Dan howled. His feet drummed the stone, and his arms thrashed. Emily gasped with dismay. She yanked the arrow from his chest. There was very little blood. Why was there so little blood?
“Please don’t hurt me anymore,” he said, writhing, his eyes squeezed shut.
Emily buried her fists in her hair. What was she going to do? She couldn’t leave him like this. He was in agony.
On her knees beside him, she wiped his cheeks clean of dirt and spittle. Tears streamed down her face. “You are my dear friend,” she said, her voice choked. “I will always remember the times we had. Thank you for sharing your life with me. Goodbye.” Emily took out her knife and sliced his throat from ear to ear.
Dan’s eyes flew open. His cry became a garbled hiss.
“Forgive me,” Emily sobbed, cutting deeper. Her hand slipped into the flap of his neck.
Dan thrashed, eyes rolling, fists pounding the ground. His mouth stretched in a soundless scream. Emily sat back in alarm. She looked at her blood-encrusted hands.
As if from a dream, she heard Chastity’s words—be it three hundred years or three thousand,
you don’t die.
Emily leapt to her feet, staring at Dan, horrified. What had she done? Her stomach twisted, and she gagged. With trembling fingers, she retrieved her arrows from the dead hellhounds, and then she ran as fast as she could.
She felt dirty and cowardly, helpless and lost. But more than that, she felt deep regret and pity for her friend. Dan didn’t deserve what had happened to him.
None of these people did.
Growls and yelps spun Emily about. She saw two dogs, but they weren’t after her.
They’d found Dan. They pounced and romped as if playing a game. Dan’s partially severed head came loose, rolling beneath them as they cavorted. Emily was certain he felt every bounce.
Weeping, she walked away.
THIRTY-ONE
The sky darkened, and the orange haze turned gray. Emily stumbled over the cracked, steaming plain, feeling as if she’d walked for days. Fatigue and despair sapped her strength. She slipped a sliver of gator jerky into her cheek and let it sit there to soften. She felt so hungry she thought she could eat a hellhound.
Her ears perked at distant voices. Crouched, bow in hand, Emily hurried toward the sound. A caravan of perhaps twenty people stretched across her path. They walked in single file, each clinging to the person in front. Their cries of anguish carried on the wind.
Two dogs walked among them. The beasts growled threateningly, but did not attack. They were herding them, Emily realized.
At the end of the line was a demon. Emily sucked in her breath, lowering to one knee. He was the first demon she’d seen since arriving in hell. He was smaller than expected—not much more than four feet tall. He capered about, sticking people with a two-pronged pitchfork. He looked cartoonish and cliché, from his triangular face to his cloven feet, reminding her of something her boss once said—myth is often rooted in truth.
The mournful wind picked up, gusting in whirls and eddies, abrasive with sand and shards of rock. Emily tugged her hood lower over her face. She squinted at the distant haze. The horizon appeared to move nearer.
An inarticulate cry rose from the people. They raised their arms to the sky as if in supplication, weeping and huddling together in spite of the hellhounds snapping at their heels.
Emily felt a squirm of unease. She glanced again at the horizon. It appeared closer still.
Something was coming.
The demon monster sat on his haunches. After a moment, the dogs quit pacing and sat on either side of him. He put his hand on one. As if they were pets, for God’s sake. As if this were a pleasant Sunday outing. Emily’s gut churned with hatred and rage.
A curtain of gray snow emerged from the roiling haze. The flakes fluttered. The storm hit the caravan before it reached Emily. Contorting and crying, the people covered their heads with their arms. They grouped together in twos and threes, trying to shelter themselves.
Snow spun toward Emily. She hunkered deep in her coat. Large flakes landed on her sleeves. They sizzled and dissolved into wisps of smoke. Acid ash. Chastity warned her of it. She said great clouds of ash rose from the lakes of fire to scour the land.
Emily looked at the naked people. The demon and his two dogs sat together out of the way of their stomping and gyrations. He seemed content to wait out the flurry of ash.
His passivity infuriated her. Had this creature seen her daughter? Had he touched her? Had he watched with his bland expression while her little girl was tortured? It didn’t matter whether he had or not—she held them all responsible. They were the scourge of the human race.
