Demon and the Fox - 31. The Sufferer and the Witness

There was a line-up outside Raven’s office, along the corridor, so long that it spilled down into the spiral staircase. An impressive queue of people standing and waiting for a meeting with the new leader of Hell; lower demons, reapers, DAs. Malachy even saw a dark one lurking around. Some reaper girl kept stabbing the black creature with her sword, and it dissipated into shadows before reforming into a contorted silhouette again.

That looked like fun. Malachy smiled under his hood. He would have joined the girl in her game, and he might also have killed a few demons while he was at it, just to make the line shorter and all, but he was trying to make a good impression here. Malachy didn’t like waiting, but sometimes you had to make an exception. So he remained very nice and still, readjusting his hood to make sure his face was hidden.

From the hushed conversations Malachy was hearing, some demons were just bored and wanted to see for themselves what Raven was like. Some of them sucked at bending reality so they needed help healing a burnt leg or a missing arm or whatever. Others wanted to ask Raven to bring one of their mates back from Purgatory. A bunch of reapers had come with requests for a new city, or a new partner. And some reapers wanted to be promoted to dark angel.

Malachy sighed, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, stretching his neck, crossing and uncrossing his arms over his cape. He was so bored. He glanced up the narrow corridor at the door with the lit torches on either side and it still seemed so far away. At least a dozen demons were in line in front of him.

“Why won’t this thing just leave, ugh.” It was the girl who was trying to stab the black creature.

Holding down his hood, Malachy looked from the corner of his eye. That dark one was indeed a resilient little bastard. It gave him an idea. Malachy smiled.

What took place in Malachy’s thoughts started to happen in the corridor as well; the dark one attacked the girl, more sharply and deftly than before. She hadn’t expected it. The dark one stole her blade and stabbed her instead. She gasped and fell to her knees. Then the black creature rapidly went to stab other demons that were waiting in line—mostly those who stood in front of Malachy.

Some demons got scared and took off, running down the staircase or teleporting in clumsy whiffs of black smoke. Others stayed in line stubbornly, looking annoyed and confused more than anything. But Malachy wasn’t done. The black creature grabbed a torch and immolated itself. It even let out an evil laugh.

Malachy messed up the evil laugh a bit; it had sounded scarier in his mind. But no matter. The black creature, now on fire, attacked those who remained in the corridor. They panicked and teleported, one after the other.

“If Raven didn’t want to see us, he could’ve just told us,” one reaper told his friend before they both disappeared.

When they were all gone, Malachy smirked. The fire died. The black creature swayed across the corridor, looking all confused. It made to attack Malachy. But Malachy snapped his fingers, and the creature burst with a sickening sound, smearing the corridor walls with a sticky black substance. Malachy shrugged one shoulder.

He walked light-heartedly to the door that gave to Raven’s office and stood between the two torches, joining his hands behind his back.

Almost immediately, the door was opened by a beautiful Asian woman. Short but elegant, her traits a perfect balance between delicate and strong, her dark eyes boldly lined with black. Malachy eyed her up and down with a fond smile. She wore snake print skinny jeans and a tiny leather jacket. Nice. He’d always liked Jun’s style.

“Lovely timing.” Malachy pushed past her inside the room, taking in the shimmery metallic walls, filing cabinets and heavily tinted windows. “I’m next in line. Hello.”

Raven was swathed all in black, much like Malachy. But instead of a hooded cape, he wore a slim suit jacket. He was one of those people you could tell were imposing even as they were sitting down. Malachy gazed upon the round glass table and matching set of chairs, nodding.

“I like what you’ve done with the place.” Malachy took off his hood, leaned over the table and offered his hand. “I’m Malachy, it’s nice to meet you.”

Raven looked at his hand, but didn’t shake it. Then Raven looked up again. His eyes were a piercing dark blue shade, but other than that, his face was very pale between strips of black hair.

Jun was closing the door.

“You were not the next one in line,” she said.

Malachy curled his fingers into a fist, and took back his hand. He looked over his shoulder and grinned at Jun.

“Sure I was.”

“What happened to everyone else?”

Malachy lowered his voice, cupping a hand next to his mouth like he was telling her a secret. “I think they got tired of waiting. It’s worst than the DMV out there.”

Jun crossed her arms over her leather jacket and narrowed her eyes. “What do you want, Malachy?”

“Ah.” He faltered like he’d taken a blow to the heart. “So cold.” But then he smiled. “I like it.” He spread his arms. “It’s been such a long time. How have you been?”

She just stared.

Malachy cleared his throat and looked at an imaginary watch.

