the flower and sent them drifting into the sky.
She tracked the seeds’ ascent toward the clouds. The gray sky was beginning to churn. Pale blue light, the same color as Marion’s eyes, flashed in the depths of a silent storm.
Even Marion knew that this could only mean trouble. Soon Maman would call her inside. Soon it would be time for Maman and Marion to run again.
But Marion wasn’t ready for playtime to end.
She got up, swatting clumps of dirt off of her skirt. She was wearing bloomers that made her dress stick out. Everything was lacy and ruffled and satin-pink. Her wild brown curls had started the day in braids, but now hung clumped around her shoulders with spring blossoms dotting the tangles.
Marion glanced over her shoulder at the silent, lonely cabin hiding in the shadows under the trees. Maman hadn’t noticed the sky changing yet, but she would soon.
So the girl ran.
She leaped through the grass and ducked into another copse of trees where she wouldn’t be seen. Caterpillars inched down damp tree bark. Dew-damp spider webs hung, suspended, between the branches. Some of the dandelion seeds had been caught.
Beyond the canopy, the sky was flashing harder, faster. Marion grabbed a low branch and braced her foot against the trunk, careful not to smash any caterpillars. She kicked and dragged herself into the tree to watch.
Clouds fell in clumps to bare a jagged white slice across the gray sky. Ash swirled from the gash like snow, and she caught it in her palm.
Marion smelled it. Stuck out her tongue for a taste.
Funny. It sort of tasted like apple juice.
She slithered out of the branches as the wind blew harder, gusting ash and cloud debris over the mountains. She still didn’t return to the quiet cabin. She emerged from the copse on the opposite side of the trees, racing into the last moments of sunlight with her arms wide open.
A shadow passed over her.
The child stopped and looked up at the newcomer, who was not her mother, as she had expected. Her smile faded, and she hooked a finger in the corner of her mouth, dragging her lip down to bare square white teeth.
“Hello, Marion,” said the man.
She had never met him before. She felt shy. Marion’s head dropped, and she wiggled her big toe into the damp soil.
“
Bonjour
,” the girl said. She didn’t speak English.
He didn’t seem troubled by the language barrier. “You know who I am, don’t you?”
She nodded. Marion understood what he was saying.
He extended a hand toward her. His skin was warm brown, and he wore a thick iron bracelet around his wrist. “Are you ready to come with me, Marion?”
She looked at his hand. She looked at his face. It was the first time that they had met. His features were unrecognizable. But she saw beyond his eyes to what hid within, and what was on his insides was as familiar to her as the sunshine. He was like a puppet. His coarse black hair, round features, and honest brown eyes were only a decoy concealing the hand of the puppeteer within.
Marion had been seeing him in her dreams for weeks.
“
Ouais
,” she said. “
Je suis prête.
”
When he smiled, it crinkled the corners of his eyes pleasantly. For a moment she thought his irises were the same color as hers. But that soon faded. She rested her hand in his, and his fingers curled around hers.
They disappeared as Marion’s mother began calling her name.
FOUR MONTHS LATER.
“Lock the gates!”
The cry rose from the opposite shore of the Amniosium, carried on humid air to Cornelius’s ears. He sought out the source of the shouting and spotted Rowland, a skeletal nightmare draped in linen and bones, waving his arms wildly over his head.
“What?” Cornelius shouted back at him. They had more than a quarter mile of roiling fluid between them. A bubble swelled and popped. Black steam momentarily obscured their view of one another.
“
Lock the damn gates
!”
The only part Cornelius understood was “gates,” but that was all he needed. That, and the panic in Rowland’s twisted face.
He scrambled up the face of the rotten hillside. The Amniosium was nestled in a decaying pit at the literal heart of Malebolge, and Cornelius had to dig his hands into the fatty tissue to get enough traction to pull himself out.
It was a painfully difficult climb to the top, where the gates stood unguarded. Cornelius wheezed as he struggled higher.
Nightmares had been dying and rebirthing in the Amniosium in record numbers, so Cornelius had left the gates open to accommodate the sometimes dozens of newly born demons wafting from the pits daily. The safest place in Hell was that pit within Malebolge’s chest cavity, since few outsiders seldom had cause or courage to venture there. In all of Cornelius’s centuries as birth attendant, he had never dealt with an attack, or even the threat of one. It seemed silly to secure the gates.
