Chapter 13 #2
It seems Abaddon isn’t one for waiting around, either, which I can be grateful for under these circumstances. Without checking to see if we’re still following, he starts heading through the derelict garden of the royal courtyard.
In my urgency to leave, I pass by Dusk—
Then I stop myself in my tracks, realizing how utterly idiotic it is to be so careless. The alien super soldiers have shown me no ill intent, while Abaddon has already proven to be murderous and temperamental. Even if he looks less creepy, I’m not safer with him.
Once Dusk’s slow ass catches up, we press onward together, entering the gardens.
Well, ‘garden’ might be an overstatement.
Fitting with the rest of the Abyss, it reminds me of what it might be like to try to grow food on Mars.
The whole area is devoid of grass, with barren earth no less hardened and dry than the deserts and tunnels we came through.
However, it is speckled with a large variety of unusual plants, seemingly freshly groomed and proud of their peculiarity.
A few trees even decorate the sidewalks around the castle, each holding a multitude of different fruits I’ve never seen before.
I’m glad I brought some notebooks. If I get really bored here, I might just start my own encyclopedia of all the unique plants and animals I can find in this place.
When Abaddon leads us up to the intricately carved castle doors, they swing open automatically, as if having a mind of their own. Of course, the King carelessly strolls ahead of us into the regal foyer, but my pace slows at the sight.
It is absolutely beautiful.
The most splendid, monumental chandelier I’ve ever seen illuminates the room with thousands of tiny crystals. Glossed obsidian spreads across the expansive floors, catching the light in endless facets, only stopping for a mosaic in the center of the room.
My breath stills as I recognize the scene it depicts. A hand is holding a broken globe, split down the middle by a dark crack, gold specks flying out of it… It’s the opening of the Abyss. My fate is literally painted on the ground here. As if having it in the Bible wasn’t enough.
“Come, now,” Abaddon beckons.
I immediately look up, finding both angels already across the room. It surprises me that he’d even notice I’d lagged behind, let alone wait for me to catch up.
But he does.
It first seems like the massive set of doors across from the entrance—just below a balcony that connects two halves of a grand marble staircase—would lead us into some kind of main passageway.
However, Abaddon leads us through one of the two identical archways that flank the foyer, further convoluting the journey.
I fall back to Dusk’s side, muttering to him, “At this rate, I’m going to need a map just to find a damn bathroom.”
He huffs a laugh. “With any luck, you won’t be here long enough to learn your way around.”
“True.” The world’s already on a countdown as it is. I can’t waste time playing unintentional hide-and-seek in a mythical castle.
Abaddon seems determined to take us the scenic route, leading us through what must be a small art gallery.
The hall is filled with statues, tapestries, vases, and paintings.
All of them depict various scenes of war and peace, none of which feature a single locust. I don’t recognize most of the stories illustrated, but at least one canvas clearly portrays David and Goliath.
At least, I think that’s what the painting is supposed to be.
For a giant, he’s much smaller than I’d expect.
My eyes move from the artwork on the walls to the dark angel in front of us.
Silent. Enigmatic. Numinous.
Each of his steps is accented by the methodical click of his boots’ metal soles on the stone floors, echoing down the corridor.
The wings that adorn his back look immensely heavy and powerful, swaying ever so slightly with his movement.
I’ve seen Dusk’s wings several times by now, but it’s a new kind of bewilderment for me to observe this leathery, more draconian type.
I don’t know how long it will take me to get over how surreal it is for such human-like apparitions to spawn these various types of wings.
I refuse to believe they couldn’t just magic their way into flying if they needed to.
From what I’ve seen, it seems much more likely that they do it simply to lean into the myths surrounding such beautiful angels.
My feet hurt by the time we finally stop again. Abaddon motions to a set of double doors, finally acknowledging our existence again.
“Meals are served at eight and six. Do be on time for dinner tonight.” He turns swiftly on his heels and continues walking. “I will now show you to your living quarters.”
I try to take special note of the route.
We exit through a small door at the end of the corridor, which deposits us out of the castle and onto a small offshoot pathway.
