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I have been trained in mental disciplines most people could hardly imagine, much less duplicate. I have faced terrors of the same caliber without flinching. But not like this.
I lost it.
Thought fled. Pain came flooding through my shields. Terror and the urgent desire to live filled every thought, blind instinct taking over. I thrashed and crawled and writhed, trying to escape the swarm, but I might as well have been holding completely still for all the good it did me, and after time, the lack of air forced me to the floor on my side, curled up in a fetal position, just trying to defend my eyes and nose and mouth. Everything turned black and red.
And voices filled my ears. Thousands of whispering voices, hissing obscene, hateful things, vicious secrets, poisonous lies and horrible truths in half a hundred tongues all at once. I felt the pressure of those voices, coursing into my head like ice picks, gouging holes in my thoughts, in my emotions, and there was nothing, nothing I could do to stop them. I felt a scream building, one that would open my mouth, fill it with tiny, tearing bodies, and I knew that I couldn’t stop it.
And then a broad hand slammed down onto the crown of my head, and a deep voice thundered, “Lava quod est sordium!”
Light burned through my closed eyelids, through the layers of insects covering them, and a furious heat spread down from the crown of my head, from that hand. It spread down, moving neither quickly nor slowly, and wherever it passed over my skin, as hot as scalding water in an industrial kitchen sink, the swarm abruptly vanished.
I opened my eyes to find Michael kneeling over me, Amoracchius in his left hand, his right resting on my head. His eyes were closed and his lips were moving, words of ritual Latin flowing from them in a steady stream.
Pure white fire spread down over my body, and I remembered when I had seen something similar once before—when vampires had attempted to manhandle Michael, many moons before, and had been scorched and scarred by the same fire. Now, as the light engulfed me, the swarm scattered, outer layers dropping away, while the slower inner layers were incinerated by the fire. It hurt—but the pain was a harsh, cleansing thing, somehow honest. It burned over me, and when the fire passed, I was free, and the swarm was scattering throughout the vault, pouring toward the tiny air vents spread throughout.
I looked up at Michael, gasping, and leaned my head forward. For a second, the pain and the fear still had me, and I couldn’t make myself move. I lay there, simply shuddering.
His hand moved from my head to my shoulder, and he murmured, “Lord of Hosts, be with this good man and give him the strength to carry on.”
I didn’t feel anything mystic. There was no surge of magic or power, no flash of light. Just Michael’s quiet, steady strength, and the sincerity of the faith in his voice.
Michael still thought I was a good man.
I clenched my jaw over the sobbing scream that was still threatening me, and pushed away the memory of those tiny, horrible words—the voice of Imariel, it must have been. I forced myself to breathe in a steady rhythm, despite the pain and the burning of my skin and my lungs, despite the stinging tears and tiny drops of blood in my eyes. And I put up the shields again, forcing the pain to a safe distance. They were shakier, and more of the pain leaked through than had been there before—but I did it.
Then I lifted my eyes to Michael and nodded.
He gave me a quick, fierce smile and stood up, then offered me his hand.
I took it and rose, looking past Michael to where Grey stood, melting back from Harvey’s face to his own, one last time. He’d opened the door to Hades’ vault again. Behind him, the rest of the crew, minus Binder, was approaching, while the huge, vague shape of the Genoskwa closed the door to the vault with a large, hollow boom of displaced air.
“She came through fast, during the firefight,” Michael said to me. “There wasn’t any way for me to stop her.”
My throat burned and felt raw, but I croaked, “It worked out. Thanks.”
“Always.”
Nicodemus approached us with his expression entirely neutral, and eyed Michael.
“We needn’t fear further interference from Tessa. It will take her time to pull herself together. How did you do that?” he demanded.
“I didn’t,” Michael said simply.
Nicodemus and Deirdre exchanged an uneasy glance.
“All of you, hear me,” Michael said quietly. He turned and stood between them—Fallen angels and monsters and scoundrels and mortal fiends—and me. “You think your power is what shapes the world you walk in. But that is an illusion. Your choices shape your world. You think your power will protect you from the consequences of those choices. But you are wrong. You create your own rewards. There is a Judge. There is Justice in this world. And one day you will receive what you have earned. Choose carefully.”