Yet Rowland was not a paranoid creature. He was the very spirit of the fear of falling, the fear of tumbling and striking the earth and having one’s bones pulverized by the sudden stop. He, like all nightmares, reveled in terror.
If Rowland was truly afraid, there was reason to fear.
Cornelius lifted himself onto the breastbone. A spiked barrier rimmed the chest’s borehole and jutted toward the roof of the cavern containing the city. Beyond the spikes, the cracked and spread ribs of Malebolge formed a series of arches sheltering the mass of the city. The buildings below looked like oozing warts grown from the meat of the cadaver.
Today, those warts were seething. They were twenty, thirty, fifty stories high in places, and they were covered in activity. Demons poured from the windows and scrambled down toward the streets of bone.
Those crowds were climbing, ultimately, toward the borehole.
Close the gates, indeed.
Cornelius seized the open gate and heaved with all his strength, teeth gritted, bones creaking. The metal was heavy but not beyond his ability to lift. Unfortunately, something white and hard had grown around the gate since he opened it, ossifying into a solid mass.
It wouldn’t budge.
The masses were approaching, scrambling up the ribs. Shouts filled the fetid air of Malebolge.
Cornelius took several steps back, whipped the hatchet off his belt. “Damnation above and below!” He hated to injure Malebolge. He always felt like the damn cadaver that formed the city might sit up and slap him down.
He hacked and sawed at the gate. Bone chipped away. When he began to cut into the flesh, the ground underneath him groaned, rolled, trembled.
But the gate was free. It wobbled where it had held firm moments earlier.
He tossed the hatchet aside, braced both hands against the metal, and shoved.
The leading edge of demons crested the hill carrying cudgels and blades. They were screaming obscenities in
vo-ani
, the infernal tongue. Cornelius heard enough to know that they were shrieking of an attack.
Not just any attack, but an invasion from a higher level.
An army had, apparently, descended from the City of Dis.
The residents of Malebolge had feared such a movement ever since the coup in Dis resulted in a new administration in the Palace. A powerful demon had risen from seemingly nowhere to seize control, and her radical ideas rankled at every demon’s sense of tradition, honor, and chaos.
Unfortunately, she also seemed wily enough to avoid a well-deserved ousting. She had been occupying the Palace for more than half a human year now. Worse, she had the strength to force some of the most ancient Houses to bow to her unconscionable demands.
Once the Father had taken Dis, it had been a matter of when she would attempt to force Malebolge to kiss her feet—not if.
Tension had been rising for months. There had been threats from small insurgent groups and requests for protection sent to Coccytus. None of the nobility had risen to take charge of Malebolge’s security. Even The Dark Man had only moved to secure his home, closing it to all travelers.
Now the brewing fear had given way to this.
The Father had arrived, and Malebolge was rioting.
The gate screeched as Cornelius shoved it. It was more than five meters wide and stiff with age; even with strength unbound by the limitations of muscles, he struggled to close it.
Demons pounded toward him, feet squishing in the rot over the breastbone.
He forced the gate into place. Cornelius fumbled with the lock, dropped it, and then clicked it shut. Ancient warlock wards blossomed around him with a crimson glow, fortifying the iron fence encircling the borehole.
The rioters slammed into the other side. Flesh sizzled. They shrieked at the contact.
“Get away!” Cornelius roared, brandishing the hatchet. “Do you hear me? I will sever the fingers of those stupid enough to reach for me!”
A megaira gripped the gate in both of her hands. It must have burned her—he could smell cooking meat and the serpents dangling from her skull thrashed—but her eyes were crazed. She didn’t care. “If you shelter the invaders, we will starve you and shove the unforgiving light of day right up your ass!”
“I shelter none but the young of Malebolge.” The Amniosium was the only place where nightmares could incubate; they had no breeding alternatives. He and Rowland were their sole protectors.
“But the army is within!”
“I have seen no such army.” Cornelius waved his arms. “Go, run! Find somewhere else to vent your furies!”
The megaira’s hiss was lost underneath the shouts of the other demons surrounding her. They were a thrashing mass of limbs. Weapons slammed into the iron bars. Even as the wards burned them, they struggled to break through.
His entire body hummed with sweet fear as he slipped toward the borehole again, riding high on the mob’s panic. The taste of a demon was not as satisfying as that of a human, but mortals were rare in Malebolge; he enjoyed his thrills where he could get them.