Page 64 of The River of Fire
Since Ash still hasn’t said anything, I turn back to him, and it’s then I notice the serious expression on his face. “We are to meet with Sataniel,” he says, voice tight.
I gape at him, mouth open, and sputter, “What? Where?”
“The Pits,” he replies darkly, hands fisting.
“Uh, can I RSVP a ‘no’ to that?” Puck looks to me as I speak, then back to Ash, waiting for his reply like he’s watching a tennis match. There are tomato seeds smeared all over his furry chin.
Ash gives me a slightly disdainful look. “If I infer the meaning of your words correctly, the answer is ‘no’.”
I sigh, my stomach fluttering with nerves. I neither want to see The Burning Pits of Hell nor meet its Crown Prince. “Should I dress in my armor, too?”
My archdemon shakes his head, looking as resigned as I’ve ever seen him. “It would not matter. If he wants to harm you, he will. And then our battle will bring Hell down around our ears.”
Goosebumps prick my flesh at his words. “Alright,” I sigh, standing up and skirting the table to reach him, leaving Puck to finish his meal and wishing I had kept an empty stomach for this. “How are we getting there? The whole hole-in-the-ground thing seems wildly unpleasant.”
Ash ignores my usual attempts of tension-relieving humor. “There is a seal we can use to open an entrance.”
“Oh, I’ve seen that. It’s on the balcony facing the sea, right?” He nods but doesn’t comment further.
We’re silent until we reach the balcony and the golden seal of his name. Stepping on it and facing me, he opens his arms in invitation and I wrap mine around him.
“Keep your wits about you,” he warns and then everything turns orange, heat suffusing the air around us. The floor beneath us disappears and a thunderous whoosh of Ash’s wings emerging sound near my ears. I briefly glance at the heated rock around us. Ignoring the fact that we’re currently descending into the core of Hell accompanied by the agonized wailing of damned souls, I trust in his hold and reach out a hand to caress the silken crimson feathers at the arch of one wing. It’s like fluffy down in places, the texture unexpected and comforting.
I can feel Ash’s jaw clench against my cheek. “Explore those later, lamb.”
“Can you feel that?” I ask, ignoring the suggestion and sliding my palm down the longer feathers within my reach.
“Very much so,” he replies, voice tight.
I tilt my head back so I can grin at him. “Does it tickle?”
He gives me a stern look as if to remind me this is not the time and place for teasing. “No.”
Before I can quiz him on how exactly it feels, we land softly on the dry rocky ground. It’s incredibly warm down here and Ash must be broiling in his armor. He takes my hand in his gloved one, thumb caressing it once, before he pulls me toward an arched opening at the end of the cavernous tunnel we’re in.
The air on the other side shimmers with heat and it feels like I’m walking into a giant hair dryer. I keep my thoughts to myself and try to fight the urge to climb Ashtaroth like he’s a tree in the Savannah and I’m running from a pack of lions.
The tunnel opens into a cavern with a throne on a tiered dais. Braziers with hellfire roar around it. Ash is moving us in its direction and I flinch when something cracks loudly under my feet. The ground is littered with brittle skeletal remains. At first, I think they are the bones of children, but then I notice the deformations; bones and skulls shaped in a way that makes it clear the small creatures were once demons.
I look at the empty throne and gulp. It’s the most grotesque piece of furniture a depraved mind could design. Malformed demonic wings rise behind the backrest, frozen in poses that speak of agony. A petrified snarling hellhound decorates the highest point, its mouth glowing with hellfire from within. Every jagged edge of the throne is covered in thick spiderwebs and primal fear twists my stomach.
It’s empty, but Ash still addresses it as if it weren’t. “You summoned us?” His voice is deep and he bows his head in deference.
A disembodied voice replies, seemingly coming from everywhere. “Ashtaroth.”
A flare of brilliant white light blinds me and the throne is no longer empty. A being sits on it, vaguely shaped like a man, but any features are hidden by tendrils of light, sparkling with the glow of newborn stars. The tendrils undulate and wave in the air, as if swaying to a symphony of heavenly music only they can hear. I feel wetness on my face and instinctively move to wipe itoff. My fingers come away covered in blood.
Ash swears and turns me into his arms, tucking my head to his chest. “My Prince, please,” he grits out, his hand tightening on my head convulsively.
“Ah,” the voice replies, sounding amused. It’s somehow both as light as diamond windchimes and as deep as the farthest reaches of undiscovered sea trenches. “I forget how delicate mortals are,” the creature chuckles, and the sound tightens everything within me. I really don’t want to feel aroused by the Devil.
Ashtaroth’s grip eases and he lets me go with a quiet warning. “Do not look directly at him.”
Lucifer scoffs, the sound far prettier than it should be. “Are you afraid your mortal will prefer my visage over yours, old friend?”
Ash doesn’t bother to reply and in the moment of silence, I slowly turn around. Curiosity is greater than my sense of preservation, and I glance at the Prince of Hell. I glimpse starlit silvery hair and eyes like diamonds set in a stunningly perfect face, skin glowing from within like a radiant opal. The need to drop to my knees and crawl to him in worship is overwhelming, and only Ash’s grip on my hand gives me the strength to look at the foot of the dais instead. It’s no wonder he was named after the brightest evening star.
“Shall I share with your master all the lovely ways you wish to worship me, Nephalem? You are quite imaginative and original, I must say.” He laughs and his light tone doesn’t match his hurtful words.
