26. Dante
Dante
E mptiness. The endless void stares back at me behind my eyelids.
The house is silent and cold, impersonal.
The warmth and sass that Melody brought me is gone, and I fucking hate it.
Sleep eludes me, unless I take a handful of melatonin and top it off with some antihistamines.
Even now, toeing the line between wakefulness and sleep, I clutch at the empty side of the bed.
Melody's side.
Melody's side of the bed is a cold, stark reminder that my list of kills is far too short.
Four days without her, and I'm a wreck. I cycle between morose and immovable to the physical embodiment of murderous fury.
Roman stalks the halls of the house, barking orders and demanding updates from every possible resource we could pull together. He only leaves when I command him to.
"I don't think you should be alone right now," he said.
"Is you being here going to get her back? Right this second? No!" I yelled back.
He took his leave for the night shortly after.
I crack an eye open to check the time and groan.
He'll be back in a few hours, bright and early.
We've summoned the entire Goetic Consortium from all over the globe, and I need to be well-rested and alert to brief them.
If I'm not? Well, I hope they see what a broken man I am and take action on that.
My position as The Dantalion be damned—I need help. I need my wife back. And I need to strangle every last fucker who's taken her away from me.
Just as sleep starts to take hold, I'm jolted awake by the persistent vibration of my phone. Roman's contact photo flashes across the screen, and I nearly drop the damn thing trying to answer it.
"Roman?"
"Sir? There's news. One of our men found an abandoned property in the foothills that belongs to Rafaella." Roman's voice is muffled and a bit scratchy, like he also just woke up.
"I'm ready," I say as I leap out of bed and rustle through my clothes. "Can you be here in five?"
"I'll be there in three." Click .
I throw on anything that's black, anything that will blend in with the shadows of night.
Sprinting down the stairs, I secure my bulletproof vest and snatch the semiautomatic rifle from the coat closet.
Shit. The magazine is empty. I curse myself as I run to the pantry and shove aside a sack of potatoes, unveiling the ammo stockpile Roman set up for me.
"Roman deserves a raise," I mumble to myself as I find the tactical backpack he stuffed in the lockbox as well. I take every last box of ammo and dump it into the backpack. Just as I zip the flap, I hear the muffled honk of Roman's SUV outside.
Slamming open the front door, I race to the car like a bat out of hell. I don't give a shit that the house isn't properly locked. I don't give a shit about anything , except that I might—no, will—have my wife back. I'm coming to get you, Melody.
Roman doesn't say a word as I slam shut the SUV's door; he simply shifts the car into drive and peels off down the street.
He looks about as bad as I do. His dark brown hair has grown out from his usual buzz cut, but it doesn't soften the sharp angles of his intimidating face.
He only looks unhinged and unkempt. I know I do, too.
Glaring out the window, I notice that there's barely anyone on the road at this hour. He weaves through long-haul trucks and sedans that likely belong to the poor bastards who work the graveyard shift.
"How far?" I grunt out, drumming my fingers on my knees.
"About an hour. We'll be there in half that." He presses his foot down on the accelerator, revving the engine as we pass another semi.
"Good. Backup?"
"En route. I've stationed one man at your house in case of anything… going awry." His jaw clenches. "We have no reason to believe that might happen. No one besides you, me, and my team knows where we're going."
"I'd expect nothing less." I run my hand down my face and scratch at the stubble on my jaw. I look like shit. Several days of inadequate sleep and terror mixed with fury will do that to a person. Hopefully, Melody forgives me for my appearance.
"We'll get them back, sir. Melody and Helena both." Roman glances over to me and nods.
"I know we will."
True to his word, we pull up to a dilapidated shack thirty-four minutes after Roman picked me up.
The algae-stained siding is cracked by years of neglect.
Unkempt brush surrounds the one-story cottage.
A low-hanging tree branch grazes the roof every time the wind blows, scraping against the shingles.
