CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
KENNEDY
I’ve never been very fond of horror movies, and now, having spent some time living in one, I’ve decided that I like them even less. The journey through Pesta’s maze of despair has been… unpleasant, and that’s putting it mildly.
If I never see another river of fire, giant killer monster, or hear another tortured soul scream, it will be too soon.
And the smell…God, the smell. It’s like someone took every bad scent in the world, put them in a blender, and set it on fire.
It’s so bad that my eyes are watering, but at least now I’m not threatening to vomit with every breath.
Although I think that’s because I’ve gotten used to it, and that scares me more than anything.
“Are you doing okay?” Jenna asks, glancing back at me as we creep our way through the narrow stone corridor. Her voice is barely above a whisper, but even that seems to echo off the damp walls.
“Oh, I’m just peachy,” I mutter, wiping sweat from my forehead. “Just living my best life, sneaking through Hell to searching for a Blood Angel I’ve never met from one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. You know, typical Tuesday for me.”
Despite the terror coursing through my veins, Jenna lets out a soft laugh. “It’s actually Friday.”
“Is it? Time really does fly when you’re terrified for your life.”
I watch as Jenna shakes her head and chuckles to herself. “I didn’t know what year it was. Do you really think I know that actual day is?”
“Oh, there’s that sparkling attitude. I was so beginning to miss it,” I snap, but my voice holds no malice. After all, she has a point.
We continue down the winding corridors, keeping to the walls and listening for anything that might be following us.
We’d been searching for a way out for what felt like hours through Pestilence’s fortress—a charming little vacation spot complete with screaming corridors, torture chambers, and décor that could only be described as “early dungeon chic.” The walls were slick with something I was choosing not to identify, and every shadow seemed to writhe with menace.
My heart hadn’t stopped racing since we’d made it up the stairs.
The Gatherers were bad enough, but at least Jenna handled them.
Down here, I’m just a human psychologist with six self-defense classes and a YouTube degree in lock picking, neither of which are going to help us if something worse than the Gatherers finds us.
“What the hell am I even doing here?” I mutter to myself, not expecting Jenna to hear me and certainly not expecting her to answer.
“You’re here for the same reasons I am. And that all boils down to Pestilence’s jealousy. For me, she still wants Gabriel’s love, and for you, she wants Reaver to do her dirty work.”
I’m about to debate with her on why I would be needed and all the other reasons that make no sense for me to be here when she holds up her hand, stopping us. Jenna’s voice pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. “Did you hear that?” she whispers.
I freeze, straining my ears, trying to focus on the sounds around me. At first, all I can hear is the distant dripping of water and my own thundering heartbeat. Then I hear it—a low, ragged sound. It doesn’t quite sound human, more like a tortured animal trying not to scream.
“That way,” Jenna points down a side corridor that somehow looks even more ominous than the one we were currently in, because, of course, it did.
As we force ourselves to push forward, the sound grows louder. It isn’t screaming exactly—more like someone breathing through unbearable pain. Someone who was doing it for a very, very long time.
When we round the corner at the end of the hall, the corridor opens into a wider space, and I bite my lip to keep from gasping out loud.
Cells. Dozens of them, carved into the stone walls like a honeycomb. Most are empty, but a few… a few aren’t. Things are moving in the darkness behind those bars, things that make my skin crawl and my fight-or-flight response scream FLIGHT.
“Oh my God,” I breathe out as I take it all in. My thoughts, of course, go directly to Reaver and his time in Treachery Prison. “Is this…
“I can assure you, God has nothing to do with this place.”
“Are you even sure that Gabriel is here? I mean, do you really think he was captured by Pestilence and brought here? For all you know, maybe he’s—” I stop myself from going on because how would I feel if she told me Reaver was most likely dead, and that’s why he didn’t come for me for ten years.
Jenna whips her head around and glares at me.
“It’s the only reason why he would have stopped searching for me.
He has to be here.” I can hear the hope in her voice, but it’s also wrapped in worry.
“You underestimate these men, Kennedy. They aren’t human, which means they love on an entirely different level, something humanity can’t even begin to understand.
