Chapter 31
Manic fear bubbled up and erupted through me like an acidic plague.
Luther was out cold, possibly dead, leaving me bereft and alone.
Alone as I’d always been, but now it weighed so much more.
Alone and vulnerable where anyone could hurt me, kill me—and that’s exactly what they wanted.
It was such a horrible, powerless thought that panic surged as a whooping gasp in my chest that shattered into a deflated sob.
I was nothing more than a victim sprawled on the ground. Primitive, animal alarm assaulted me, and I tried to force my shuddering cries down. I was so, so frightened in the face of ruthless, absolute ruin.
Half-delirious, I swore I could feel my sanity cracking under the weight of my impending doom.
With my eyes glued to Luther’s immobile form, I was drifting in agony when a clawed hand wrapped around my arm and dragged me roughly to my feet.
My weakened knees nearly collapsed, and the demon’s feathery body acted as my only leverage.
Its embrace sent revulsion through my tangled intestines.
The stolas hauled me closer to the fire, and energy rushed through me.
I kicked my feet to find purchase on the ground and thrashed against the assailant.
Determined and hellishly strong, the stolas snapped the ropes holding my wrists.
But when I tried to shake loose, the overgrown bird held my arms wide.
“Please, no!” I gasped, throat thick with sobs. I cursed and kicked and cried out but remained trapped as Timothy’s demon-owl form neared with the dagger. “Please don’t hurt me… don’t-don’t do this…”
He glared, with distaste and triumph in his eyes.
“… please…”
“Keep struggling,” he crooned. “It’s part of the fun.”
My stomach lurched.
A stinging pain sliced across my arm. “Ah—fuck!”
Timothy lifted the dagger to the light, moving in an exaggerated ceremonial manner.
I watched in horror as heavy, fresh droplets of my blood coated the blade like liquid rubies.
The fresh cut on my arm stung, and blood trickled from my forearm to my wrist, pooling in the feathered talons of the monster holding me in place.
“Witness how the traitor’s blood rouses our master!” He flicked the blade toward the fire. My blood sizzled in the hungry flames, as if proving them right with their fanatical worship. As if it had really been my blood all along that would awaken a monster. It was sickening to watch—awful.
I hated being part of something so gruesome.
My breaths slammed in and out of my lungs, and I grew steadily dizzy from the smoke and the heat and the sight of blood. Instinct implored me to writhe, to pull away, but I was laughably pathetic against the power of a demon.
A whooshing blast rushed louder than the pulse in my ears.
I unwittingly held my breath during a split-second of asphyxiating silence.
Then the vortex of orange, crimson, and gold blazed in the pit—swelling and falling, breathing as if a living creature.
Smoke and shadows in the inferno rushed and surged together in distorted shapes, suggesting something revolting writhing beneath the surface of the fire.
The stolas bearing witness to their unholy miracle hooted and hissed, exalting the emerging conflagration of their god.
Energy unlike anything I’d ever experienced before crackled through the cavern, zapping like lightning kissing my skin.
The force of that cursed power made my blood boil and bubble in my veins.
“HE. IS. COMING!” Timothy bellowed, winged arms spread wide and chest heaving. He was ready to cut a door open in our reality and let untold horrors spill forth. And he would welcome it all with a smile.
“Moloch! Moloch! Moloch!” the apostles chanted in a chilling, hair-raising staccato.
Timothy whirled back around, long feathers swaying like the sleeves of a robe. The pure evil gleam in his eye breathed life into my panic, preventing the static fear in my blood from retreating. His own breathing was ragged and fast as his giddy excitement swelled.
With his cruel elation, the blade rose higher.
This time, intending to strike home—to strike with finality. Asphyxiating terror clawed at my throat. I struggled against the stolas trapping me, but their grip held tighter than iron bands. A scream leapt from the depths of my chest, ready to belt out.
Then the world tilted on its axis.
Abrupt, stumbling movement in my periphery interrupted the flow of the ritual.
My eyes snapped wider in time to see Luther wrenching himself from his rigid stupor. In a clean motion, he rolled onto his back and swung his legs out. He kicked at Timothy’s talons, sweeping him off balance.
The stolas stumbled, and Luther followed its momentum. He leapt to his feet, appearing wild-eyed and frantic. Cold and collected, he jammed an elbow backward and sent another stolas completely off kilter.
