AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The rooms were all numbered, and there were directories at the key points of the hallways, indicating in which direction what level of numbers were to be found. I cataloged everything as we went through the building, for once in my life not stressed about having to remember details—one of the advantages of being an angel was a near-eidetic memory, so I knew I’d have no trouble recalling the way and the room number later.
I also took note of any security we encountered, which was indeed more than was normal for a soul stable. Generally, soul theft wasn’t a thing up here—contrary to Hell—which meant that the only angels coming and going or milling about a soul stable were the ones tasked with creating afterlife projections, and their supervisors.
There’d been two angels “casually” hanging out in the vicinity of the soul stable out front, which I’d pegged for guards/lookouts right away. Each level had an angel standing by the staircase exit, scanning all who ventured upstairs, which was usually not the case, at least in Derdekea’s stable, bringing the count of guards up to five so far.
We reached the uppermost level, and here, two angels waited at the staircase exit, nodding at Ithuriel as we walked past.
“This entire floor has been cleared of souls,” Ithuriel said, walking down the corridor. “The room’s soundproof, obviously, but this way we won’t even have foot traffic outside in the corridor. It’s only the demon here in the back.”
“And there’s no chance he can escape?” I dared to ask.
Ithuriel snorted. “And go where? We’re in the middle of His Highness’s compound, surrounded by his cadre of high-ranking angels. Security at the gate has been beefed up, and patrols throughout the area have been increased. He wouldn’t make it two wing beats before someone spotted and tackled him, especially with that demon energy of his acting like a beacon.” She shook her head. “That is, if he even makes it out of this room, which is highly doubtful with him shackled down this tightly.”
Sweat broke out over my skin, my heartbeat thudding so hard I felt it all the way up in my head. How the fuck were we supposed to get him out of this? Did Naamah really have a plan that would account for all of these conditions?
We’d reached the end of the corridor, where another angel stood guard in front of a nondescript door. Ithuriel nodded at the security, then opened the door and stepped inside.
My stomach cramped as I followed her.
The scent of blood hit me first.
Heavy—so damn heavy in the air it was all I could do not to gag at the first breath. The iron tang of it rushed at me despite my efforts not to inhale through my nose, and I trembled.
Because I knew that scent.
Knew him.
His blood was so potent, and fresh as it was, it carried with it the essence of his being, unlike the dried stain I’d tried to sniff on the tunic he’d left me with. Here, now, the aroma of his blood was like a billboard sign showcasing who he was—at least for those who knew him.
And it crashed into me with enough force to make me wobble.
Worse yet was the visual that greeted me.
He was on his knees, arms bound behind his back, the chain around his wrists linked to the shackles around his ankles with no give, while a collar around his neck was attached to another chain dangling from the ceiling, exactly short enough to force him to keep himself upright on his knees and not sink down to sit on his legs. If he tried to relax his stance, or the muscles in his thighs gave out, he’d choke himself on the collar.
Not that it would kill him—just crush his windpipe, over and over in between those moments when the injury would heal.
It was precisely that fast demon healing that made for the true horror in this scenario. Because if a torturer didn’t even have to account for the limitations of a mortal body, where was the line? With humans, torture always had to avoid the kind of permanent damage that would render the subject useless for further interrogation. One could only cut so deep before risking spilling too much blood. Infection lurked behind every amputation and open wound, not to mention that the human mind tended to shut down at a certain threshold of pain. And an unconscious torture subject couldn’t answer questions.
With immortals such as our kind, with our fast healing and our ability to even regrow limbs, as well as our high pain tolerance, things were vastly different. Anything was possible in terms of torture methods and intensity because as long as the head remained firmly attached to the neck and the heart inside the chest, an angel or a demon wouldn’t die and would recover from any injury inflicted.
And I saw the tapestry of the kind of wounds Azazel had been dealt on every patch of his naked skin. The fact that so many of the injuries were still visible spoke to how recently they’d been caused, for usually they’d close and heal within minutes.
My breath stuck in my throat at the sight of his mangled body, at the blood seeping out of cuts and slices, some of which were kept open by contraptions that prevented closure. Nausea coiled in my stomach, bile rising up my esophagus.
He hung his head forward as much as the collar around his neck allowed, strands of his black hair half obscuring his face.
I still noticed the second he realized I was in the room with him.
His entire body tensed, muscles steeling underneath red-coated, butchered skin, his nostrils flared as he inhaled—and then he became inhumanly still. Tragically so, for there was an undercurrent of sorrow in his energy, muted as it was through whatever magic was worked into those shackles of his.
He lifted his head, and his gaze slammed into me, the storm-gray of his eyes turned to liquid silver.
I couldn’t breathe. My whole body hurt. My fucking soul ached so much it threatened to break me.
“Interesting tidbit about him,” Ithuriel said, drawing my attention to her. “His injuries all heal at the rate to be expected when in his home realm. Which shouldn’t be the case.”
I jerked and stared at her. Wait—so they’d thought he wouldn’t heal? Oh, God.
