Caged by Damnation (13 page)

Ash had been right. After Izzy delivered her telepathic message, I couldn't ignore it. It was far too compelling a mystery, and after several more insistent messages from Izzy, none of us could consider putting it off. After Isis left, trying to distance herself from the migraine-inducing communication Izzy was forcing on us, she came back within minutes. Apparently, Izzy's projective thoughts weren't hindered by distance.

It wasn't difficult to spring Izzy from her prison while Rafe conveniently distracted Maloc. We hadn't asked him to help, but we were relieved when he took care of the ancient soldier anyhow.

Now, after a few accidental wrong turns, we stood before the large doors Izzy had shown us. They were
massive, resembling something from ancient ruins that had stood against time and ended up here by chance rather than choice.

Liam had caught up to us on our way to the hidden chamber and didn't seem to mind that we were about to break into a room that supposedly did not exist. He even came in handy, silencing the alert system and stopping Isis from breaking the tripwire. I didn't ask where he learned how to break into a high security system, I wasn't sure I would be happy with the answer.

Stepping forward, I pushed and pulled at the door, but didn’t gain any ground. The others took pity on me and joined in, Isis and Griffin to my left, Liam and Ash remaining on my right. Izzy watched from a few feet away. The ancient doors protested our efforts, its aching joints finally giving up a few feet. It then settled, refusing to utilize movements that were likely forgotten.

We walked into the chamber as a team with Izzy bringing up the rear. A fit of sneezing in Griffin’s direction began a chain reaction of dust kicking up, clouding our vision. Somehow, Ash managed to open the only skylight window, while Isis found lanterns for each of us to use.

Electricity seemed a luxury in this room, as our lanterns illuminated the decrepit chamber. The room had seen better days, when it had been visited, but it hadn't had a visitor in a lifetime. The stench of mold was overpowering, but a breeze drifted through the window and swept around the room with a cleansing aura.

Chairs laid upside down on circular tables covered in scrolls and leather-bound books. Cabinets, bookshelves, and desks had been left in disorder, as if the room had been vacated quickly, forcing the occupants to leave their work and personal effects behind.

I wandered aimlessly, not sure what I was looking for, but needing to be productive. The others did similarly. A rectangular shape lay against one wall, imposing in its silence and posing a daunting task. The ghost of the desk’s past owner lingered in the stray letters, pens with the ends bitten, and bits of décor.

Trailing my fingers across the rough surface of unpolished wood, I noticed a frame coupled with fractured glass in the shape of a web. Inside was a photograph, its edges torn from age. The picture was of the room we were currently in, though it vastly different, teeming with people – scholars bent over books and scrolls while warriors guarded every bookcase, desk, table, and entrance.

Gathering the frame, I unhooked the back, detached it, and withdrew the aged photo. The edge that had been hidden behind the border was now visible. A figure stood within the shadows, both part and apart from them. The underworld had reached through the floorboards to tangle around his body, an extension of his hollow soul that was connected to Hell.

The man was dressed in a black suit that had seen better days. A seam was torn across the jacket and his pants looked faded from wear. He wore a fedora angled to one side and he was penetrating the camera with a look that could incinerate an entire town.

My vision eclipsed, leaving me paralyzed with fear, as the man within the picture changed position. He no longer stood in the background; his massive shoulders blocked out most of the background, leaving little room to question the change. I felt like I was holding a photograph taken minutes after the original, but it was the same one.

Holding the photo before me, against its decaying counterpart, it shifted once more and disappeared. I was suddenly alone in the room, as it had been in its prime. The others were gone and I was staring into the eyes of Asmodeus. I was beginning to get used to these visions and his annoying habit of popping up in them.

I wasn't sure that was a good thing.

This clip of the past reminded me of a silent movie – shades of black, white, and grays. Neither of us moved or made a sound, though our faces conveyed more emotion than conversation ever could.

"Does this make you uncomfortable?" He spoke and I cursed him for ruining the moment. I had almost forgotten the evil his words had a habit of leaving behind.

"I'm always uncomfortable when you're around."