The red-hued stone is cobbled, thoroughly shaded by short trees with gnarled trunks and dark leaves.
It leads us to a narrow, torch-lit bridge over a blackened creek.
I look to the side as we cross, following the sound of falling water.
The creek seems to be fed from the walls of the cavern, deposited over jagged red rocks just upstream.
We’re probably well into the afternoon by now.
The air is still warm, but the artificial sunlight seems to be fading from its brightest color.
Thankfully, the rest of our walk is short.
Within minutes, we’re at the entrance to another building.
And though it may be disconnected from the castle, it reminds me of a smaller version of it.
We enter the corner of the building through another side door, indirectly bringing us into a lobby of some sort.
The interior design is both Mephistophelian and Kafkaesque, constructed largely from obsidian but accented by white marble and scarlet red details.
High vaulted ceilings intersect with baroque walls, all decorated in elaborately framed paintings of even more biblical stories.
Given that we’re headed to our living quarters, I fight the urge to sarcastically ask Dusk if this is Hell’s Inn for Weary Alien Monsters, mainly because I don’t want to risk our testy host overhearing me and getting pissed off.
A few spare locust servants man a variety of services, but Abaddon bypasses them all without a glance in their direction.
Instead, he leads us up a grand staircase and down the first hallway, passing a few ambiguous rooms along the way.
At the end, we turn a corner to a line of opulent doors, each carved in various symbols of power.
Stopping before two doors opposite each other, Abaddon finally faces us.
“These will be your living quarters,” he says with a gesture towards the rooms. “You should find them accommodating.”
I know it’s meant to be serious, but I have to keep myself from laughing when I look at the insignias carved into our doors. If he really must have labeled them, our names would have sufficed. This, however, feels much more tone-deaf, as if the King has put pet names on his doghouses.
My door is etched with an elaborate key eclipsed by a shooting star, clearly reducing me to my role in the prophecy.
Across the hallway, Dusk’s door has the Greek symbol of a snake wrapping around a staff.
The Rod of Asclepius. I recognize it because I know the Caduceus—which is the same thing, but with an extra snake—from its frequent representation of the medical field.
If I remember correctly, though, this one represents Hermes, the messenger of the Gods.
The Key and The Messenger.
How ironically appropriate.
“I’ll walk you to dinner,” Dusk says over his shoulder while opening his door. “Meet you back out here at fifteen ‘til six.”
His door clicks shut before I get a chance to agree or refuse. With a huff of air out of my nose, I reach out to grasp my door handle—but I hesitate to turn it.
Despite Abaddon’s flair for the dramatics, I know I should say words of appreciation for his hospitality.
He seems like the kind of person who expects gratitude.
And if Dusk isn’t going to bother doing any damage control with our host, that leaves only me to keep us in his good graces…
Besides, with him already showing so little value to my life, I’m not really in a position to be a problematic guest in his realm.
Reluctantly, I let go of the handle and turn to look up at him.
And he’s just standing there, deathly still, with his silver eyes already pinned on me. All of the words I planned to say fall flat off my tongue. I can’t tell if he’s looking straight through me, or into the essence of my soul. Either way, it is unnerving.
After a few seconds of pregnant silence, Abaddon turns on his heels, his cape flowing out in the process, and starts walking away without another word.
Part of me wants to thank him now that I’m free from his piercing gaze, but the bigger part of me wants to run away from the uncomfortable encounter altogether.
The cowardly part of me wins.
After spending hours on the back of a camel, I’m more than eager for a hot shower and a bed to collapse on. Swearing to myself that I’ll be satisfied with those bare minimums, I open the door to my ‘accommodating’ room, and—oh.
The room is more than just accommodating.
It’s an apartment fit for a royal palace in Victorian-era England.
A pre-lit fire warms the hearth of the sitting room, casting a flickering light across the room that mingles with the soft glow of electric sconces and oil lamps.
The sight overwhelms me. I thought I felt out of place in Dusk’s private jet, but I’m at a complete loss here.
I feel like I need to have a title and an estate to have even been invited to stay somewhere this grandiose.
“Shower and a nap,” I remind myself. “That’s all I need.”