Chapter Twenty-seven
I find myself in a nearly pitch black passageway.
And yeah, it is a good thing I can see in the dark; at least, I used to be able to. The Stygian ink of this space is maybe the darkest I have ever moved through, nearly defeating my night vision.
That said, I can sense the walls around me. I can also make out the slabs of the stone floor, and I can definitely get a feel for the massive creature standing before me at the far end of the space.
If I wasn’t so tough, I would turn and run.
But I do pause and gather myself, reminding myself why I am here. It isn’t just about me going home. It is about all the kidnapped warriors going home, too. And, perhaps most importantly, it is about ending the Games and stopping the reckless killing.
Weirdly, the walls radiate warmth. Further down the room, I detect light coming from the walls themselves. Thin veins of red and gold move just under the stone surface, pulsing in time with a slow heartbeat that echoes all around.
I am reminded again that I am inside the Dark One. I adjust my grip on the Devil Killer and continue forward. The sword gently pulls me forward. It seems to know exactly where we are and what we need to do.
The passage slopes gradually downward. As I descend, the air grows warmer. No surprise there. It also smells of smoke and something sweet and nauseating that I don’t particularly care to identify.
Putrid flesh, methinks.
Meanwhile, the heartbeat continues, slow and steady. It neither quickens nor falters. There is nothing particularly frightening about the sound; it is just super obvious. Like, I get it, O Dark One. I’m inside your weird body... whatever that means. You can ease back on the theatrics.
The passage finally opens into what I think is a vast chamber, though I could be wrong.
I stop just inside the threshold. No, I’m right.
The glowing walls reach out to either side as far as the eye can see.
Sweet mama, this place is huge. The more I stare, the more it comes into view, especially when I toss out a few fireballs for light.
As they burn, I see that the room stretches endlessly before me, still so black that it seems carved from darkness itself.
The ceiling disappears high overhead as massive columns rise from the floor like stalagmites.
Or ivory tusks. Or the Devil’s ribcage; indeed, each is threaded with molten veins of red and gold that pulse with the same steady rhythm I have been hearing since entering this godforsaken place.
The floor beneath my boots is smooth and black, but not entirely solid.
No, there is the faintest hint of movement beneath, as though I am walking across something stretched tightly over a void.
Channels of glowing crimson liquid wind between the slabs, not quite lava and not quite blood.
They flow in slow viscous streams toward some sort of center.
Toward him, maybe. And there he is, standing with his back to me, seemingly deep in thought.
Somehow, he seems shorter in this space, though still massive beyond any necessary purpose, other than to appear formidable.
That little ol’ me could possibly hope to fight this thing is beyond insanity.
Yet, here I am. Fluttering on my wings, gripping the sword of all swords.
“You are either very stupid or very brave, Samantha Moon.”
“I guess we’ll soon see which.”
“Yes, we will. This is my Chamber of Creation. In here, I can create anything and everything. Whatever occurs to me, whatever I need.”
“I take it you created a Mrs. Dark One?”
“I have no need for female companionship.”
“Just blood.”
“Yes, Sam. I don’t make the rules. With my spontaneous birth came the need to feast on blood. Turns out, the idiots of this world associate blood drinking with their devil. And so, the need came with the body and with my role.”
“You go hard at the blood part.”
“You see my great size, right? I need a lot of the red stuff. But when it comes from true warriors, it’s richer and lasts longer.”
“So you don’t need as much.”
“Exactly.”
“Hence these murderous Games.”
I edge closer to the Grandarian devil. The blackened skin along his back is deeply crevassed with molten cracks that flow more of that reddish liquid gold.
Horns sweep down over his back. His shoulders are broad enough to make Kingsley’s look almost narrow.
A long tail snakes behind him, twitching lazily across the floor.
The tail is new. Somehow I had missed it before, unless the bastard just grew it here in his Chamber of Secrets, or whatever he calls it.
He turns, finally, and looks up. I follow his gaze.
High above us hangs a swirling sphere of molten flesh suspended in the darkness.
As if displaying images from a projector, faces appear within the sphere. Battles, too. Whole worlds, in fact. And now I see the arena itself. Then I see the throne room, where the rebellion is spreading like wildfire.
Salt Creek appears in the blob-like sphere, dancing from demon to demon with impossible speed, stabbing and slicing and dicing. Noses fall off, ears too.
Baltazar hovers in the center of the melee, surrounded by freed slaves. His raised hands glow with purple fire. Azul is behind him. And there is Pickles, alone in a corner and hiding.
Both wizards manipulate magic with incredible speed and precision, their hands a blur. Demons get swallowed in goo or float off their feet, only to crash into each other. Some demons only move backward, while still others continuously vomit frog-like creatures.
Then the scene changes to Earth. I see familiar cities and landmarks.
Then, incredibly, there is my house in Fullerton.
My kitchen, too. And there is my glass dining room table, the Momvan sitting in the driveway.
Then it is all gone. I gasp and stumble.
Seeing home feels so right, so good, reminding me what I’m fighting for.
The Dark One speaks. “You followed me in here, Samantha Moon. You came willingly.”
His voice is different in here. Quieter now, more intimate, almost conversational.
“You knew I would.”
“I hoped you would. There’s not much I can do against that sword. But at least, in here, I have a fighting chance.” His molten eyes settle on the Devil Killer, which grows warmer in my hand. “The blade was forged when this world was young.”
“By angels.”
“Yes, of course.”
“They came here to kill you.”
“And failed. They are not warriors, no matter how they dress themselves. Angels do not understand fear or pain.”
“And you do?”
He laughs. “You need only to ask the rebelling prisoners.” The glowing channels winding through the chamber suddenly pulse a little brighter. “You may leave whenever you wish, Samantha. This is not your fight. Put down the sword and teleport home to your family.”
“And have my head catch on fire?”
“The spell is broken, Samantha. Baltazar undid it when he released all the prisoners and warriors. The little shit. Check with him if you don’t believe me.”
“Trust me, I will. And I thought only you could undo the spell.”
“Not quite. I provided the power to launch the spell and the power to maintain it. But wizards need to work the magic, cast the spells, so to speak. And Baltazar is our most powerful wizard.”
I glance up toward the glowing meat sphere, still suspended high above us.
Images continue drifting across its mottled surface.
It now depicts the throne room where the battle rages on.
Warriors fall. Demons fall, too, but don’t quite die.
Not without the Devil Killer to send them to their final resting place.
Yes, this must be where the Dark One not only watches his palace and world, but all worlds. Including mine. So weird.
At present, the palace is shaking beneath the weight of a revolution. I watch Baltazar raise his hands and magically prop up a collapsing doorway while a group of frightened children race off to safety. Children.
“No deal,” I say. “Now you die.”