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“My mother says humans are born inherently good.”
The bishop’s lips twitched. “Come with me.”
As much as he wanted to ignore the bishop’s request, he followed after him, if only out of curiosity. Two rooms down from Lord Fletcher’s, the bishop came to a stop at another door and opened it to a man who lay on the center of the floor. His arms and legs had been removed, leaving horridly severed stumps oozing blood that pooled beneath him. The pallor of his face told the baron he did not have much longer to live.
“This is Ivan Danesh.” The bishop’s voice broke through the baron’s thoughts. “He was an infamous criminal who terrorized neighboring towns. Pamphlets were distributed all over Praecepsia. In a satchel he wore while traveling, the guardsmen found relics of black magic.”
“Relicsof black magic? And you removed his arms for that?”
“We removed his arms as they were instrumental in cutting fetuses from the bellies of young mothers. He believed they made the perfect food for the devil.”
“Why not just kill him, then? Why torture?”
“Evil does not die. We must expel it, or it will spread through this community like a wild flame. Perhaps you view these procedures as a source of amusement, young baron, to which I take a most grievous offense. But they are designed to save the souls of the innocent. Come. We’ve one more soul to see.”
As before, the baron followed the bishop out of the room and down a more familiar corridor–the same one which held the room where the baron had suffered the whipping to his back. At the memory of those lashings, his skin flared with a phantom pain, and when the bishop opened the door, the baron scarcely breathed.
Strapped to an X-shaped cross in the center of the room, a stark-naked Drystan sobbed, tugging at the binds which held him. “Please! I beg your mercy!”
His cries became a distant sound to the rushing of blood in the baron’s ears. For there could only be one reason they’d chosen to punish his cousin.
15
JERICHO
Ilifted the hood of my leather coat to conceal my face as I strode up the stone stairwell to the Velthrock prison tower. One of the oldest in all of Nightshade, the tower boasted fifteen levels of cells lined around the perimeter of the giant cylinder structure. Overlords and nobility were imprisoned in the higher levels, and those rooms were far more comfortable than the ones below them. Prisoners there were allowed conjugal visits, often with more than one female, which they were also permitted to consume later. Sometimes, lower-level human prisoners were given to them in lieu of the unappetizing slop of discarded carcasses provided by the local butcher. Ground-up entrails, or bone water. While demons could certainly survive on it, it was the human soul, in particular, that offered the most sustenance.
The dungeons housed the most dangerous criminals, and in most cases, they were the ones executed for what were deemed as horrific crimes, such as killing an overlord, or even the unsanctioned hoarding of souls.
Bigger towns, like Velthrock, had certain groups, such as the Mortal Collective, made up of cambions who fought against the illicit consumption of innocent human souls. They protected children, mostly, who were the most vulnerable, allowing them to be redeemed. Comprised of powerful half-breeds, the Mortal Collective were effective at keeping the peace and delivering souls to the angels.Human prisoners bound for consumption were thoroughly inspected by them for any opportunity for redemption. If they found nothing, the prison was given the green light to offer a sacrifice.
I entered through the iron doors, making my way toward a small, elven-looking man with pointed ears and a slightly elongated nose. He wore spectacles over which he peered down at me, as I approached the tall desk that stretched to about twice my height. Two beastly guards, with faces that looked like a cross between a human and a wild boar, flanked him at either side. Androgidez demons, I supposed. The brutes of Nightshade who often carried out punishment and public executions. I didn’t bother to lower the hood from my face, as I came to a stop before the desk that towered above me.
“Can I help you?” the clerk asked.
“I would like to see one of the prisoners you have housed.”
“Name.”
“Vaszhago Kemoran.”
He cracked open a book and made a sighing sound in his throat as he flipped through the pages. “Vaszhago. Vaszhago. Ah. Oh. Um.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Well, yes. This prisoner is due to be exiled in less than an hour.”
“I understand.”
With a long claw-like nail, he pushed his spectacles higher up the bridge of his pointy nose. “What is the nature of your visit?”
“I might like to buy his freedom.”
“His freedom? Well, fat chance of that, considering who he sent to Voltusz.” Another term for absolute death. Unlike Ex Nihilo, it was the only place from which a demon, or angel, absolutely couldn’t return. He let out a snorty chuckle and slammed the book closed on a plume of dust. Waving it away, he coughed.
“Perhaps you can run it by Warden Noth’ra. He owes me a favor.”
Years ago, when I’d first started out as a broker of souls, I’d happened to be meeting with the warden, a pompous and arrogant man, to negotiate a fairly sought-out soul on behalf of a client. One of the more violent prisoners had gotten loose and plowed through the office door toward him. The crazed-looking demon had somehow gotten his hand on celestial steel, and as he’d made a beeline, charging straight for the warden, I’d intercepted and sent the poor sap to Ex Nihilo hours before his scheduled extradition.