“Well, baby doll, as much as I enjoy your scrumptious company, I’d like to speak alone with his majesty the king of Hell for a moment now.”

In one instant, Jun was on him, a knife sliding out from her jacket’s sleeve. She pressed it to Malachy’s neck.

“I’ll bleed you out until there’s nothing left,” she said.

But Malachy slipped away like a shadow, and before Jun could stop him, Malachy had pulled himself a chair next to Raven, one leg crossed over the other casually.

Raven looked up at Jun. “It’s all right. You can go.”

She was clearly furious, but she left anyway—not without slamming the door shut behind her, though. The glass table trembled under Malachy’s hand, and they heard her feet stomping down the corridor.

When the silence returned, Malachy brought his attention back to Raven.

“I feel quite privileged. Leader of Hell. How does it feel to be on top of the world, Mister Raven?” Malachy tapped the table with a hand.

“What do you want?” His dark blue eyes were stern. No joy in them, nothing.

“Well aren’t you full of sunshine and rainbows,” Malachy replied, leaning back in his glass chair—which was rather uncomfortable. “And here I was all excited to finally meet you in person. Well, you know what I mean.” Malachy waved a hand. “Whatever we are. Spirits, souls, a projection of our own lingering minds. Who knows? The mysteries of the afterlife. I always thought we could have quite philosophical discussions if we ever met, you and I.”

“Just get to the point. Why are you here?” Raven insisted.

Malachy tilted his head. “What happened to you? You’re awfully depressed, aren’t you? I don’t usually like quotes too much, but I think good old Will came up with something appropriate for this. Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown, was it?”

Raven took a deep breath. “You sure live up to your reputation.”

“Ah.” Malachy smiled. “You mean charming? Insane in an endearing way? Adorable? Strong yet vulnerable at the same time—the ladies love that one.”

“I meant,” Raven said, “aggravating.”

Malachy gasped, a hand flying up to his heart. “I won’t lie, Raven. You’ve hurt my feelings.”

“You wanted to see me desperately because…?” Raven waited for him to fill in the blank. His tone suggested he’d had about as much theatrics as he could take.

So Malachy sat up straight. Time to get serious. “I want to go to Purgatory.”

Raven still looked bored. “You want to be a Purgatory guard? I’m sorry, but all the positions are currently filled.”

“Isn’t it just lovely,” Malachy said, “that so many people want to spend eternity torturing others? Doesn’t it simply make you believe in humanity all over again?”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Raven’s eyes. Ha! Emotions, Malachy thought. They were getting somewhere.

“Do you think you’re funny?” Raven asked.

“I think I’m adorable.” Malachy settled back in his seat—still uncomfortable; why glass chairs? “I also think people who can’t appreciate good sarcasm are missing out on life. Like people who can’t appreciate good wine.”

“So I take it,” Raven said, “you’re not here for a job as a Purgatory guard.”

“Sharp powers of deduction you’ve got there, my friend. No, I do not wish to be a guard. I don’t relish being a prisoner either, just to clear that up. Been there, done that; wasn’t all that fun. See,” Malachy leaned his arm on the table, tapping the glass with a finger, “I hear you have a very special privilege. You can get in and out of Purgatory. You’re clearly neither a guard nor a prisoner. It also came to my attention that you can bring people back from there. And I would like to know how.”

Malachy looked up, and their eyes met.

“Why?” Raven asked, his voice cold like he was made of ice inside.

“You see, my old friend Shay, he’s—”

“I am sick and tired of hearing about Shay. He’s not my fucking responsibility.”

Malachy arched an eyebrow. Was that anger laced within Raven’s words? Anger, or perhaps guilt?

“Well, then,” said Malachy carefully, “let me go get him. End of the story. You won’t ever have to hear about it again. I just need one of those special portals. And maybe a higher demon blade,” he added.

“What makes you think I would help you?”

“Because I know you’ve met Shay before. He may not be your responsibility, but you know he doesn’t belong where he is now. You don’t just forget meeting someone like him. Ever. That’s what makes me think you’ll help me.”

Malachy wasn’t joking anymore. He was dead serious.

The silence lingered, and Malachy wanted to break it, but he didn’t; some people needed silence. Raven seemed to need it right now. Malachy studied the unlined, ageless face, the handsome but somewhat tired traits, the long black eyebrows, and the eyes that seemed to have seen and survived too much.

Raven took out a blade from under his jacket. As he unsheathed it, Malachy saw that it was pure white, with just one emerald in the hilt. Malachy held his breath; he’d heard about this dagger.