Somehow the rope on his wrists had slithered free. Though it shouldn’t have surprised me he managed to get loose. Before I could question it, he charged his fists, punching them as if shaking out the tension, before bringing them up, knuckles white and eyes blazing with profound resolve.
An ounce of the dread choking me lifted, and I gasped in a lungful of air.
The cavern erupted into a volatile throng of chaos.
Jeniffer shrieked in agitation. The stolas gripping me snarled, itching to fight, but tightened its hold.
Stolas fractured from their ritual circle and spilled forth to defend their monstrous rite.
A barrage of feathers and talons assembling to kill a threat.
The stolas mobilized, rushing on the offensive against Luther. All while above the fire, a massive shape converged. Smears of smoke at first, then blurred limbs, shifting feathers, an open, baying and howling beak.
The heat worsened, intensifying into a smoky pressure that seared my skin.
My heart thundered in my ears, and sweat dripped down my face.
Luther moved like a man possessed with animal rage, provoking images of a dark knight coming to the rescue.
I watched with stunned fascination.
Timothy swiveled to retaliate the initial strike. Luther lunged, preparing to battle with nothing more than his fists and sheer determination. They tussled, moving in a blur my fuzzy mind failed to untangle.
The stolas had jerky, arching movements full of aggression and instinct.
Luther reciprocated with punishing, sharp strikes.
They were nearly evenly matched as Timothy had Luther’s weapon, plus his inherited monstrous features.
If Luther wasn’t so sure-footed and swift, he wouldn’t be able to keep up.
I was hardly aware of anything anymore. Part of me wanted to melt and cry and dissolve into a pitiful mess.
The other part, a new voice ringing in my ears, demanded that I shake off the fear and wrap myself in courage.
That second, quitter voice grew louder, and it almost sounded like my grandfather.
But I had to be going insane.
The smoke. The heat. The fear. It was sweltering. It was suffocating. It was too much for me to bear.
The shimmer of the blade caught my attention. I almost choked on a sharp inhale until Luther deftly knocked the dagger from Timothy’s talons.
My breath caught, and time slowed to a grueling crawl. The weapon spiraled through the air for an eternity. Spinning on and on and on.
All the stolas scrambled into action.
The blade hit the ground with a loud clang before skittering across stone. It clattered to a jarring halt at the lip of the fire pit. Near enough to the unspeakable horror of the massive eldritch figure convulsing in the flames that the ember of hope in my chest withered.
Blood-thirsty apostles rushed in. One shoved Luther toward the fire pit, and dread punched through my chest. He barely regained his footing, twisting around and dodging a talon-tipped wing.
Breath ragged and eyes burning, his determination struck me like a physical force.
More than a man, he was a beast unleashed.
Possessive, overprotective, and maddening. More than a little insane. But he was mine, and I was his—and I needed him to kick some feathered ass or we would both perish.
Blood continued streaming down my arm. The droplets formed little puddles on the ground that wiggled and squirmed like crimson worms. A nauseating image, watching my own blood form pools and snake toward the amassing horror in the blaze.
The god in the fire was siphoning my essence to him, needing it more than air if he was going to be reborn.
Moloch’s outline solidified around the edges, and the smell of sulfur intensified to a sickening degree. Dark spots danced across my vision, and pressure swelled in my head. Each droplet of my blood fueled the madness.
Sensing the forging power in the fire pit, Timothy laughed, a sound of eerie delight. “Do you see? There is no stopping the ritual. He is coming. Our master will return.” He gestured a long wing toward the swirling, whirling turmoil of the firestorm and the grotesquerie condensing within.
Jeniffer advanced, wings rustling and sharp talons clicking with each step. “Ophelia Ashcroft, descendant of the traitor,” she hissed. “You will reforge the bond that was broken. Your death will be His rebirth.”
In the disarray, Luther looked at me. Frustration crinkled his brow, and exhaustion darkened his expression. He was valiant and wonderful and handsome, but he was slowing down.
Icy fingers of alarm spider-walked down my spine.
“Ophelia!” he cried out, and my heart skipped a beat. But I couldn’t answer, barely stifling a whisper of fear. The smoke was filling my lungs and clogging my throat.
Then the mayhem compressed into a singular moment, sucking all the breathable air from the cavern. Time slammed to an abrupt halt, and my senses sharpened into crystal clarity. A heartbeat skipped and warped into an alternate, liminal reality where I saw… everything.