They will stop at nothing, including sacrificing themselves to keep those they love safe. ”
Perhaps she’s right. I’ve watched these fallen, broken Archangels, these Blood Angels throw down their lives countless times for love. Yet somehow, my mind still refuses to give in to the fact that Reaver would do the same thing for me.
“Okay,” I nod, as I begin to understand that she would do the same for Gabriel.
She’s willing to sacrifice not only her freedom, but mine as well, on hope, something I’m not sure I have.
“Which one?” I whisper, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to sound calm.
Professional Kennedy would be so disappointed in me right now.
Jenna closes her eyes, and I watch as something shifts in the air around her. Her wings—those massive, obsidian wings she usually keeps hidden—flicker into view for just a moment before disappearing again. When she opens her eyes, all the white is gone, replaced by black pools.
“There.” She points to a cell at the far end. “I can feel… death. Old death and something else. Something that shouldn’t be here.”
“Great. Just great. It’s the ‘something that shouldn’t be here’ part I’m a bit scared of.” I take a moment to glance around the area. Again, my mind wanders to Reaver, and part of me begins to understand why he is so broken. “Is this Treachery Prison?” I ask out loud, not expecting an answer.
“Not even close,” Jenna says back. “This would seem like a spa to those locked away there. No, this is just Pesta’s playground. Come on,” she adds, latching onto my arm and pulling me forward.
We slink along the landing, still attempting to stay hidden.
It’s slow going. This section of Pesta’s fortress is crumbling and dying, not unlike its occupants.
It almost makes me homesick for the cell I shared with Jenna.
As we approach the furthest, darkest carved-out cell, the smell grows worse—if that is even possible.
Blood, old and new, mixed with infection and decay.
Having done a residency in a hospital, I recognize it. It’s a smell you never forget. It’s death. Yet somehow underneath it all, there is something that smells oddly like… roses and honeysuckle. It’s sweet, yet somehow more vile than the putrid stench of rot.
“Is that—” I start to ask.
Jenna sniffs the air. “It’s Pestilence’s perfume,” she answers grimly. “She’s been here. Recently,” she adds.
The cell door is partially open, which seems both convenient and deeply suspicious. Nothing in this place is ever convenient without a catch. I learned that lesson pretty damn quickly in the past few hours.
Jenna moves to push it open completely, and I put my hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “Are you sure you want to see what’s in there?”
“No,” she chokes out as the last of her bravado leaves her. I can feel her frail body trembling under my hand. “But I have to.”
“Then let me go first,” I say before my logical mind can stop me. “Stay here, guard the door.”
Jenna gives me a curt nod and steps aside. Slowly, I push forward, the rusted hinges screaming in protest. I wince at the sound, certain it will alert every demon and apocalyptic horsemen in a five-mile radius.
Inside, the cell is dark, save for a faint, sickly green glow emanating from a set of chains mounted to the far wall. But it’s what is suspended from them that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
“Oh my God,” I breathe out, my voice trembling.
A man dangles limply against the wall, his arms stretched above his head at an angle that must be agonizing. Stretched out and flattened against the stone behind him are his wings, held in place by spikes driven through them.
On the ground beneath him are dark circles of old, dried blood.
His wings that I can imagine were once beautiful are now in tatters, some feathers missing entirely, others bent at unnatural angles.
Blood, fresh and glistening wet, covers most of his torso, and his head hangs forward, long, matted dark hair covering his face.
For a moment, I think we’re too late. That he’s already dead or worse, as so many here are fond of saying. Then I see it. His chest rises, just barely. A shallow, rattling breath that speaks of lungs filled with fluid and ribs that are most likely broken.
“What do you see?” Jenna asks from just outside the cell.
“A man. He’s alive,” I whisper. “Barely, and he’s in bad shape,” I add, not knowing what else to say to prepare her for what he looks like.
Jenna rushes forward before I can even begin to prepare her for the sight.
“Oh my God,” she gasps and covers her mouth. Even in the dim light, I can see her eyes fill with tears. I know this broken man is Gabriel.
“Gabriel?” Jenna whispers softly, reaching out to touch his face. The moment her fingers make contact, his eyes fly open.