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I want to cry. I grip his shoulders, willing him to listen and understand.
“Remember what I told you about fighting back? You’re in danger. Leave those terrible people. Don’t swallow their pills or their lies. Don’t listen to anything they say. They’re not your friends. They’re—”
In the space of a blink, a dozen hands made of shadow—servitors of Asmodai—grip my arms and haul me away. They drag me through the dancing people; I pass through them like a cold wind—a ghost. Cole grows distant, like a telescope closing down, and then I’m Crossing Over to the Other Side.
There’s a short moment of disorientation. When I regain my bearings, I’m in my demon form, naked, sprawled face down on the cold stone of Asmodai’s realm, pinned there by servitors. The archduke gazes down on me with his three heads, the bull, the ram, and the human.
“Traitor,” he says, his voice thundering through my head. “I am finished with you. Your pain begins now.”
Heavy, crunching footsteps shake the foundation of the dungeon, and from my prone position—my cheek pressed flat to the stone—I see the golem. An ancient earth spirit that was imprisoned in a body of stone by demons eons ago. So long ago they’re no longer fully conscious, but mindless servants. This one is nearly three meters high and stomps toward me, its stony feet making the ground shake. Its eyes are tiny yellow lights set in its rocky face. The heavy pressure of its foot on my lower back keeps me pinned to the ground, and the servitors flee. Fear courses in my veins instead of blood. My breath is like a panting dog, my pulse too rapid to count each beat.
“We’ll start simply,” Asmodai says. “Rip his wings off, one at a time. When they grow back, rip them off again. A decade or so to start, then we’ll move on to something truly painful.” His bull head nods at the golem. “Begin.”
I feel more than see the creature bend over me, and then its stony hands grip my right wing.
“No.No. NO!”
There is a horrifying crunch of bone. Agony pierces my shoulder, straight through my chest and down my spine. My mouth opens in a silent scream. My wing is wrenched right and then left. It’s stubborn, imbedded in muscle. The golem keeps at it. Bones splinter, feathers flutter, and black blood gushes over my back.
My wing comes free.
I suck in air, and my scream echoes through hell. I scream as agony floods me, and I know nothing else.
I scream until my throat is scraped raw, my black eyes wide and staring. My right side is a throbbing pain of broken bones and the fire of torn flesh. Before the shock fades, the golem takes hold of myleftwing and begins to pull…
twenty-nine
I blinked and looked around, confused. Ambri had had me up against the wall, his hands gripping my shoulders, saying something about New York. And then, suddenly, he was gone as if I’d imagined him.
I pushed myself off the wall and staggered into the throng of dancers, searching for him. The club was a blur of strobe lights and strangers’ faces. I cursed myself for being too drunk, for letting myself get out of control, and for drowning my pain instead of facing it.
I made it to the bar and asked the others if they’d seen Ambri.
“Can’t say that I have,” Pico said, smiling. “Have a seat, Cole. We’re just about to line up another round of shots.”
“Hell no, I’ve had enough,” I said. “I’m going back to the hotel. Maybe he went there.”
They tried to get me to stay, but I ignored them and headed out to hail a cab. Back at the suite, I called Ambri’s name but there was no answer. The paperwork Casziel helped me find was scattered all over the floor in front of the portrait.
I was too fucking drunk to do anything but faceplant onto the bed and try to sleep it off. I felt like I hadn’t slept more than a handful of hours in weeks. I closed my eyes, and as the darkness started to take me down, a horrifying dread gnawed at my guts that the darkness had come for Ambri too.
I woke up with light slicing across my eyes, making my headache throb harder. I hurried to the living room and found Zerin snoring on the couch with Daeva’s head on his shoulder, sleeping off their own drunken benders.
Pico was at the window looking distraught.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “How did you get in?”
Zerin and Daeva came awake immediately, blinking and rubbing their eyes in an exaggerated manner. Like bad actors in a play.
Pico turned, somber. “We got a little carried away last night, Cole. Apologies, but…” He held up a sheet of hotel stationary. “I believe this is for you. A letter from Ambri.”
I stormed across the suite and snatched it out of his hand. “What are you doing with it?”
“I found it here by the window, and I didn’t know what it was,” Pico said. “But…that’s his handwriting, isn’t it?”
I glanced at the letter and nodded. It was Ambri’s elegant script. Pico went to stand near Zerin and Daeva on the couch, all three solemn and quiet, but they fell away as I read. The entire suite, all of Rome, the entire fucking world burned away as I read Ambri’s letter.
The paper fell from my trembling fingers to seesaw to the floor. I stared at the people in my suite, not seeing them.