Asmodeus smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment then." He gestured to the room around us. "It's different than today. Do you know what this place is used for?" I shook my head, waiting for him to continue. "It's a library of forbidden texts. Scrolls, prophecies, and all other evidence that we aren't supposed to know about, are locked away here."

I deliberately baited him with a venomous tone. "If it's forbidden, why was it so easy for Liam to break into?" It irritated me that the answers to my questions would come from the one male I couldn't stand. Besides, Asmodeus was supposed to be expunged from my life. He was dead. So why did he keep haunting me?

"It was a little too easy, wasn't it?"

My stomach churned at the smile he directed towards me. The room became a hazy tomb as I focused on my surroundings, willing them to remain. If I was going to have Asmodeus shoved into my mind, couldn't I at least dictate the terms?

Concentrating on his form, I held onto that image, ignoring the walls around me as they flew by. It felt like I was strapped into the passenger seat of a racecar, unable to maneuver the events unfolding around me, but trying desperately to find a piece of substance to hold onto, something that might bring my world to a pause long enough for me to process and react.

Asmodeus reached towards an overly large book on top of a center bookcase, pulling it down and opening it to
reveal a scroll. It was rolled tightly and tied with what looked to be human hair in strands of gold, brown, and auburn. The edges coiled inward, as paper did when it hadn't seen the light in an age. He grasped the document, and his eyes reached mine, and his lips moved, telling me something. His words were left behind as my consciousness smacked back into my body.

CHAPTER 9

WILLOW

I stopped in the common room after leaving my domain, needing a break from all the events that had taken place. I was overwhelmed; everything was unfamiliar and the stress was astounding. Curling up in the corner of the sofa, I cradled a small pillow to my midsection. It was a small comfort, but one I needed.

Across from me, the fireplace blazed a husky glow against the rose quartz it had been carved into. The small embers glistened off of the surface to create the illusion of a shimmering light throughout the room. It was lovely, but made my exhaustion that much more obvious.

Fatigue washed through me, making me wonder what time it was. Since I had woken up this morning, I had been led from Hellhound to Hellhound without even a meal. I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten. My stomach aired its grievance at its mistreatment, but I ignored it the same way everyone else seemed to be doing.

Without clocks, or a window to show the sky, I had no way to tell if it was lunchtime, dinnertime, or bedtime. Death might be in a hurry for me to go through
the change,
but I needed rest or I was going to be on the verge of a mental breakdown.

On the floor next to the couch was a basket with blankets. I pulled a downy plum-colored Snuggie over me, rested my head against the pillow, and closed my eyes. I had barely begun to drift towards a warm slumber when a loud creak squelched any chance of resting that I had.

Using the back of the sofa as leverage, I pulled myself into a semi-sitting state to look over at the doors in the common room. When I had first seen them, they'd reminded me of guardians or prison guards; now they served as torturers. Their reckless clamor had torn through my peace and left me with a dour-faced Death.

The doors had mostly closed; only one was slightly open, held in Death's grip, as he stood facing me. He looked more casual than I was used to seeing him, as though he had just woken from a nap himself. His eyes were softer, his hair in disarray, and for once he wasn't dressed from head to toe in black. He was wearing a thin, white canvas shirt. It was mostly unbuttoned, showing his chest and abdomen, which led to pair of dark blue jeans and black leather shoes.

Death looked like a character from a romance novel, not one that the heroine would fall in love with, but instead the character with a dark past who always ended up losing the girl. His was the personality that had too many walls built around it, barriers that kept away a chance at anything more than existence. His eyes were soulful, carrying a burden I hadn't thought he cared to carry. His posture was proud, commanding, but stifled by the weight of a world that acknowledged him but never allowed him to be a part of it. He was feared, revered, but never loved. He was the person that everyone loved to hate or hated to love, but was never given a happy ending. Instead he was faced with torment and loneliness.

I recognized these things in him because I had seen the same characteristics in Savannah when she’d first come to our coven. The main difference between Death and Savannah was that S had one life to live. She accepted that and put everything she had into it. She never took it for granted, but pushed through her own insecurities to find something tangible. Death had too many lives to endure, but knowing he had all the time in the world made it impossible to live in the moment.