His voice resonated oddly in that space, the words not loud, but absolutely penetrating, touched with something more than mortal, with an awareness beyond that of simple space and time. He was, in that moment, a Messenger, and no one who heard him speak could doubt it.
Silence settled on the vault, and no one moved or spoke.
Nicodemus looked away from Michael and said calmly, “Dresden. Are you capable of opening the Way?”
I took a steadying breath, and looked around for the key to the manacles. I’d dropped it while being simultaneously eaten, smothered, and driven insane. Hell, I was lucky there hadn’t been any anaphylactic shock involved.
Or, all things considered, maybe luck had nothing to do with it.
Michael spotted the key and picked it up. I held out my hand and he began unlocking the manacles.
“What did that mean?” I asked him in a whisper.
“You heard it as well as I did,” he replied, with a small shrug. “I suppose it wasn’t a message for us.”
I looked slowly over the others as the manacles came off and thought that maybe it had been.
Uriel, I thought. You sneaky bastard. But you weren’t telling me anything I didn’t already suspect.
The thorn manacles fell away and the icy power of Winter suffused me again. The pain vanished. The raw, chewed skin became nothing. The exhaustion fell away and I drew a deep, cleansing breath.
Then I summoned my will, spun on my heel, slashed at the air with my staff, and called, “Aparturum!”
And with a surge of my will and power, and a sudden line of sullen red light in the air, I tore an opening into the Underworld.
Thirty-seven
The lights blew out in showers of sparks and there was an instant, thunderous explosion behind us, and the closed door of the vault rang like an enormous bell. While the thick steel walls of the vault were impenetrable to the shot of the antipersonnel mines, I didn’t want to think about how much metal had just rebounded from them and gone flying off at every angle imaginable, and I wondered if anyone had just died as a result.
There was a great grinding sound, as if some part of the building’s structure had slowly collapsed, somewhere outside the vault, and in the dim red glow of the tear in the fabric of reality, I could barely make out the faces around me.
“Hell’s bells,” I said to Michael. “Binder? His prisoners?”
“I helped him move them,” Michael said at once. “It’s partly why it took me so long to get to you. Once we knew about the mines, we got everyone out of that hallway and back up to the first floor.”
“Where there were only bullets flying around,” Grey said, his voice dry.
I grimaced, but there’d been no help for it. Marcone had set up those mines, not me, and I just had to hope that the initial impact against the vault had robbed the explosively propelled projectiles of most of their strength.
Meanwhile, the torn-cloth ribbon of light in the air of the vault had spread, the Way to the Underworld opening before us, red light pouring into the strong room, an
d I could see scarlet flames dancing on the far side. The smell of sulfur wafted out of the Way. A moment later, there was a sudden, hot wind driving even more of the scent out of it, and pushing my hair back from my forehead.
As the flames danced and bowed with the wind, I could see a dark shape behind them—a wall rising up maybe forty yards away from us, with a clear arch shape beneath it. The arch was filled with brilliant fire, so dense that I could see nothing beyond it.
Nicodemus stepped up to stand beside me, staring into the Underworld. His dark eyes glittered with scarlet highlights.
“The Gate of Fire,” he murmured. “Miss Ascher, if you please.”
“Um,” Hannah Ascher said. She swallowed. “No one said jack about me being the first one into the Underworld.”
“I’m not sure anyone else could survive in there for more than a moment,” Nicodemus said. “Dresden?”
I squinted at the inferno raging beyond the Way and said, “It’s pretty tough to argue with fire. That’s why wizards like to use it as a weapon. Heat that intense, I could keep it off me for maybe ten or twenty seconds—if you let me get a nap and a meal in before you asked me to deal with the next gate.” I peered more closely. “Look there, in the archway. On the right wall, about five feet up.”
Hannah Ascher stopped next to me, and squinted through the Way. “Is that a lever?”
“Looks like it,” I said. “Walk through, pull the lever. Seems simple enough.”
“A little too simple,” she said, and started taking off her own thorn manacles.
