CHAPTER ELEVEN
KENNEDY
“I can’t believe I’ve been locked away in here for ten years.
” Jenna’s voice shakes as she speaks, but all her statement does is cause more questions to arise in me.
She’s clearly not human, and her wings don’t look anything like Reaver’s golden feathered appendages, so what the hell is she…
an angel, a demon, or something far worse?
Getting up from my position on the floor, I saunter over to the cell bars as Jenna retreats into the darkness.
“Do you know if there is anyone else down here with us?” I ask, hoping she realizes I’m speaking to her and that I mean both in general and in this cell, since one additional occupant is enough.
“As I said before, I wouldn’t go sticking your arm outside the bars.
Who knows what she has lurking down here?
But you are the first person she’s placed with me, and she doesn’t do anything by accident.
Everything she does is a calculated move that serves only her.
It will serve you best if you learn that sooner rather than later. ”
Wrapping my hands around the bars, I give them a good pull.
As much as I know it’s an act of futility, I do it several more times in different areas, clearly demonstrating the act of insanity, by trying to get a different result doing the same thing.
But I would hate to be down here for a decade only to realize I never tried the bars, and they were open the entire time.
So, I might as well get the obvious route of escape out of the way.
Jenna emerges from the darkness and comes over to me.
In her hand, she has what looks like the petrified root system of a tree, with strips of material and straw stuffed into the end.
She doesn’t say a word as she sticks the makeshift torch outside the bars, careful not to reach her hand too far beyond.
The torch tip falls too short of the one burning on the wall to ignite, and she pulls it back in frustration.
She’s so tiny that even if she stretched out as far as she can, it probably won’t reach.
“Why don’t you let me try?” I ask, holding out my hand for the torch. I’m a good five or six inches taller and will probably have a better chance of reaching the torch on the wall.
She stares at me with a blank expression before blinking and shaking her head as if she were lost somewhere within her own mind. “Why? Can you make the dead wood grow?”
I’m a little taken aback by her snarky comment until I realize she is serious and waiting for an answer. “Well, no, not that I’m aware of.”
“Then, without reaching your arm outside the cell bars, how do you plan on lighting it?”
I look between the torch on the wall and the one she’s holding a few times. “Is that the longest one you have?”
She stares at me for a moment and gives me a raised eyebrow. “No. I figured we’d start with the worst one and hope for the best. Do you think I have torch stock and just choose not to light them because I like the ambiance?”
“A simple yes would have sufficed,” I snap, holding out my hand for the torch. “For more than one source of light, I’m willing to stretch a bit.”
Jenna looks me up and down as if assessing my worthiness before handing me the wooden torch. “Don’t drop it,” she adds before holding it out for me to take.
“I can tell we are not going to be besties by any stretch of the imagination,” I mumble, more to myself than to Jenna. I hear her let out an audible huff. “At least not with that attitude,” I snap before grabbing the torch from her outstretched hand.
I’m surprised at its weight, and I nearly lose my grip when its heft takes my arm down a few inches once she releases it.
Clearly, another testament to her non-human nature is her freakish strength.
It takes nearly all my might to hold it in one hand, and I’m suddenly more concerned about her warning me not to drop it than I was only a moment ago.
“What lives in the corridor?” I ask as I step toward the bars.
I take a brief glance down each direction of the corridor, regretting the question the moment it’s out of my mouth.
Jenna is about to answer when I shake my head.
“You know what, never mind. Ignorance is bliss,” I mumble as I lift the torch and slowly pass it through the bars.
The tips of my fingers are just past the iron rods when my arm starts to shake, partially from the weight, but mostly out of fear.
Before I can second-guess my choice, I stretch my arm out as far as I can physically reach.
My body is pressed tightly against the bars as I touch the tip of my torch to the fiery one on the wall.
The dry straw and strips of fabric ignite almost instantly in a woosh of smoke and flame.
The excitement that rushes through my body almost has me losing my grip on our newly lit torch. As quickly as I can, I pull my arm back in and give a little squeal of delight at the brightly burning flame atop our torch.
I can’t help the smile that’s plastered across my face. Nor can I help the slight happy dance I do.
Jenna stands motionless, watching me without a hint of a smile. It’s only then that I register the change in the air.
It isn’t colder. It isn’t darker.
It’s thinner—like the world has decided it doesn’t need as much oxygen anymore.
All I can do is watch Jenna’s entire demeanor change. I can see her frail frame trembling from a few feet away. Her body goes rigid. I don’t think it’s completely out of fear, I think it’s more out of recognition.
“She’s here,” Jenna whispers, her voice trembling as she speaks. Any confidence and sass she had only a few minutes ago is gone. Her gaze is fixed on the ground, and her slight shoulders are slumped. This is a woman who has been broken and isn’t close to being put back together.
The torch on the wall flickers, the flame bending inward, shrinking, as if paying respect. It dims so much, I’m almost positive it’s going to go out, but it doesn’t. It bows to whatever is coming.
“You don’t have to announce me,” a woman’s voice says calmly from the corridor. “I’m not a storm.”
I’m still holding onto the torch we just lit when she emerges from the shadows as if she were there the entire time, watching.
Her blonde hair is pulled back perfectly in a high, tight ponytail. She’s in dark, tailored clothing that doesn’t belong in a prison, and stiletto heels. Her face is flawless in a way that feels intentional, curated. Nothing about this woman is accidental. I know that now.
