Chapter Ten
As I pace the length of the room, my last twenty-four hours of (relative) freedom begin to tick away. My path would be worn into the floor if it wasn’t solid polished obsidian I tread upon.
Turning, I begin the return.
Too many thoughts and emotions swirl about in my head, in my chest. Vaelyn’s words have bred a plethora of doubts, concerns, hurdles. But it’s his question about my demonic urges that has me in a chokehold.
I hadn’t considered the impact of my nature upon the living.
Because I’m a selfish creature fending for my wants alone.
I cannot afford to succumb to the urges.
Here, I’ve near mastered my ability to suppress them. Much to the disapproval of Netharis. But among the living… would they be amplified? Will I lie and cheat and sow death in my wake? Will I have to fight the compulsion of my demon blood?
I didn’t fight it when it came to lying to Vaelyn.
And lying was easier than it should have been.
Trusting Celesta would be foolish. She is a duplicitous creature. Just as the moon passes through phases, she ebbs and flows much the same. I refuse to escape one god only to fall into the hands of another.
Despite Ollora being Celesta’s birthplace, it’s where I am to go. I’m drawn to the city, even with its mostly fae population. Even with its fae royal family. It should be easy enough to hide among them.
Right?
It sits nestled in the wilderness of Erus with plenty of forests and clutches of towns close enough for me to blend into. I’m not afraid of having to work to earn my keep, as long as the work is of my choosing.
It goes without being said, Netharis will hunt me.
There’s no escaping that.
He will send mortals both loyal and contracted, to search for me. As long as he exists, I will never have the quiet peaceful life I want. But I will have a life. That alone is more than what I’ve been given here.
So if I have to, I will turn to Celesta.
I hold no qualms in pitting two gods against one another if needed.
Turning again, my feet continue to move at a steady pace.
A leather messenger bag rests upon the couch, filled with the items I hope to carry with me into the living realm.
It’s not much, and none of it mine. Everything in this tower belongs to Netharis.
But these few items… they mean nothing to him.
He collects to collect, to own, to claim.
Not because he finds anything interesting or useful.
He is the epitome of greed.
I need to be successful in this exodus.
Stealing from Netharis is enough to warrant a decade of torture in itself. Whatever lies within the obsidian box should be enough to fund what I need for a time while I adapt to life. It will be sold or used to barter a contract—whichever presents itself first.
Here in the hells, I have a limitless innate, a benefit of being in Netharis’ House. No other demons possess such a trait. Nor do I expect to have the same in the mortal world. I don’t know what my natural limitations are, let alone what they will be once I’ve been rendered alive.
Finding and contracting a mortal as a protector may be a necessity. Especially if Netharis sends demons. I doubt he will, as not to draw the ire of Gaia, but I cannot wholly disregard the possibility.
And knowing my father, he won’t send any demon.
He’ll send Kassil.
The floor rumbles under my feet, forcing me to stop and yanking me from my thoughts. Flinging my arms and wings wide, I stagger to steady myself.
It’s begun.
Knots begin to form in my stomach. Twisting, turning, tightening.
There’s no going back now.
Clenching my jaw, I swallow hard as the rumbling subsides. Sweeping across the room, I snatch the messenger bag from the couch, slinging the strap across me. It’s heavy but manageable, and if it comes down to it, I will leave it behind.
The tower shakes again, more intensely. The chandelier begins to rattle, dust-laden crystals clinking against gold, against one another.
Am I ready for this?
My innate vibrates in response.
It’s right. It doesn’t matter if I’m ready, it’s the path I’ve chosen.
A violent quake pitches me forward, my knees knocking against the couch as I outstretch my arms to brace myself against the back of it. The weight of the bag hauls me further, pulling against my neck and shoulder.
Come on, Vaelyn.
It stops again, and I straighten myself.
“Let’s go!” Ylara exclaims in a panic as she appears in a swirl of darkness.
As I whirl, she snatches my arm and I’m blinded by shadows.
They vanish and we’re left standing in Netharis’ dark study.
Magelights spring to life overhead, beckoned by Ylara. They hover over our heads, casting us in a cylindrical silver light.
Fueled by panic and desperation, I sprint around the desk and begin tearing through the shelves mounted on the wall. Ylara does the same a few feet away. Neither of us speak, the chaotic sound of our search filling the silence.