Roman puts a finger to his lips and gently opens the driver's door.
I follow suit, making as little noise as possible.
After a few seconds, three other SUVs arrive, breaking the silence.
His men file out of the cars dressed identically in black with massive guns.
I loaded mine on the way and I hold the weapon aloft, pointing it at the sky.
Fourteen of us in total crowd around the front door. I see my furious face looking back at me in the cracked glass, the interior of the house hidden by moth-bitten curtains. They used to be floral and bright. A country cottage for the overworked police woman to recuperate on her meager vacations.
I look forward to destroying it. I look forward to destroying her .
"On three," Roman whispers. "One, two, three."
He kicks in the door with a bang and rushes inside—I'm hot on his heels.
The other men point their flashlights into the disgusting place and hustle in.
They scatter like insects and scour every room, kicking in doors, yelling "clear," searching the house while I grapple with my own uncharacteristic panic.
Roman throws himself to the floor and starts peeling up the brittle wooden planks, grunting with effort as he reveals the crawl space. Bones of dead animals, tufts of fur, and tree roots poking through the soil meet his gaze. He curses and throws a clod of dirt at the wall.
Ella hasn't been here. I know it before the crew reports back. She may own this place, but she hasn't been here in months, maybe years. We are the only ghosts haunting this shack. A thick layer of dust coats every surface. Only our boot prints mark the floor. Dead flies litter the windowsills.
My wife isn't here. Helena isn't here. My hopes die and join the rat skeleton in the corner. Dread and grief sink into me like a toxin.
"They're not here," I mumble. Roman snaps his head up from his destructive investigation and scowls.
"You can't make that call yet," he snarls. "I will tear up every goddamn plank before I let you."
"Sirs," one of the men clomps back into the room. "We've cleared everything."
"Then get started on the floors!" Roman yells, and the man drops to his knees, bashing the cracked wood with the butt of his gun.
The rest of the crew follow along, and we tear the place to pieces.
There isn't a stone unturned by the time we're done, and sweat pours from my brow like a faucet.
Two of the men punched a hole in the ceiling and crawled into the tiny space, inspecting the beams and rafters holding the moldering roof up.
"Nothing in there but some dead raccoons," a man reports to Roman.
He grunts and sits back on his heels, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. His brow furrows as he scowls in thought, muttering under his breath. I watch his hands flex around the grip of his handgun, toying with the safety.
"They're not here!" I yell and stomp onto the front porch. "Fuck!"
The first rays of morning sun peek through the thick canopy, illuminating the reds and oranges of fall.
It's absolutely gorgeous, and all I can think is how much Melody would love to see it.
I toss my rifle to the side and twist the wedding ring around my finger.
The warm metal grounds me. Physical proof of my wife.
"I'm so sorry, Melody. I'm so sorry I didn't save you. I love you. I miss you. I need you. Please hold on, love. I'm coming, and I'm going to fucking kill the people responsible for this," I promise the empty night air.
Grief sits heavy in my chest as I crouch to the ground and close my eyes.
Melody wouldn't let this crush her. She's so goddamn strong, and I'm a fake, a phony, a weak man without her.
I never thought I would admit this to anyone, not even myself.
But she brought so much light into my life.
Especially when she fought me tooth and nail.
I would give away all of my money, my properties, my belongings, if it meant she would show up right this second and scold me for being so defeatist.
"Sir?" Roman's footsteps were so quiet, I didn't hear his approach. "I'm sorry. I apologize for… all of this."
I look up at him, huffing out furious breaths. Dirt and sweat mingle on his face, with his jaw set in grim acceptance. He tips his head to the side and taps his watch. "We have two hours until the meeting. If we leave now, we'll just make it."
"Fuck, let's go." I raise myself up from the ground and clasp his shoulder. "Thank you. If there was any chance of her being here, I'd kill you myself for not telling me."
"I know, sir. That's why I did." He gives me an uncomfortable smile. "Still, I apologize. We'll find them. I promise."
