Chapter Thirty-Two #2
“Hell if I know,” I say. “Get it? ’Cause we’re in hell?”
The concern is finally wiped off CJ’s face, replaced with their typical annoyed expression. I give them a wide grin. With a jerk of their head, they lead me down the stairs.
“Could be worse,” I say.
We stand at the edge of a precipice, the tower in the distance, only a thin stone bridge running the length of the abyss. Except it’s no longer an abyss, because we can see the bottom quite clearly: about twenty feet down, a literal lake of fire.
Yeah, Ezra would have hated this.
I stand frozen for a moment, watching the flames lick the air. Puffs of dark smoke waft past the bridge toward the crimson sky above, at times so thick it completely obscures our destination.
“Dante’s in that tower,” I whisper.
CJ’s head turns sharply. “How do you know that?”
“Your cousin said he was in the spire with the other ethereals.”
They look between me and the tower. “Spire could mean anything.”
“Actually, it has a limited number of definitions. Plus, the interrogator said the ethereals were held at the top of the tower.”
“And you trust your torturer?”
I shrug. “I’m just saying there’s a pretty good chance Dante’s up there.”
CJ swallows. “We can’t. That wasn’t the plan. Tolliver doesn’t know to set up the ritual on Dante’s grave.”
“We don’t need to resurrect him today,” I argue. “We just need to get his soul out.”
They’re quiet for a moment, then they clear their throat and shake their head. “Melody said she’ll take me to him next time. I’ll get him then, when we can be sure it’s him.”
I nod, but I’m sick to my stomach. Dante’s so close. I’ve spent two days in hell and, before that, a year planning. I’ve been tortured and abandoned and ignored and Dante’s right there.
“Let’s go,” CJ says.
I sigh, taking in the narrow bridge and fire below. “I guess we’d better. It’s not the full hell experience if you’re not in danger of getting burned.”
CJ holds my hands behind my back as though they’re still bound. We need to look the part of guard and prisoner, but I’ll need my hands if we have to fight. Or if I fall over the edge of this stupid bridge and have to catch myself before being consumed in flame.
We inch along the bridge, taking small steps, pausing each time we hear a rumble and the stones quake beneath us. Wide stance. Strong core. Don’t look down. As soon as it passes, we start again.
Small steps.
Ahead, our destination rises above the dark mist of fumes.
At the end of the bridge, suspended in the center of the pit, is a dark cathedral-like tower, blackened with soot, grotesque faces carved into the facade.
The entrance is lit with torches, casting shadows across the huge iron door under a raised portcullis, ending in iron spikes.
The closer we get, the taller it looms, until I can no longer see the top.
We finally reach the other side of the bridge, and I would breathe a sigh of relief, but that was the easy part. I lead CJ under the portcullis. A dripping sound echoes and there are screams in the distance. Puddles of what looks like blood glisten on the stone floor.
We pass through the archway and into a large circular room at the base of the tower, thankfully empty at the moment.
It vaguely reminds me of the room above the Temple of Hercules, but instead of surrounding a dome, there’s a spiral staircase in the center, and instead of wood and nails, this is made of rock and bones.
Oh, and it’s lined with cells.
Unlike the cells I’ve seen so far, these aren’t enclosed by bars of jagged bone but sealed behind black iron doors. And behind one of these doors is Rook’s sister.
“Six, six, seven,” I whisper to CJ.
“I remember,” they mutter.
We start to the left, going clockwise through the hall. Roman numerals appear above the small grate on each door.
The first one says CMI.
I lean back so CJ can hear. “Okay, I may not know my Roman numerals, but I’m pretty sure that’s not number one.”
“It’s 901,” they whisper back.
I huff. “Well, since there’s not a basement in this thing, we’re probably going up.”
Before CJ can respond, there’s a voice behind us.
“Where are you taking the prisoner?”
CJ’s eyes widen, but they recover quickly and turn to the voice. A woman in a guard uniform has just come out of one of the cells. She locks it behind her and stares at us expectantly.
“Prisoner transfer,” CJ says, as planned. “Cell block six hundred.”
The woman is older. Gray hair and glasses. She squints and steps forward.
“Are you new?”
CJ clenches their jaw. They stand frozen for the longest moment, and then just as I think we’re about to be caught, they unbutton the cuff of their left sleeve and push it up to reveal a goat-headed devil in red ink. I bite back a gasp.
The Phantoms tattoo.
I’ve actually never seen it. CJ’s always kept it hidden by covering their forearms with long sleeves or compression bands. I can’t help but stare.
The woman gulps, just as shocked as I am. This isn’t some small mark given to Phantoms grunts and cronies. This tattoo identifies CJ as a member of the Melinas family.
“Apologies,” the woman says. “Allow me to show you the way.”
CJ nods, buttoning their sleeve back up.
The woman heads toward the spiral staircase. CJ and I exchange relieved looks, then follow her onto the winding steps. I should mention: There’s no railing. The ascent stretches farther than the eye can see, and the stone steps look decidedly uneven.
What, they couldn’t get the permits for an elevator in hell?
I let out a quiet gasp. “Hellevator,” I whisper to CJ, but if they hear me, they don’t show it.
My thighs are burning before we even get to the eight hundreds (or the DCCCs, apparently).
CJ doesn’t seem to be doing much better.
But we can’t stop, so we just push through.
The woman leading us, though much older, doesn’t appear to have any issue.
Either her living body is in amazing shape or she has the kind of delusional confidence that allows her to believe she can do anything. Honestly, goals.
I’m about to collapse when we finally get to the proper floor. I want to sigh in relief, but now we have the problem of getting rid of this lady before we can actually do anything. If not, I might end up in yet another cell.
This floor looks just like the one below. Lots of dark stone, broken bones, and torches. Prisoners wail behind iron doors. Ghostly fingers stretch through the bars and wide eyes peer out at me.
“Which cell?” the woman asks.
CJ swallows. “672.”
I don’t know if CJ is just choosing a cell close to Credence’s or if they happen to know that cell specifically is empty. Either way, it takes less time than I’d like to find door DCLXXII.
The woman fumbles at a ring of keys at her belt just as CJ and I notice the cell is occupied, a wide eye peering through the grate.
CJ clears their throat and glances at me.
They showed their tattoo, so we’re limited in what we can do here.
If I weren’t the prisoner, I could talk our way out of this.
If we didn’t need to keep CJ’s cover, I could take the woman out with a few swift punches.
But as soon as the woman notices the cell I’m being transferred to is occupied, their cover is blown anyway.
Time for drastic action.
The woman finds the key.
I’m going to pretend to take CJ out and make a run for it. It’s a risk, but at least it will distract the woman, maintain CJ’s cover, and leave an opening for us to continue the job.
The key clicks into the lock.
I cock back my elbow.
A sudden and all-consuming wave of despair washes over me.
This won’t work. It’s impulsive and risky, and there are way too many variables I can’t control. The woman is going to open the door, find the soul inside, and realize that CJ and I are lying. I’ll be put into a cell again and stuck there to rot forever.
The key turns.
The woman is just about to open the door when an alarm sounds, high and screechy and loud enough that I want to cover my ears.
Immediately, the woman reacts. She removes the key from the door.
“Souls are loose!” she shouts. “Secure the prisoner!”
She jostles me as she runs past and doesn’t even look back to check if CJ follows her instructions before turning into the stairwell and disappearing from sight.
“Well,” I say, letting out a breathy laugh, “it looks like New Guy likes to cut it close.”
Distraction is the con artist’s best friend.