She decided to kill him.
Slowly, she took out an arrow. A voice in the back of her head raged. The demon appeared impervious to acid. Perhaps his skin was too thick for her arrow to pierce. In that case, she would beat him to death with his own pitchfork.
On one knee, Emily took aim. The loosed arrow buried itself in the demon’s torso. He toppled backward. Whining, the hellhounds jumped up. One sniffed the wound as if concerned about its master.
The other looked straight at Emily. It ran at her with such speed, her heart leapt.
“Don’t panic,” she whispered, notching her arrow. “Plenty of time.”
But then the second dog took off running, kicking up great swirls of fallen ash. Its tongue lolled from between its fangs as it strove to catch its mate.
Emily targeted the nearer animal. The arrow struck its chest. The hound yelped, but it kept coming. She shot again, this time hitting its face. It fell, skidding over the ash-shrouded rock.
Its mate leapt over it, bounding so high into the air, Emily thought it meant to fly to her. She put two arrows into its underside, and the beast fell dead, rolling end-over-end to within feet of her.
Heart racing, Emily stared at the hound. Froth flecked its scaly face. Streaks of gray dust marked its pelt. Stepping forward, she yanked her arrows from its ribcage.
“That was too close.”
The caravan of people didn’t notice that their tormentors were gone. Some danced about as if on hot coals, trying to beat the powdery acid from their bodies. Others fell to the ground, succumbing to the stinging flakes. The storm increased, and the heavy fall of ash obscured them.
Knife in hand, Emily knelt over the dead hellhound. She hesitated. She hadn’t skinned an animal since her teens when she spent summers on her grandfather’s farm—and never anything so large. Plunging her knife into the beast’s gut, she cut toward the neck. Ash hissed upon the dog’s moist flesh. She gasped in revulsion, rolling the fur as she worked, revealing thick cords of purple and black muscle. She was making a mess, but it was more important to be quick.
She sheathed her knife with difficulty. The shooting glove had protected her right hand, but her left hand, exposed by the armguard, ran with open sores.
Hampered by the weight, Emily lifted the skin. She heaved the hide to where the other dog lay. The animal’s snake-like tail coiled and slapped the ground. She sliced it off and tossed it aside. Black blood spurted.
She jerked an arrow from its chest and pulled another from its head. By the time she finished skinning the beast, her burnt hand was numb. With hides over either arm, she staggered toward the caravan. The skins dragged behind, throwing her off-balance.
“Here,” Emily called to the people. “Get under.”
No response.
She stumbled, and her hood shifted, exposing her face. Searing pain enveloped her cheeks. She went back for the dog’s severed tail, still twitching on the ground, and used it to tie her hood closed.
Shouldering the skins, she shouted, “Help me with these!”
Only one man rushed toward her. Emily handed him a skin. She draped the other over a group of people kneeling together. Scant shelter, but at least their heads were covered.
A wild cry rose around her. Those without a hellhound hide fell upon the others. They clawed and kicked, grabbing the fur for themselves.
“Wait! Stop that.”
A hard shove nearly knocked her off her feet. People swarmed around her, their eyes frantic, mouths gaping. Hands snatched her arms, her neckline.
They wanted her coat!
Emily tried to run. Her hood ripped back, and her coat slid down one shoulder. Her bow fell away.
Dear God, her bow!
She elbowed a person and strong-armed another, but there were too many. She fell beneath them. Something sharp pierced her leg.
The demon’s pitchfork.
Emily grabbed it. She butt-ended one woman and struck another. The others ran off, the hellhound skin flapping above them.
Emily picked up her bow. The sinew backing along its belly was scuffed, but intact. She shook it at the receding mob. “Is everyone here insane?”
“I am not.”
Emily spun toward the voice. It was the man with the first hide. He clutched it around him. His gray-coated face showed blisters and welts, but his eyes were not crazed. With her bow across her shoulders, Emily straightened her coat. She watched him, not certain what he would do. After a moment, she picked up the hound tail and tossed it to his feet. “That would make a good belt.”
He nodded, tying it around his waist to hold the animal skin in place.
