CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
REAVER
The thing about descending into Hell is that it never gets easier, no matter how many times you’ve done it. And trust me, I’ve done it more times than I care to count.
Standing at the edge of the portal, I can already feel the heat radiating up from below. The air shimmers and distorts, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of sulfur, burning flesh, and regret. Mostly regret.
“You sure about this?” Cain’s voice crackles through my comm. He’s somewhere topside, probably nursing a drink and pretending he isn’t worried about me diving headfirst into Pestilence’s domain.
“When have I ever been sure about anything?” I reply, adjusting the straps on my gear. My sword feels heavier than usual against my back, or maybe it’s just the weight of what I am about to do. The dagger that Hades gave me hums against my forearm. It’s ready for a battle, and I am too.
“Fair point. Just do me a solid and try not to die. Kat will kill me if I have to explain to her why I let you go alone. And Ash will fire me, so no pressure.”
I let out a slight laugh, Cain forever the jokester. “Tell her it was my charming personality and devastating good looks that convinced you.”
Cain snorts through the comm. “Yeah, because those have gotten you so far in life.”
I can’t help the slight twitch of my lips. Even facing a descent into literal Hell, Cain has a way of being able to make me almost smile. It’s a gift, really.
“Kennedy’s down there,” I remind him, my voice dropping to something more serious. “Pestilence took her, and that means—”
“That means Pesta wants you specifically.” Cain finishes my sentence before I can. “Which is why this is obviously a trap, and you’re obviously going anyway because you’re an idiot with a hero complex.”
“I prefer strategically reckless.”
“Yeah, well, I prefer actively suicidal, but tomato, tomahto.”
I inhale deeply—probably my last breath of relatively clean air for a while—and step toward the portal’s edge. The heat intensifies, and I can see the first rings of fire spiraling down into darkness below.
Dante had it mostly right with his whole Inferno thing, except he was way too poetic about it. There is nothing beautiful or divine about Hell’s architecture. It’s just pain rendered in fire and stone, and the screams of the damned.
“Hey, Reave.” Cain’s voice lost all its sarcastic edge. “Bring her back, buddy.”
“That’s the only plan.”
“Yeah, well, that’s plan A. Plan B is to bring yourself back too. I know it’s not your usual MO but humor me.”
I don’t bother to respond. We both know I’ll trade my life for Kennedy’s without hesitation, and we both know Cain would do the same for Kat. It’s what we do for the people we love, even if we’re too fucked up to ever tell them.
Without another moment of hesitation, I jump through the gate and descend once again into Hell.
The descent isn’t immediate and violent.
Wind—if you can call the superheated air currents wind—rips at my clothes and hair as I fall through ring after ring of fire.
My wings snap open instinctively, catching the thermals and slowing my fall just enough so that I won’t crater into whatever hellscape waits for me below.
Through the flames, I can see glimpses of the levels as I pass.
The first few rings are almost pedestrian in their torment—souls being whipped, burned, drowned in lakes of fire.
Standard Hell stuff. But as I descend deeper, the tortures became more creative, more personal.
More like Treachery Prison, which is on a level all its own.
These are the depths where Pestilence holds court, where disease and decay are elevated to art forms.
I angle my wings and aim for what looks like a relatively solid piece of ground near the base of the ninth circle.
My landing is less than graceful—more of a controlled crash than anything—and I end up rolling several times before coming to a stop against a boulder that is definitely too warm to be comfortable.
“Fuck,” I groan, pushing myself to my feet. My comm crackles with static, no surprise there. The deeper into Hell you go, the harder it is to maintain any connection to the world above.
No, down here, I am on my own, just the way Pesta intended.
The landscape around me is exactly as cheerful as you’d expect.
Rivers of lava cut through fields of ash and bone.
The sky—if you can call it that—is a roiling mass of dark clouds lit from below by countless fires.
The air is thick enough to chew, and every breath tastes like someone had deep-fried despair and served it with a side of anguish.
“Home sweet home,” I mutter, drawing my sword. The blade sings as it leaves its sheath, eager for violence. We have that in common.
I barely take three steps when I hear it. A faint, pained whimper.
My first instinct is to ignore it. Down here, sounds like that are usually bait or some demon’s idea of a fun trap—play on the sympathies of any hero dumb enough to venture down here, then ambush them when they investigate.
