Page 80 of A Serpent in the Garden

Remy had to be muffling the screams because I heard them only peripherally, as if they came from floors away. How did you do that to Marcic’s face? I’ve never seen you freeze anything before.

I don’t know. I’m not great at accessing any Frost abilities I might have. I spent most of my time training with my father, my uncle. My mother always wanted me to stay with her, ruling Frost, but I hated it there.

You called for her outside. There was a cautious little edge in my voice. I didn’t want him to think I was indirectly calling him a coward. Did you really think she could hear you?

Sometimes I think she can hear everything. I wondered if the ice at your ankle would let me speak to her. Brace yourself, now, he said as Finn and I stepped onto the landing of Flame, it’s hot in here.

And then he robbed me of my hearing completely.

I walked into a wall of breathtaking heat, the atmosphere wavy and shimmering around gaping pits of flame in every direction. It was like another planet, a blazing mineral inferno that spat and sputtered, gushed and guttered, and the demons here were bright as any flame, red and gold and amber figures wending through the pits. Black paths snaked around and between pits in some kind of lunatic maze; they looked as if they led nowhere, or in circles.

Stakes in varying degrees of height were plunged into every pit, and I tried avoiding the gazes of those strapped against them, but I couldn’t. Faces twisted in wordless agony, cheeks blistering, showers of sparks bursting from lips like raw meat. Had I been able to hear I’m sure it would have been a blood-swaying harmony of shrieks loud enough to bring me to my knees.

Remy was right, I could feel it beneath my skin, the screams. They buzzed through the soles of my boots and wormed inside my marrow. Some of the damned fought doomed battles with flames that licked only up their calves; some were submerged to their waists, their chests, their throats. Flesh melted like tallow in a never-ending cycle, as if their bodies kept producing more and more to feed the fire.

The flames were ravenous, everywhere, boiling the air. Smoke erupted from every pit, stinging my eyes. I closed them but flames still seared red through my eyelids, the stench of scorched meat filling my nostrils.

Heresy, Remy said. That’s what’s punished in Flame.

Finn held my hand as if he were some sort of gentleman caller, tipping his head to the demons we passed. He’d grown brighter beneath the light of so much flame, his skin blazing a pure and blinding gold, dark hair haloed in red. He knew his way about the pits but didn’t seem in a terrible hurry, his weaving gait as languorous as if we were out for a walk in the meadow, but eventually the gold of his skin began to dim. The air grew thinner, cooler, the pits further apart, and a slick and shadowy path up ahead led off into a black recess.

In an instant, sound came crashing back, a low tide of screams ebbing in the distance. Not ignorable, perhaps, but bearable.

“So those were the pits,” Finn said when we met merciful darkness, as though we’d passed through something vaguely dull. “Those were our damned. Heretics, you know. God has always struck me as a narcissist. Demanding love and devotion for something nobody asked for and punishing you when you respectfully disagree.”

“I doubt,” I said, and I realized then that I was shivering despite the heat, “that people who wind up in Flame respectfully disagreed.”

“Well, no,” he said with a sharp smile, canines white in the dark hallway. “You’re right on that score.”

Torches flickered to life as we passed them, as if they recognized his spark and hastened to follow suit. “There’s a common room down there.” He waved an idle hand toward a black tunnel branching out behind us while flames sprang up around us on both sides. “A kitchen, a hall for receiving important guests. A throne room nobody ever uses anymore. The apartments are at the back. I haven’t been in mine in ages. It’s probably unfit for company.” A serene gold glance down at me. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”

I doubted he cared whether I would or not, but it couldn’t be worse than the state of Remy’s room. Steel doors had begun to appear in the stone walls, shimmering beneath torchlight, ornate flames engraved around their edges.

“Six years with my brother.” Finn’s voice was grand, his hand hot around mine. “You must be a saint.”

“He’s not that bad,” I said, while Remy buckled his arms around himself and sighed into his cell.

“Loyalty. I like it. He can be an awful whiner, though.” Finn said this as if it were a fair declaration. “Surely you’ve noticed.”

I thought it all the time but I wouldn’t admit that to one of Remy’s brothers. “I doubt you would enjoy being stuck inside a human mind.”

“Oh, I might,” he said. “It would be an interesting change of scenery. I like your world. I hardly wanted to return when Valic’s fire told me Remy had come back. Here we are.” He held open a door, waiting for me to step into the stale darkness first.

It was black until he entered, and then the sconces roared to life to reveal windowless stone walls, much as I’d expected. Sumptuous in a devil-may-care, masculine sort of way, I supposed, plush fabrics and baroquely carved wood furnishings that glowed like honey. Wine-colored hangings around the bed, half parted to reveal blankets of the same shade. Scattered little tables, a wardrobe left ajar, a parlor bleeding into a bedroom and a door that must have led into a washroom. It hadn’t been left in a state of nervous collapse, at least. Finn was either less of a slob than his brother or had someone tending to his apartment.

He directed me to sit on the bed and shot me a devastating sort of smile when I chose the cushioned bench in the parlor instead.

His fast, clever fingers unbuttoned the dark waistcoat he wore over a white shirt. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The room grew ever-so-slightly darker when he left.

Well. I sunk back into the cushion, which enveloped me so completely I had to fight my way out and perch on the edge. I’d say he seems nice, but he doesn’t, really. Friendly, though. I wouldn’t expect many demons to find humans very interesting.

He’s easily bored. I can only imagine what he got up to out there, how many half-demon children he’s sired.

I know someone else who’s easily bored. I picked up a ceremonial-looking dagger from the table in front of the bench. It was all silver scrollwork and black whorls, the whisper of etched flames along the steel. What is it he was doing while he was gone?

Looking for Luceric, probably, he said. The angel who killed our father. Though why it’s taken six years for one of them to get off their ass and look for him is beyond me.