Andromalius breathed through his nose and said again, “Follow me, witch.”
He wasn’t going to kill me. Interesting. But it also scared the crap out of me. There were worse things than suffering a clean, instant death. Try torture. Being tortured for hours. Being tortured for years.
Still, out of this place was a plus. Maybe the air would be cleaner wherever he was taking me.
“Lead the way, cowboy,” I wheezed, my mood brightening a smidgen. Maybe there was still a way to get out of Hell.
Screams of protest shouted from above, and things I didn’t want to admit I saw hit the ground at my feet in stinky bombs.
So, what’s a witch to do? Give them the finger, of course. So I did.
Holding my breath, I moved closer to Andromalius and walked alongside him, straining to match his speed even though every step sent jarring pain through my spine. Anywhere was better than this shithole, literally.
We walked in silence across what I could now see was a gargantuan cave, the size of a football field—less the cages. Lights played in soft colors on the walls, mostly shifting in reds and yellows. The cave was made of black rock, and the walls were jagged and sharp like razor blades. I made a mental note to not touch the walls if I didn’t want to lose a finger.
“Where are you taking me?” I was a curious creature. I couldn’t help it. All witches were. How did that saying go? Curiosity killed the witch—and her cat? Yeah, we were always meddling in things that didn’t concern us.
The minotaur demon’s muzzle clenched, but he said nothing.
“How come I’m still alive and breathing?” I waited a beat longer. “I’m mortal. I shouldn’t be alive. How is it that I’m still alive?”
Andromalius shifted his gaze down to me, and for a moment I thought he was going to answer. His yellow eyes blazed, but then he looked away and kept walking.
“Not much of a talker.” Grimacing, I trudged forward, my hip and shoulder throbbing as another wave of nausea hit me, making me stumble. I caught myself before I fell flat on my face. I refused to show this demon how much pain I was in as I followed him.
The floor sloped slightly up, where a mound in the cave floor gave rise to an enormous steel door.
Andromalius pulled open the door and beckoned me to follow.
So I did.
With a curious sideways shuffle, I stole a peek behind the giant minotaur’s back, but I saw only darkness and shadow. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I felt it.
For one breathless moment, I felt as though my entire soul chimed with sound of dark laughter. Demonic magic.
The air shimmered before me like heat waves. The pull of magic was strong, and it was making me feel even more nauseated.
When the world stabilized around me, I stood in a ballroom.
What the hell?
I stumbled into the massive room that was easily the size of a grand cathedral. Iron chandeliers hung from twenty-foot ceilings held by pillars decorated with paintings, depicting various demons battling winged angels. Orange light fell from overhead, illuminating the polished black floor into a myriad of colors. Iron tables lined the walls, laden with bottles, decanters, chocolates, cakes, and hundreds of different types of hard and chewy candy.
Across the ballroom, a group of demon musicians with several arms played instruments straight from the dark ages on a dais. The music was dark and medieval, sounding like a close version of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana.
The air was not better in here, and I tried not to take deep breaths though my lungs needed it.
The music turned faster, louder, and though I’d grown accustomed to the smell of demonic magic, my nose pricked and burned with the rising tang of sulfur, stronger than I’d ever sensed it.
The dancers were a spectacle on their own. Poe would have loved to see this.
Hundreds of demons danced about the room, mid-demons in their humanoid forms by the looks of them. There were no imps or ghouls here, though I couldn’t distinguish any of their features beyond the various masks they wore.
Couples moved about the ballroom floor in blurs of fancy lace, silk, and shadows of swirling colors. They danced expertly, moving to the rhythm of the dark orchestra.
Demons had masquerade balls? How twisted was this?
More disturbing was that none of the dancing demons payed any attention to me, too enthralled in the music and the dancing, as though they were in some kind of trance.
I didn’t care how pretty and lavish it all was, in a disturbing way. I just wanted to go home and breathe clean air. I wanted to get back to my life, to my world.
I looked up at Andromalius, and the minotaur demon was still, looking like a statue carved out from Greek mythology.
“If I had known this was a soirée,” I managed to get out. “I would have worn my dancing shoes.”
And then the music stopped. So did the dancing.
Shit.
My heart did its own beating of music as the ballroom floor dancers parted in unison like a great curtain.
In the middle of the ballroom floor stood a single female demon.
She was dressed in a light blue formal ball gown with a wide, floor-skimming skirt that could have fit five demons under it, a robe à la française. It was open at the front and ended in a flowing train. A long neckline and a generous amount of breast spilled from the top of the fitted and jewel-adorned bodice. Her white-colored wig was styled in a pouf, piled a foot over her head in neat tresses and decorated with bows and sparkling jewelry.
Her skin was paper-white and flawless, as though she’d never seen the sun in a thousand years—very vampiric. Unlike the other dancers, she wasn’t wearing a mask, revealing a thin face with hard edges. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but she wasn’t ugly either.
If I were to guess, I’d say she was going for a Marie-Antoinette look. Though I doubted the late French Queen would have sported red eyes with that outfit.
Her blood-red eyes narrowed, and her expression was filled with a stern, almost regal confidence. An amused smile curled her perfect red lips.
My pulse throbbed. The only thing I knew or could be sure of in this godforsaken place at this very moment was that I was staring at Vorkol, the late Greater demon Vargal’s wife.
16
“Move!” With a powerful thrust, Andromalius rammed me in the back, and I pitched forward. Unable to stop my fall, I slammed into the cold hard floor in a jumble of limbs. My chin smacked the cold stone and I tasted blood in my mouth, my bones groaning and barking in pain. Fire blazed across my face and in my limbs. I hurt everywhere.
Harsh, guttural laughter rose all around me, the sound bouncing off the walls and echoing in my ears, nightmarish and endless. Bastards. Pure hatred filled me, and for a moment it consumed my pain. If only I could use my magic, I’d burn them all.
“Get up,” growled Andromalius, and a thick hand grabbed me by the arm and hauled me to my feet, sparks dancing in my eyes as I steadied myself.
“Move,” he said again and pushed me forward. It was a miracle I stayed upright.
Wincing, I willed my legs forward, moving as fast as I could without breaking into tears. God, it hurt. I didn’t want to add to the already self-satisfied smile on Vorkol’s face. She was enjoying my pain a little too much—and rightly so. I had killed her husband. But, like I said, he’d started it.