Death's stoicism flared up, leaving me to wonder if the glimpse I had caught of his inner shell had been a hallucination. Did the shadows behind his eyes mean he was worried that I had seen beneath his mask? Death was many things, but could he have a soul that was more human than monster?

What was a monster? The definition varied based on who was asked. A child would use the most simple definition,
a bad man
or
someone evil
. Savannah's definition was based on her childhood experiences,
someone who committed an unforgiveable offense against an innocent
. Izzy would probably use a single word,
Demon.
Looking at Death, I realized that I had treated him the way I would if someone were the essence of evil, but did I truly believe that he was?

Death firmly closed the doors behind him, as if warning me away from what I assumed were his chambers. He didn't move away from the doors, but leaned his head back against them and crossed his arms. A duel of silence enclosed around us.

"I'm sorry about my meltdown earlier. It was rude of me."

Death seemed taken aback by my apology, but the look quickly vanished into the same hollowness of his vulnerability. Lifting away from the door, he crossed to stand near the couch with only small cushions separating us. It was intimidating to crane my head to look up at him, and extremely aggravating to find a satisfied grin plastered to his face. I wanted to wipe it off and take back my apology, but knew that would be childish.

"In my defense, you did take me away from everything and everyone I have ever loved. You're planning to change me into a completely different species without giving me any specifics, and you are too arrogant for your own good."

Death's smile vanished, replaced with a thinning mouth which angled down at each end. "You're not very apt at apologies."

"You're not so great yourself. At least I know how to say I'm sorry. You just expect to be forgiven." With emphasis, I continued. "Oh wait, you're Death. You never need to apologize, use manners, or treat others as equals. I think your ego is inflated and you need a reality check. You are not lord and master of all. Maybe you should try treating everyone with more respect." Directing a sheepish look his way, I then began paying special attention to the pattern of the blanket I held in my clutches.

With a bluntness that I was forced to give him credit for, Death replied, "Respect is earned." Then, shockingly, he said, "I'm sorry
that
you have to be here. I'm sorry I made you choose and you had to give up everything. I'm sorry I gave you an ultimatum, but I'm not sorry that you're here. The world relies on the Hellhounds. They are all that stands between humanity and evil. We need you, and sometimes that means I have to ignore what a single girl wants to put everyone else first." His eyes became shaded. "I'm sorry you're stuck with someone like me, but don't take it out on your sisters. This is just as difficult for each of them."

Death turned, opening the doors in the common room, and left me gaping like a fish. My mouth was wide with so many apologies, but mostly with the realization that I had been selfish.

I twisted out of the blanket and tossed the pillow back onto the couch. When I reached the doors, I pulled without success. They wouldn't open. Stubbornly, I placed one foot against the wall as leverage and pulled harder. Still, the door remained fused shut, as if it had never opened.

"You're not going to get in that way." I turned to find Scrye watching me, her eyes hauntingly white.

"How do I get in then?" I blew a stray strand of hair away from my eyes. She laughed, moving forward to deftly place the hair back into the braid. "It's a door. How else am I supposed to get in?

Scrye furrowed her eyebrows, glancing warily at the doors, before addressing me. "The doors are more decorative than anything. We all have control over our
domains. You only pass if he wants you to." She shrugged. "He doesn't like any of us being in there. I've never been invited – most of us haven't. I think he allowed Echo in once or twice, but only because she had a good reason."

"So, how exactly do I get permission?"

Scrye shook her head the way a mother would when asked a silly question. "You ask." She gestured to the door. "Have you ever had anyone visit your home? Don't they knock and speak through the door? Honestly, it may look different here, but many of the same rules apply."

She retreated the way she came. I looked at the door disdainfully and knew I was about to feel completely ridiculous for talking to a pair of doors. Especially when they looked too thick for sound to penetrate.

The cold of the iron doors swept past my skin to settle within me. I shivered, part of me feeling a sense of doom. I knocked, but the iron hurt my knuckles and I barely made a sound. "Can I come in?"

Moving around the common room, I looked for something I could knock on the doors with. I grabbed a candlestick, removed the melted wax of the candle and used the underside to knock on the door. The result was a hideous scratch on Death's door. I cringed, waiting for a reckoning at the desecration of his home, but nothing happened.

