Standing, Tavin stretched his arms and worked the kinks out of his neck. “I’m going to go find a female. You gonna get some rest?”
Reaver shook his head. “I need to log our travel today. Go.” He waved the demon away. “I’ll plot out our trek for tomorrow.”
“Just make sure we take the southern route through the Razor Eyelets. The northern track will put us at the desert edge of Satan’s region. We don’t want that.”
Reaver didn’t ask why. If Tavin didn’t want to go there, it must be bad. The demon was fearless and resourceful, but he didn’t have a death wish.
Matt left to join Calder on patrol as Tavin took off for a Harrowgate he’d sensed a quarter of a mile away. Reaver kicked back with his journal and noted the day’s events, including mapping out the areas they’d been through, places no angel had ever seen. His journal would be a priceless record if he survived the trip home, likely studied for centuries by the greatest minds in Heaven.
Of course, he probably wouldn’t be around to see how the fruits of his efforts paid off. Not if the archangels had their way. Rains of fire, severed wings, maybe death… those were what he had to look forward to.
Shoving his possible impending wingectomy and death aside, he recorded the demons, plants, and animals he’d come across, including descriptions, strengths, and weaknesses he’d observed, and the locations where he’d found them. He finished with personal notes about the journey so far, and then he tucked the book away and dug out the crude maps Tavin had brought with them.
They didn’t have far to go, maybe two days’ travel, but the remaining distance was going to be brutal. In approximately five miles, they’d hit the Wall of Skulls, a massive barricade that surrounded an entire region and extended hundreds of feet upward. The things that guarded the openings varied from nearly microscopic parasites that drilled into the body in search of vital organs to massive dragon-like beasts with teeth as tall as three-story buildings. Then there were the squads of vicious, eyeless Silas demons that patrolled the ramparts, killing intruders to add to the skulls lining the walls.
Next, they’d have rivers of lava, dead forests full of pain-feeding monsters, and an entire region dedicated to torture devices to navigate before reaching Satan’s territory.
From there, Reaver would be on his own. Their group would draw too much attention, so the plan was for him to sneak in to Satan’s torture complex, grab Harvester, and meet up with Tavin, Matt, and Calder for the journey home.
That was the plan, anyway.
In the distance, something shrieked. Something else screamed. And a few somethings snarled. Here, in hell’s underbelly, those were probably comforting sounds. No doubt someone had developed a sleep app with the lulling white noise of pain, misery, and fighting.
Ah, Sheoul.
Reaver closed his eyes and put his head back against the rock wall. Hold on, Harvester. I’m coming.
But would she welcome him or fight him? She hated him, and if the archangels were to be believed, she’d accepted her fate a long time ago. She might resist an attempt to rescue her.
Not that it mattered. Reaver was saving her if he had to kill her to do it.
In this case, death could only be a relief.
For the first time since Harvester had been brought to Sheoul for an eternity of torment, she wasn’t miserable. Oh, she wasn’t exactly comfortable, what with the way she was naked and hanging by her wrists over a pool of bubbling acid, but at least she wasn’t freezing or burning or being tortured.
Granted, she couldn’t see, since her eyes had been gouged out a few hours ago, but the pain from that had dissipated as her body tried to heal and make new peepers. She couldn’t hear very well, either; her most recent torturer had driven thin spikes into her ears and shattered her eardrums. Again, the pain was long gone, and she was pleasantly numb.
So as long as she was by herself in this room, either forgotten or left to grow agonizingly hungry and thirsty, she was going to enjoy the break.
Enjoy. She was going to enjoy something while enduring an eternity of torture. The very fact that the word enjoy had broken through the gray matter of her brain at all was a measure of how high a threshold for pain and how low a threshold for pleasure she now had.
She wanted to laugh. A hysterical, mindless laugh that would end in tears. Except she had no tear ducts.
Deranged laughter bubbled up but never got the chance to surface. A faint tremor prickled her skin.
Again. And again. The vibrations came in a steady beat, and she choked on a sob when she realized what they were.
Footsteps.
Cold terror knotted every one of her muscles, locking her up so hard she could barely breathe. As miserable as she was now, at least she was alone. No one was making her scream in agony. No one was demanding answers from her with sharp objects or torturing her with bloody threats they always followed through on.