Her eyes find mine immediately. Not malevolent but assessing. Curious even. Jenna moves in front of me before I can stop her, wings flaring outward as if to shield me from Pestilence.
“Don’t,” Jenna says, but her voice doesn’t hold any authority or hope.
Pestilence smiles faintly, then lets out a laugh that is far more of a cackle than anything else.
“Still pretending you’re a shield, protecting those who can’t protect themselves,” she murmurs. “You were never good at that, Jenna.”
With a flick of her wrist, Jenna is tossed to the side, leaving me to stare at the beautiful woman who plans to use me as bait. She hasn’t addressed me yet, and for some reason, that bothers me more than it should.
“You took me,” I say, my voice steady despite my pulse hammering in my ears. “If you’re here to kill me, get on with it. I won’t let you steal ten years from me.” I feel bad for having voiced what Jenna has endured, but I have no intention of being her.
“Kill you?” she repeats, genuinely amused. “Why would I destroy my leverage? Kennedy, I thought you were smarter than that.”
“Oh, so you do know my name,” I say.
“Of course, I do.” Her gaze sharpens. “I know everything about you. Your habits, your loyalty, your friends,” she adds with an evil smirk, and my heart drops.
I know Salem can protect herself, but I can’t even warn her.
“And then there’s your inconvenient morality and need to fix everyone.
” She steps closer to the bars, and I instinctively take a step back, torch still in hand.
“You are far more interesting than I expected.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s a compliment,” I manage to choke out.
“No,” she agrees. “It’s a complication.” She finally glances over at Jenna, who hasn’t moved from the floor. “You’ve grown sentimental,” Pestilence says. “Letting her light torches. Hope. Don’t for a minute think I didn’t know what I was doing when I placed her with you.”
Jenna’s jaw tightens. “You don’t get to comment on how I endure my time down here. You left me here to rot.”
Pestilence’s smile vanishes, replaced with an inhuman stare. “You endure because I allow it, and don’t for one minute think that I can’t end you if I so choose.”
I step forward, placing the torch on the ground, the lit tip resting on the rock I once wielded as a weapon. “So, what do you want, because Reaver isn’t going to come searching for me like some knight in shining armor? If that’s what you think, then you don’t know him at all.”
That does it. Pestilence turns back to me slowly, deliberately, like she’s rewarding initiative. “I want what I have always wanted and deserved,” she says. “To rule.”
I don’t look away.
“You see, the Underworld is insufficient on its own. Chaos without balance collapses. Hell cannot rule everything. And we all know Hades doesn’t have it in him, never has.
” Her eyes gleam, sharp and ancient. “And Heaven—” She scoffs quietly.
“Heaven and that insufferable woman, Themis, have grown weak in their insistence on mercy, or whatever her backfired plan was for her fallen army.”
I’m about to question her some more when I hear Jenna’s meek, broken voice. “You’re still chasing after him.”
Pestilence’s gaze snaps to her as if Jenna’s comment hits a nerve.
“Careful,” she warns, and I swear I feel the ground beneath my feet quake.
“I’m nowhere near done with you, so don’t go getting any grandiose ideas about escaping or ever finding Gabriel.
Even if you ever found him, you’re no longer the Harbinger you once were, and he loves power and strength.
Two things you are clearly lacking. So I wouldn’t go making assumptions as to who I’m chasing. ”
As if brushing off a rogue thought, Pestilence shakes her head and slowly turns back to me.
“Despite what she may think, I am patient. Did you know that?” she asks, then continues before I can even think of answering her clearly rhetorical question.
“I’ve waited hundreds of years. I freed Reaver from Treachery Prison,” she says casually, as if discussing the weather. “Did he tell you that?”
My stomach tightens into a knot. Reaver never liked to talk about his time in Treachery, and all he said about his release was that he had to fight to get it. “You didn’t free him,” I say. “He fought his way out.”
Her lips curve into an evil smile. “I bargained for his release. He owed me,” she continues.
“Still does. And Archangels are so frustratingly difficult to collect when they hide. But they are much easier to get when they come for the woman they love.” She glares over at Jenna, and I know there is much more to her story than just being a captive here for a decade.
I feel something cold settle in my chest. I don’t know if it’s fear for Reaver if he comes, or fear for myself if he doesn’t.
“He thought disappearing would protect you,” she adds. “How quaint.”
She steps closer to the bars until she’s only inches from me. Up close, her power is suffocating. Not violent, not loud, just absolute.
“Heaven will not fall to force,” she says. “It must be handed over by one of its own.”
My voice is quiet but unwavering. “And you think Reaver will do that?”
Her smile returns, but this time it isn’t evil; it’s genuinely amused. “I know he will,” she states with a slight chuckle in her voice. “He’s predictable, just like they all are when it comes to love. The one thing they all search for.”
She turns away, already losing interest. “Rest,” she says over her shoulder. “Both of you. Reaver’s debt is coming due.” Then she pauses without turning back, and adds, “And Kennedy?”
“Yes?” I answer more out of polite habit than obedience to her command.
When she speaks, her voice is unnervingly calm. “He will come for you.”
Before I can argue that he will never trade me for the Heavens, the air that was heavy and malevolent snaps back into place, and she’s gone.
The torch outside our cell brightens, illuminating the empty corridor.
I don’t move, I don’t cry. I simply stare at the bars and think of only one thing. She thinks her plan begins with Reaver choosing to come for me. But I have no intention of letting that happen, not without a fight.