Resigned, I knocked again, and when no answer was given, I started banging on the exact same location while screaming, "Death! I'm not going anywhere until I talk to you! I can do this all night!" Suddenly the candlestick flew from my fingers to land on the shelf above the fireplace. The doors shook, but one opened enough for me to peer through. I grabbed the ring of the door and pulled with all my might. It took a few tries, but the door finally opened enough that I would be able to slip inside.

I backed away from the doors, the opening weighing on me with the fear of what I would find on the other side.
This was Death's domain. What if Hell lay on the other side of the door? Would I be swallowed up in flames, doomed to be tortured for daring to talk back to him? Willing the notion from my mind, I reminded myself that he needed me.

My emotions were conflicted where Death came into play. One moment I hated him, thinking he was a priggish male with far too much time on his hands. Other times, I felt guilty that I viewed him in such a stale light. It seemed I wasn't immune to the crimson stamps others had labeled Death with. He was judged often, and yet those who did so had yet to meet him. How could a living, breathing person know who Death really was, when they didn’t know him on a personal level?

"Make up your mind." Death's voice carried through the opening in the doors. He sounded closer than I believed he could be. The inner sanctum behind the door was pitch black, hindering my eyesight and making me believe he couldn't be close enough to see me, but he was.

"I...." My voice trailed off in a sleepy rhythm that bespoke the reasoning behind my hesitance. I was embarrassed by the fear that had swallowed me whole. If there were such a thing as an aquarium filled to the brim with trepidation, and the annoying feeling that the walls were about to devour me, I was immersed in it. The icy waters of anxiety held me back from what I needed to do.

All it would take for me to enter Death's domain was a few minor steps. If I could have taken them over the course of a lifetime, the way most people did, I would have been fine. Unfortunately, I didn't have until old age to make peace with Death. I needed to move forth and bridge the gap that I knew was destined to expand if I didn't repair it now.

Closing my eyes, I held my breath and squeezed through the doorway. I didn't want to see what was on the other side until it would be too late to turn back. Otherwise,
I would lose my nerve. Once I was fully inside, I cringed at the cry of the doors closing. Surprisingly, I didn't burst into flames or endure any other type of agony. Instead, a slight breeze whirled around me, carrying with it the scent of vanilla and cherry blossoms.

The husky tone of Death’s voice made its way through the darkness, locating me amongst the echoing chambers. "I see you finally made up your mind."

My eyes opened, stinging from the sudden light, and I was brought up short by Death's chambers. He was sitting to the side of the room in a circular chair with one leg balancing on the knee of the other, holding his chin between his thumb and pointer finger, appraising me.

Death's face remained stagnant. "What do you want?"

Ignoring the barb, I glanced around his room, noticing his eclectic tastes. Death's domain seemed to be lit by prisms reflecting the light of the fireplace tenfold. A chaise took up residence where I expected to find a bed. I could understand a bachelor owning a futon, but a chaise? It was overly girly and I suspected it would be uncomfortable for anything longer than a nap.

One wall was covered in a tapestry of a gazebo; the other held shelves, which should have contained books, but instead held an array of objects. I was reminded of a museum since the objects merged old with new, except the old were positively archaic and the new were barreling into the space age. 

"I have a theory." I picked up a chunk of rock, churning it in my hands. It was a cave painting and I was fairly sure it had been stolen from an archeological site.

"A theory? Do I even want to know?" Death drawled, as he stood to take the stone from my grasp and place it back on its shelf.

"We rub each other the wrong way."

Death's eyebrow rose at the double meaning behind my words.

"I mean, we don't get along."

A placating smile grazed his features. "What gave you that idea?"

I turned away from him to walk to the next row of shelves. "Everyone is afraid of you or is used to you calling all the shots, but I don't treat you like that." Turning suddenly, my hands absently picked at some flint lying near me. "It makes sense that it would bother you."

Death nodded, eyeing the flint in my hand, as if afraid I would break it. He was beginning to remind me of a parent watching their child in a store of breakables. "What bothers me is your incessant need to touch things that don't belong to you."