But something about this whimper is different. It doesn’t sound like the manufactured sound of a lure. It is genuine pain, genuine fear, and it scrapes against something in my chest that I thought I’d bricked over centuries ago.
“Don’t be stupid,” I say to myself, even as my feet carry me toward the sound. “Focus on the mission, find Kennedy, kill Pestilence, and don’t get distracted by—”
I round a cluster of jagged rocks and stop dead in my tracks as I look at what was making that tortured whimper.
A dog. A fucking dog, here in the deepest pit of Hell.
It is curled up against a rock formation, trying to make itself as small as possible. Its fur—what is left of it—is matted with ash and burned in several places. One of its back legs is twisted at an angle that makes my stomach turn, and its ribcage is so prominent I can count every bone.
But it is its eyes that get me. Despite everything, despite the pain and fear and impossibility of its situation, when it looks at me, there is still hope there, still trust.
“Well, shit,” I breathe out. The dog’s tail gives me the faintest twitch. When it sees me, it’s not quite a wag, but an acknowledgment, a plea.
I glance around, half expecting this to be the setup for an ambush, but there is nothing around. Just me, the dog, and the ambient sound of distant screaming.
“You picked a really bad time to need rescuing,” I tell the dog, as I hold out my hand and kneel beside it.
“I’m kind of on a tight schedule here. Damsel in distress, evil Horseman to confront.
The usual Thursday activities.” I give the dog another good look.
“But you’re a little damsel in distress too, aren’t you? ”
The dog lets out another pained whimper, and I can feel something in my chest crack. Just a little, just enough to let me know I’m not as heartless as everyone thinks I am.
“Okay, okay, don’t give me that look.” I carefully slide my hands under the dog’s body, mindful of the broken leg and the burns.
The poor thing whines as I lift him, but doesn’t try to bite me or struggle, which is more trust than most creatures have ever shown me.
“Let’s get you somewhere less actively on fire,” I tell her as I scan the area for a safe spot.
“How did you even get down here? You do know all dogs go to Heaven, right?”
I stand, cradling the dog against my chest. It’s disturbingly light, all bones and burned fur and a desperate will to survive.
“You know what your problem is?” I ask the dog as I start walking, scanning for anything that resembles shelter.
“You’re in Hell, and your other problem is that you’re now stuck with me, and I’m about to do something spectacularly stupid.
So really, your day just keeps getting worse.
” The dog presses its head against my chest, right over my heart, and I can feel its rapid, weak heartbeat fluttering like a dying bird.
Humanity failed me over and over again for centuries. I watched them destroy themselves, each other, everything they touched. I saved them countless times, and they learned nothing. Done nothing, changed nothing.
But this dog? This dog didn’t ask to be here. She doesn’t deserve this. This poor little creature hasn’t done anything except exist in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“You’re going to make it,” I reassure the dog, and I’m surprised to find I actually mean it. “I don’t know how yet, but you’re going to make it. That’s a promise.”
It’s a dangerous promise to make in Hell, but I’ve never been particularly good at playing it safe.
I’m not exactly sure how long I walk carrying my newfound friend, but it’s more than a few minutes before I spot what looks like an abandoned structure—some kind of twisted stone building that has partially collapsed. “It’ll have to do,” I inform my canine companion.
I need to kick a few fallen stones out of the way in order to make my way inside. I search around the ramshackle shed, looking for threats before setting the dog down on a relatively flat piece of stone.
“Alright, let’s see what we’re working with.” I pull out my field medical kit. It’s designed for Blood Angels and other supernatural entities, but trauma is trauma. I’ll just have to work with what I have.
The dog watches me with pleading brown eyes as I clean and dress its wounds. I don’t have much in the way of supplies, but I have enough to stabilize the leg and treat some of the worst burns.
“There you go, princess,” I say as I give her a little scratch on the head.
“You know what I think?” I say as I continue to work, my voice low and steady.
“I think I’ve been saving the wrong species all this time.
Humans are exhausting. They’re selfish and short-sighted and they never learn.
But you? You just want to survive. You just want someone to show you basic kindness.
That’s honest. That’s worth a whole lot of something in my book. ”