“That’s awful.”
“I know.” Gabe sighed and splashed water on his face. He scrubbed gently, trying to loosen the tension in his brow before it could build into another stress headache. “I try to be there for him, but with everything that’s going on I can’t help but worry.”
“You don’t need to be his dad, Gabe.” Jophiel spoke quietly, as if unsure of himself.
Gabe frowned. “I’m not trying to be. I just want to make sure I’m not… I don’t know, Joph. I wonder sometimes if I’m doing the right thing with him, is all. This ritual…”
“It’s what he wants, right?”
“Of course it is.”
“Then you’re right to help him.”
“Yeah…I know. I also can’t help but wonder how tonight’s events will change the game.”
“Whatweretonight’s events?” Jophiel swam in lazy circles, drifting ever closer to Gabe with each circuit.
“Well,” Gabe reached out to snag the blond and drag him in closer. “I suppose we’ll hear all about it when Michael and Uriel return from their adventure.”
Jophiel smiled, letting himself be caught up against Gabe with little reluctance. “You’re right.”
“I’m always right,” Gabe snorted, and Jophiel grinned, nuzzling into his neck. “You should know this by now.”
“Of course, Gabe. Whatever you say.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sometimes, Rag had brief flickers of concern over Lucifer’s mental health. Typically, Luce was very good at pretending to be sane, but when Rag stood in the Pit watching the Drogar demons dangle prisoners over pits of hot acetone, he couldn’t help but wonder what twisted tendencies their dark leader was covering up.
One of the creatures caught sight of him observing the punishment and made a keening sound, unfurling massive wings and launching itself from its perch to bound across the cavern to him. Rag smiled, bracing himself for impact as Catharsis launched into his arms.
“Hey boy,” he laughed, scratching the gargoyle beneath his scaly chin while the demon licked his face with a rough tongue. Catharsis was one of the hybrid Drogar—a race descended from the gargoyles that had fallen with their angel masters, who had developed dragon-like adaptations to better suit their new environment. In fact, Catharsis was a direct descendant of Rag’s own gargoyle, Custos. “Keep up the good work, okay?”
Catharsis yipped in response, giving him a headbutt under the chin before flying back to his post, and Rag lingered for a moment before he continued deeper into the Pit.
It had a proper name, once, but Rag had forgotten it years ago. Now it was just called the Punishment Pit, and it was by far his least favorite place to be in Hell. While the sprawling fields and gardens above were home to small communities and villages of spirits, happily living their afterlife atoning for minor sins, the Pit was for those spirits who Lucifer felt had earned eternal torment. Souls that could not be saved. Murderers, rapists, sadists and abusers. Those who died and were guilty of these crimes were relegated to various levels of the Pit, where they would spend their days experiencing agony like they had inflicted while alive.
The Fallen were obliged to patrol the Pit in shifts, to keep an eye on things and ensure that none of the prisoners there were getting out of line. Today wasn’t his shift, and Rag wasn’t here to oversee them. He was looking for Sachiel, at the request of the other man’s wife.
Rag made his way down the winding hall, carved from the natural dark stone of the earth and lit with witchlight sconces, until he reached the elevator. Pressing his palm to the sensor pad, Rag waited patiently for the stone doors to slide apart, revealing a gleaming silver box within. He stepped inside, pressing the button for the lowest floor and watching the numbers flicker down until he reached level thirteen.
“Sachiel?” he called, stepping out of the elevator. His voice reverberated through the circular, tiled hallway. This floor had a more modern feel, closed cell doors tucked neatly within white brick walls curving in a gentle arc in either direction. It was a study in contrast to the rough-hewn cavern on the first floor, but it also limited his range of view.
“Sach, man, we’ve been looking for you.” The only sound was the reverb of his own voice, and Rag sighed. “Why do I always have to come chase you down?”
He started down the hall, steps echoing as he passed the barred doors closed over soundproof glass. Inside each room a figure writhed, strapped to a chair. Their mouths opened in screams he couldn’t hear as the small, winged demons hovering over them squeezed cut lemons into mouths that leaked blood from their severed tongues.
“Liar, liar,” Rag murmured, and tore his eyes away from the painful sight. He rubbed his own jaw at a phantom twinge.
“Sachi!” he called again, and this time there was an answering sound in the distance. A deep rumble, and a snort shortly after. Rag paused, and after a moment, the sound came again. A long rumble, a snort, a sort of snuffling sound.
He rounded a bend in the hall, and in the distance, he could make out a figure sprawled on the ground. As he approached, it became clear that the figure was broad, blond, and completely unconscious, snoring blissfully away with his legs stretched out to the far wall and his head leaned back against the white brick.
Raguel sighed, coming up short beside his friend and resting his hands on his hips. “Sachi, what the hell, man.”
He kicked the other man lightly on the thigh, prodding him with his boot a few times. When he didn’t respond except to snore harder, Rag clicked his tongue. The redhead crouched, falling into a squat next to the blonde and gently brushing his hair out of his slack face. “Just remember, I tried to be nice.”
Still gently, still carefully, he dug his hand into Sachiel’s hair, getting a nice, firm grip on the soft blond waves. Then he pulled hard, using most of his strength to lift the other man from the ground by his scalp.