With trembling fingers, I push books and scrolls aside, not caring if they’re knocked off the shelf. I don’t have time to be careful. At the same time, I pay close attention to my innate waiting, for the familiar resonance of blood magic—the familiar low frequency thrum that vibrates in my bones.
Finding this jar, this nyraphim, is one of the last things standing between me and being able to take my first breath. My first actual breath.
I cannot fail here.
Not when I’m this close.
Clawing at one of the shelves, it lies just out of reach.
Without hesitation, I place my foot upon a lower wooden shelf and hoist myself up.
It bows under the weight of me and the bag.
My fingers catch on the box I need moved, and it crashes to the floor, coming open.
An array of dried, severed fingers tumbles across the polished obsidian.
Not caring, I return my attention to the shelf and my eyes grow wide.
Ylara looks at the box then to me, her eyes also widening.
“Ves…” she breathes, slowing to a stop in her search.
There upon the shelf, having been hidden behind the ornamental box, lies a tall canopic-like obsidian jar. Its surface gleams with a glassy sheen despite the Malbolge and Yggdrasil runes carved into it without care. It’s as if they were carved into it by talon at the last minute.
As I reach for it, the Tower begins to rock. My fingers clasp around the jar, and the shelf I stand on snaps. Flailing, I latch onto another shelf with my free hand, only to succeed in snapping that one too as I plummet to the floor.
Everything crashes to the ground and I cover my head with my hands, gripping the jar tight.
Scrolls, books, sculptures, ornate glasses, and obsidian boxes rain down, knocking against me on their rapid descent as I struggle to remain upright.
Ylara steps backward, bracing herself against the desk, her eyes wide with terror, fixed upon the wreckage we’ve—I’ve—created.
Finally, it subsides.
Clutching the jar against my chest, Ylara dares to speak. “I didn’t want to believe it to be true,” she whispers.
A bright flash of hellfire explodes in the center of the room, revealing Netharis holding Vaelyn and Kassil in a chokehold, one in each hand, swung out at his sides. Instantly, all three pairs of eyes fall to me.
Every muscle in my body constricts and tightens as I stare into the darkened blood-red eyes of my father. In less than a second, he releases the two demons as his face contorts with sheer, unadulterated rage with his realization of what I press against my chest.
Dropping the demons in his grip, he lunges, reaching for me across his desk. I scramble backward, panic and fear fueling me, flattening myself against the shelves, trying not to stumble on the debris.
Ylara grabs my arm, darkness encasing us. It wipes away my view of Vaelyn, Kassil, and the god of death. As I struggle to process, struggle to quell the fast rush of fear and try to find logic, the darkness dissipates.
Empty, barren lands surround us.
Not a single soul in sight.
Purgatory, I realize. The first layer of the hells.
Jagged rocks, countless craters, and dim red skies. The sound of running water reaches my ears, it’s faint, but it’s there. The Lethe flows, coaxing souls deeper into the hells.
“Go!” she shouts, shoving me.
I careen backward, my heel catching on a rock, and land on my ass as she vanishes. Staring at where she’d stood moments ago, I stammer incoherent sounds. Trying desperately to form something, to say something.
She’s left me.
The ground vibrates, cutting through my stupor with a clarity I lacked seconds ago. I know Netharis is at the epicenter of the vibration, his rage rippling through all nine layers of the hells.
Piercing the pad of my thumb with a fang, I press it against the top of the jar.
Black blood is drawn across the surface into the recessed runes, and a red line of light races around the center.
The obsidian splits in half, falling open.
As the lid clatters on the rock near my feet, white light streams from the jar, blinding me.
I shield my eyes with a hand, squeezing my eyes shut, but even then, the light blinds me still.
“It’s been a long time, Vestaris,” a resounding deep voice greets me, and I hear the crunch of footsteps on the ground.
Forcing my eyes open, the seconds it takes for my sight to return feels like years. A pair of ebony-skinned legs stand roughly a foot away. Trailing my eyes upward, over muscled thighs, and higher still over a tunic exposing a heavily muscled chest, I meet the intense dark amber stare of Zuriel.
My shadows rebuke.
Whisking me away, I place twenty feet of distance between the gods damned Life Bringer and myself. Darkness billows underfoot as the feathers of my wings begin to ooze a black fog.
I expected a nameless nyraphim.
Not. This.
Not Gaia’s eldest son.
The last time we’d encountered one another, it had been roughly two hundred and fifty years ago. I lost a contracted soul to this creature. He is the reason I spent fifty years in obsidian.