Roman screeches to a halt outside the head office.
Opulent wealth surrounds us, but I don't give a singular shit if it can't get me my wife back.
I wave away the doormen who reach for our coats.
Not that we're wearing any, but habit is habit.
I'm not ready to let go of the mud-stained bulletproof vest yet.
Well-dressed assistants surround us, talking at all angles, eyes bugging out of their heads at the state of us.
I don't grace any of them with a response.
Neither does Roman, but he's not known for dramatic speeches.
Checking my watch, I see that we're just about two minutes early.
The other Demons are already seated and awaiting our appearance, according to someone—I don't know who, and I don't care.
Another pair of men in black suits swing open the main auditorium doors for us and incline their heads in deferential bows.
It's just about now that I realize I still have my gun; I picked it up before leaving the shack and never put it down.
Roman has his in the (very visible) holster strapped to his waist. We look like we're ready for war.
And, in a sense, we are. Ignoring the whispers and stares, I head straight for the microphone and podium.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the Goetic Consortium, we are under attack," I announce. The whispers become murmurs and shouts, but I press on. "The Seraph have fired the first shot. This is a declaration of war, and I implore you all not to take this lightly."
Roman steps up beside me and lays a hand on my shoulder, nodding. He leans into the microphone, angling and projecting his voice, "They've started with us—with The Dantalion—but they will not stop with us."
"How can you be so sure? What if you've just pissed someone off by being, well, an asshole?" The Belial stands from his seat in the audience and glowers at me.
"They have my goddamn wife!" I yell into the microphone, ignoring the feedback. "They took my fucking wife and her bodyguard—you're telling me that's not war?"
"One of their minions, Detective Ella—" Roman butts in again. "—she threatened, she said—"
"They have wings everywhere," I finish for him.
"It's true," The Paimon interjects. "I found evidence of Seraph involvement when hacking into a gas station security system."
"Confirmed, as well," the Eligos stands with a nod. "We strongly believe the Seraph is behind the murder of Valencia Gallo, The Dantalion's business manager."
Everyone talks at once. I can't make out a word as arguments overlap with support. Rage builds in my chest as I focus on The Belial in his immaculate suit. He purses his lips thoughtfully, leaning to the side while his assistant whispers in his ear.
"Is that not enough for you?" I yell again. "Not only my suspicions, my confirmed evidence, but The Paimon! The Eligos! Valencia's murder! That's not enough for you fucks?"
"Silence!" The Belial stands with a shout and knocks his gold-tipped cane on the floor. "A gas station security system. Your wife is missing. Your business manager is dead. This points to a war on you , Dantalion."
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Roman grumbles under his breath. Unfortunately, I think the mic picked it up, because a wave of snickers and gasps sweeps through the auditorium.
"I'm not finished." The Belial glares at my faithful assistant before continuing. "This does point to a war on you. But if we let one fall, we show the Seraph that any of us can fall. Now, who is this Detective Ella?"
"I'll take that, sir." Roman nods, and I back away from the mic.
"Detective Rafaella Angelo appears to be a mid-ranking Seraph operative.
She is a decorated member of the police, working on high-profile murders and gang-related activity.
She had a run- in with Mrs. Lyons—the current Dantalion's wife, not his mother—several months ago and recently visited their residence.
She inferred that she knew of Mrs. Lyons's past and insinuated that she may be paranoid.
She also mentioned that they, quote, 'have wings everywhere. '"
I watch Roman in awe as he fields tactical questions and provides suggestions on operative plans.
Looking to the side of the stage, I see a staffer gesturing to a folding chair.
Gratefully, I trudge over and plop into it with a heavy sigh.
I wasn't expecting much of a fight, considering the evidence and involvement from The Eligos and The Paimon, but recounting the story was more exhausting than I thought it would be.
And I still don't have my wife, but I do have the entire Goetic Consortium on my side. Thank fuck for that.