“My friend Cyan made this for me a long time ago. It’s my favorite. Highly poisonous. It’s funny,” Raven smiled—a small smile, but it seemed to take away the tiredness, and it made him look young, “one of my enemies—Lucas, I don’t know if you knew him, but he worked for Louis—tried to kill me not too long ago. Lucas wanted to slay me in my sleep, using this blade. He didn’t succeed, because Cyan stopped him.” Raven’s eyes never left the dagger. “But that blade can’t kill me. I’m the only one it can’t kill. And Cyan knows that. Of course he knows; he made it like that. My blood is the antidote to its poison.” Now Raven’s gaze darted to Malachy. “But Cyan still stopped Lucas. And as they fought, Cyan got stabbed instead of me. To make sure I wouldn’t be hurt. Do you think Cyan deserves to be in Hell, Malachy? Do you think someone so kind and loyal deserves that? Take the dagger.” He laid it on the table, in front of Malachy. “Use it to save Shay. I’ll open a portal for you if you want; you need a higher demon’s blood.”

Malachy took the dagger. “Thank you, I appreciate that.”

He paused, studying Raven. In the depths of his eyes, Malachy recognized the despair and helplessness caused by lost hopes and dreams.

“Did you by any chance meet Rebecca?” Malachy asked abruptly.

Raven started. “I’ve met with her twice now. Why?”

“She told you, didn’t she? The truth.”

Malachy kept studying Raven’s reactions, and he knew he was right; even the oldest souls showed vulnerability sometimes. Raven leaned closer on the table, and he held his own arms, like he was cold.

“So she told you, too?” His voice was eager, his gaze longing, like he wanted to identify another lonely soul.

“She didn’t have to.” Malachy made the slightest smile. “I spent nearly one hundred years with an angel for a best friend. My partner in crime.” Malachy’s smile widened. “And they never told him, either. But he knew, and I knew. We figured it out.”

Raven frowned. “How did you go on?”

“I don’t know. I just did. But,” he said as he stroked the dagger’s hilt softly, “I’m crazy, so I guess that’s how I do it. And hey, I was never getting a VIP ticket to Heaven anyway, even if it existed. So… why don’t you make yourself useful and open up that portal for me now?”

Raven leaned back, eyeing him up and down. “Rebecca said it used to exist. According to her, it was destroyed by demons, and lost, a long time ago. Do you believe her?”

Malachy waved it off with the dagger. “Don’t know. Don’t care. Want my advice?”

“Not particularly.”

“Nonsense. I’m a fantastic advice giver. You’ve waited your entire life for the truth, haven’t you? Don’t wait for someone to tell you—especially not Rebecca. Don’t you think you’ve waited long enough? Make your own truth, Raven. I don’t know, maybe rebuild that rave tower, you had a good thing going. Spend some time with Jun, or that kid Cyan—or both; whatever you’re into. Now about that portal—”

“Do you even have a plan?”

Malachy dropped the dagger onto the table with a clang. Instead his hands flew up to grab both sides of his hood.

“Now you see me.” He flapped the hood on. “Now you don’t.” Malachy wiggled his eyebrows. “How do you like my Purgatory guard costume?”

“Their uniforms aren’t very elaborate,” Raven conceded. “But even if you were to get to him unharmed, I highly doubt Lance would just let you walk off with his prisoner.”

Malachy pushed back his hood and smiled, one finger lifted in the air.

“You know what, thanks for reminding me! I do have a plan.” And it was good, too. Malachy glanced around the room at all the filing cabinets lining the shimmering silver walls. Then he looked back at Raven. “Say, have you got any drugs?”

***

Lance’s torture chambers were vast, but his favorite room was the one with the metallic table and the four chained cuffs that fell from the ceiling. Charming stuff.

Malachy was currently locked up in a cage inside that very room. The cage was only big enough for him to sit up. The room was divided in two; one part was a fortified cement cell, usually occupied by Lance’s favorite prisoner—Malachy himself had been given the honor of inhabiting the fortified cell for a while—and the other part was the open area with the table and chains, and with some desks and chairs, a cage of course, and paintings slung across the walls. There were candle holders at intervals between them, with the lit candle in each one casting its feeble golden glow across the room. Malachy’s gaze trailed upon the paintings lazily, even though he’d seen them so many times before.

Lance had painted those, but he hadn’t given them names. It didn’t matter. Malachy had come up with names in his mind; there was the woman drowned in the Nile, the bleeding eye, the inverted pyramid, the red snake, the typhoon, and the gator’s meal.

You didn’t want to look at the gator’s meal too long. The meal was a person. And there wasn’t going to be leftovers.

Malachy clutched the thin metallic bars of his cage. When the guards had found him, they’d torn his hood off. But at least Malachy had gotten to keep his clothes. Feeling cold, he tugged at his long sleeves, pulling them over his wrists. He sniffed and looked up.

