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1
ABIGOR
It was cold in Hell.
Not enough to drive me inside, but just enough that the fireball I’d conjured and was idly tossing from hand to hand wasn’t quite enough to keep me warm. It flickered, guttering low as the wind gusted and the leaves shivered on their branches. I had the best view up here, on the rooftop at the edge of the city, overlooking the forest where the shifting sky painted the treetops the same golden yellow as the flame dancing in my palm.
I was used to unpredictable weather—it was one of the hallmarks of the chaos of Hell—but the temperature was dropping fast now, and there was no point staying outside until my wings grew stiff with frost. I pushed a little more energy into the burning orb, then sighed and let the flame dissipate.
I rose and turned, brushing loose dirt off the seat of my pants as I crossed the roof. It was only when I caught sight of the reflection in the burnished metal of the door that my footsteps faltered. My image was reflected perfectly, from the curving horns at my temples to my clawed fingertips. But behind me…the city and its forested backdrop were barely visible, overlaid with flickering light and shifting shadows. Abruptly, a strange sensation came over me, a restrictive feeling, as if I had suddenly been wrapped in an invisible netting that cinched close to my skin and was being pulled tight. I tried to take a deep breath and found I could not.
What the—
I turned, and something snapped underfoot, something that shouldn’t have been there. A twig? I looked down and found branches—a pyre, its flames billowing painlessly around my feet. My lungs constricted further, and whether it was from fear or this odd new sensation I couldn’t tell. What was happening to me?
The rooftop wavered in my sight, and I vaguely registered the sound of chanting. I couldn’t quite make out the words, but it was growing louder, keeping time with the frantic beating of my heart. The flames grew, sending up clouds of sparks, the chanting rising to a crescendo, and all at once the net around me wrenched tight and pulled—
The rooftop disappeared completely, and I found myself standing in the middle of a clearing. It was darker here—wherever here was—with a pale moon shining high over the shadowed landscape. A low building sat off in the distance, tangled trees and a broken fence line marking the perimeter.
I looked down at the flames licking at my skin, and though I tried to step out of the blaze, my legs were entirely unresponsive. I tried to lift my arms, to spread my wings—to no avail. I strained against the invisible bindings that held me, but nothing happened. Somehow I was trapped, unable to do anything more than stand motionless in the middle of the blaze. A pile of haphazardly-stacked logs was nearby, and shadowed forms lined the field in blocky lumps—no, wait. Wait. Those were gravestones. This wasn’t just a clearing—it was a cemetery.
I was in the human realm.
A low sound came from my left. I turned my head—I could do that much, at least—and found myself face-to-face with a…oh my God, it really was a human. Young, dark skin, crouched low, clothing torn and dirt on his face. His eyes were fixed on me with a mixture of horror and wonder, and beneath that, I thought I caught a sickening trace of what looked like hope.
This was bad.
“What have you done to me?” It was hard to look fearsome when I couldn’t move, but I did my best. The horns and wings must have helped, because the man shied back. “Why have you brought me here?”
He sucked in a breath, my voice seeming to pull him to his senses.
“Please,” he said roughly. “You—you have to help me. My family…” He trailed off, his hands open wide.
I looked to where he gestured, and my heart sank. Three graves were clustered together under a single headstone, each filled with freshly-turned earth. The stone was simple, a heavy limestone block, carved only with names and dates. Adelina Zugravescu. I glanced at the dates. She’d been only twenty-three. And on the line below: Mihai and Nicoleta. Two and four years old.Pity filled me as I turned my gaze back to the crouching man.
“And that makes you…”
“Julian.” His voice was hoarse. “Julian Zugravescu.”
“I am so sorry,” I told him. “What was it? Black death?”
He shook his head, his eyes filling with tears. “Drowning. It was an accident.” His voice broke on the word. “You have to help them. It should not have happened.”
I took a deep breath. “I don’t know what you have been taught, what you believe, but please understand, there is nothing I can do for you. For them.”
“You have powers,” he said. He reached for a book, which he held out to me. “I know you do.”
I sighed. “I do, but I cannot raise people from the dead. No one can do that—not me or anyone from the realms of Heaven or Hell. Your family is beyond my reach. You have to let them go.”
“No.”
“Julian—”
“No.” He straightened, his eyes taking on a determined glint. “I—I brought you here to aid me. I don’t need you to do so willingly.”
“I already told you, there is no power on Earth that can—”
But he was ignoring me. He had flipped open the book and was paging through with dirt-stained fingers. When he found what he was looking for, he laid the book gingerly down in the grass, smoothing out the pages to lay flat. He began to chant again in a low voice, the words barely audible. Latin? I watched warily as he plucked a small twig from the pile by the fire and bent low, tracing a symbol into the bare earth. It wasn’t anything I recognized, but nothing good could come from this.