Emily nursed a sore lip with her tongue. She brushed dust from her pant legs and found a puncture in the leather. The subsequent wound on her leg hurt, but there was no blood.
The man watched in silence. It was then she noticed the snow had stopped.
She walked toward the fallen demon and examined him from a distance. His eyes were open. They reminded her of cat eyes. His lipless mouth showed needle-sharp teeth. Two knobs protruded from his forehead like small horns, with a mark that looked like an hourglass between them.
Was he dead or feigning? Reaching with the fork, she prodded him. The demon didn’t move. He was dead.
She should have captured and interrogated him. He might have told her how to get to the castle. Then again, he might have lied.
In any case, she was relieved that she could kill a demon as easily as a hellhound. But as she pulled the arrow from his body, she realized it was a lucky shot. The demon had an exoskeleton: two hard plates wrapped over his shoulders onto his chest, and another girded his mid-section. Somehow, her arrow slipped in between.
The man stepped nearer.
Emily faced him, holding the arrow like a dagger, ready to defend herself. He did not attack. He appeared to be in awe.
“They can die,” she said, motioning at the demon. “You don’t have to suffer. You can make an ax or a club out of stone and fight back.”
“I wish to follow you. I will do your bidding.”
Emily stared. Follow her? She wasn’t a leader. She was in this as thick as he was. “All I want from you is directions. I have to get to the castle.”
“The castle? By all that is holy. Are you daft?”
His response reminded her so much of Chastity’s, her hackles rose. Chastity had been reluctant to help, too. Well, damn them both. She didn’t need their blessings. She tossed the pitchfork to him and turned to leave. “Fine. I’m going.”
“Wait.” He hesitated, then hurried to her side. “See the redness there?”
Emily looked where he pointed and saw a faint blush on the horizon.
“A lake of fire,” he said, “stretching farther than the eye can perceive. You will see the castle from its banks.”
She gasped. “Are you saying the castle is in the lake?”
“Beyond. On the other side.”
“Thank you,” she said, nodding. “In return, let me give you a last bit of information. You know the tunnels you see in the sky? They can take you home. Find a way to get inside.”
“You can make me live again?”
“Not me. You have to do that yourself.”
THIRTY-TWO
Joey Mastrianni stubbed out his cigarette on the bedside nightstand and flicked the butt onto the threadbare carpet. He rubbed his gritty neck. He was running out of time. If he didn’t find the bitch soon, they would come for him—and for all his posturing, he didn’t want to go back.
Joey crossed the room and gazed outside. The nights were growing colder. He was glad he found the abandoned motel. It was fully furnished. Probably the owner had a heart attack when the main road took another route. The room he chose stank of mold and rat turds, but he didn’t care. He didn’t mind sharing his bed.
The thought brought an image of Vanessa. What a hag she’d become. Still, he was almost sorry for what he did. He shook his head. She bought him a reprieve. That’s what mattered. He wouldn’t end his life with her. Not if he could locate Chastity Williams.
The doorknob rattled. Joey turned toward it, breathing the word, “No.”
On the wall, a glimmer became a vertical pool, a mirror shining in darkness. A smudge of red swirled inside.
“No!”
He backed away, stumbling over the nightstand. The lamp toppled and smashed. The metal door rattled so loudly, Joey thought it would burst open. He had a fleeting glimpse of himself rushing to freedom—but there was no freedom.
A trace of brimstone circled the musty room as the devil’s face appeared. The big guy.
Joey trembled. He fought to keep his voice steady. “You got to give me more time. I’m close. Real close.”
The devil grinned, and Joey’s throat burned with rising vomit.
“Come,” said the devil.
“Wait!” Joey cried. “You’re making a mistake. I can find her.”
Hands grabbed him from behind, and he fought them out of reflex. He caught a whiff of urine and realized he’d pissed himself. Damn, he thought, that’s going to burn.
His feet left the floor. Joey closed his eyes and clamped his jaws against the screams battling inside him. He felt he was falling backward into a furnace. The piss boiled off his pants, scalding his groin—then his pants flamed and turned to ash. His newly re-grown hair singed and smoked, blistering his calloused skin. He arched his back, enveloped in pain as his balls crisped and his body cooked.