Lance opened the door and barged in the room like a storm. He closed it loudly behind him and looked at Malachy from under his hood. His eyes gleamed red for a brief moment, then Lance took off his cape and draped it over a chair. Under his uniform, he wore a gray outfit; gray dress pants, gray shirt, gray tie. How dull.

“I sincerely hope you don’t wear that outfit for going out,” Malachy called. “Ever heard someone say: Hey, wow, look at the guy in the gray!” Malachy shook his head. “Me neither.”

Lance had his long white hair in a neat ponytail behind his neck. His skin was dark and smooth, and you couldn’t tell his age. You could try guessing thirty-something. But after one glimpse into Lance’s big black eyes, you didn’t know what to think.

“I’ve missed you, Malachy.” Lance almost sounded sincere. “I’ve missed you very much indeed.”

Lance paced to the fortified cement cell. It could only be opened with a digit code, and Lance changed it everyday. He didn’t write it down anywhere, he didn’t tell anyone. He just memorized it.

Malachy’s heart started racing. But before opening the door, Lance turned around.

“I’ve been waiting for this. I knew it was only a matter of time before you came back. You’re lost without me, aren’t you? When are you going to admit that betraying me was a mistake?”

Malachy tilted his head. “I thought we discussed this already. When was it again? Oh, yes. For the past eighteen years. You keep saying I betrayed you. The way I see it, you betrayed me when you didn’t give me what I wanted. Agree to disagree.” Malachy smiled coolly.

“There aren’t many prisoners like you.” Lance’s eyes hardened. His voice was very low, and sort of thick, like molasses. “Nothing can ever break you, or hurt you. Not really. You experience true pain, true suffering, and you come out stronger every time. Of course, I know you. I knew you would be this way. At times, I was almost tempted to feel proud of you again.” Lance brushed it off. “But now, I have what I need to really get to you. To shatter you. To have my revenge.”

Sometimes, when Lance looked at him like that, with his eyes full of the need for revenge, Malachy remembered what it had been like to kill him. He’d done it impulsively, out of spite and frustration, and Lance’s dark eyes, normally so calm and composed, had been so shocked, so wide in disbelief as Malachy twisted a higher demon sword deep in his heart.

And of course Malachy regretted. It was a stupid and overdramatic thing to do. But it wasn’t that big of a deal, really. Lance could go back to Hell whenever he wanted. He could forget about the whole affair and move on, if he wanted to. But Lance’s pride was hurt, and he was even madder than Malachy, probably. So Lance was now obsessed with tormenting the one he had once taken under his wing. And he simply wouldn’t let up.

Lance entered the digits and pushed open the cement door. Just looking inside the cell twisted Malachy’s chest. Being in there was like falling into an abyss. You couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t see anything, couldn’t feel anything but cold walls closing in on you. And you drowned in blackness, with no hopes of ever coming out to gasp for air.

Malachy snapped out of it as he saw that Lance was pulling someone out of the cell. An unconscious someone. Lance grabbed him and threw him across the metallic table like a potato sack.

This is not how I imagined our reunion, but it’ll have to do.

Shay wore rags for clothes. His hair was a knotted mess, his skin mangled.

As Lance busied himself with securing Shay’s wrists and ankles inside the chained cuffs, Malachy continued to observe him. His heart constricted, and he felt a lump in his throat.

Shay was covered in bruises and cuts, some of which were infected, his lips were dry and bleeding, he had a nasty burn on the side of his face, from his ear to his chin, one of his arms appeared to be dislocated, but even with all that, Malachy recognized him. Of course he did. And he almost cried.

He’d forgotten how young Shay looked. Malachy couldn’t stop staring. The slightly upturned nose, the angled jaw, the elegant brow, the long eyelashes, and full lips; boyish and pretty like Sasha, but something about Shay was more graceful, more intense. Or perhaps Malachy’s memories were at play here. He expected Shay to wake up at any moment and look at him with fox-like amber eyes. And what would he say?

‘Let’s play music together, Malachy. Just like old times.’

That was the first thing that had come to mind. It made Malachy smile. Either that, or Shay would ask Malachy to brush his hair.

‘I’m too lazy to do it myself…’

Lance looked a bit uneasy as he took in Malachy’s smile. But then he turned away, stepped over to a metallic desk, and opened the first drawer. He took out a small plastic box that looked like a first-aid kit. But it wasn’t. Lance took out one syringe and three carefully identified vials. Malachy narrowed his eyes, craning his neck to see which ones Lance had taken out. He saw the tiny colored stickers on them; blue, green and yellow.

Malachy smiled again, but for a different reason. Lance was so predictable. So, so predictable, Malachy’s mind chimed.

Lance always used the same drugs: one to keep his prisoner awake, one to paralyze them, and one to enhance the pain. Malachy knew the drugs all too well. It was a cruel combination. You couldn’t move at all, but you could still feel this horrible pain that was beyond words and comprehension, and you couldn’t even pass out.

“First to wake him up,” Lance said softly as he brought the syringe closer to Shay’s arm, ready to inject his first favorite drug.

Malachy was clutching at his cage’s bars, heart racing. He almost laughed, but caught himself.

It’ll wake him up all right.

After the first injection, Lance emptied the second, then the third vial. He put away the plastic box, and glanced over at Malachy.

“If you think,” Lance said, rolling his gray sleeves at his elbows, “your lack of reaction unsettles me, you are wrong. I know this will hurt you. Don’t try to fool me, boy.”

Lance reached for his metallic desk again, and this time rattled the second drawer open. He produced a knife and raised it up as he approached Shay again, flaunting the torture tool so Malachy would see it.

Malachy bit back his smile. This wasn’t just any knife. This was a special blade that opened up into ten different blades after stabbing someone. Like a flower blooming, except admittedly more gruesome. Malachy knew that knife. Lance had used it on him before. And now, he was going to use it on Shay.

“That’s more like it,” said Lance as he saw the expression on Malachy’s face.

The tip of the knife came dangerously close to Shay’s stomach.

“As soon as he wakes up,” Lance said, very calm, his black eyes unyielding. “Any moment now. Just so you can see him in pain. And remember what it felt like to have that knife inside you. So you can know exactly what he’s feeling. Because of you.”

While Lance was talking, Shay’s fingers started to twitch. Malachy grabbed the cage with both hands, watching. Lance hadn’t noticed the fingers, but when Shay’s eyes started to open, Lance saw it.

Malachy thought his heart was going to burst.

Lance’s knife was beginning to slice into Shay’s stomach.

No, no, no. Come on, Shay. Come on, come on, come on.

Shay’s eyes opened wide. His right hand tightened into a fist around the chain. Shay yanked at it with a jerky movement and the chain snapped, broken. Shay’s cuffed wrist came free and his hand bolted to snatch Lance’s knife. Lance seemed too shocked to make a move. Malachy smiled as he watched, settling back in his cage. Shay turned the knife around and plunged it into Lance’s stomach. He had the element of surprise; Lance was breathless, shocked.

The blades opened up inside Lance with a sickening sound, and he took a few steps back. Blood welled from his stomach, staining his pale gray clothes.

Shay was twisting over to free his other arm. Then he reached for the chains holding his ankles, and he broke those, too. The metallic cuffs were still around his wrists and ankles, but they weren’t restraining him anymore. Shay rolled over on the metallic table and landed on the floor in a graceful crouch.

On the other side of the table, Lance seemed to be trying to say something. But he was coughing and choking on his own blood.

Shay looked up and his gaze met Malachy’s smiling eyes. Malachy felt light-headed. How long had it been since he’d last glanced into those amber eyes? Too long. They looked at him now, fire and passion burning strong in them, and it was as if those lifetimes apart, those centuries didn’t exist anymore. There was only now. And they exchanged a silent nod. That nod meant everything. Shay leaped back up.

He whirled around the table and grabbed the back of Lance’s neck. Then he knocked Lance’s head against the table several times, until he was passed out. Shay dropped him to the floor. He was breathing fast. His hands trembled as they found the chair on which Lance’s uniform was thrown. A clicking sound was heard as Shay’s hand closed in on the keys. He rushed over to Malachy’s cage and put one knee to the ground.

Shay’s pupils were completely dilated, with only a thin ring of fiery color visible around them. The vein at his throat pulsated rapidly as Shay tried every key with unsteady hands. He let out a shaky breath as he finally found one that worked and opened up the cage’s door.

At first they didn’t speak. They didn’t touch each other, like they were afraid.

Malachy broke the silence. “Those drugs are good stuff.”

“What are they?” Shay asked.

Malachy felt warm inside. It was good to hear that voice again. He’d forgotten, and he’d been trying to remember, but his memories didn’t do it justice. Shay’s voice was soft, soft as velvet, and with just a tinge of deepness that made it masculine.

“Just some adrenaline, mostly. And stimulants. Extremely powerful stimulants.” Malachy winked.

“I can tell. My heart’s beating so fast,” Shay said in a rush. “How did you sneak them in?”

But Shay couldn’t really focus on a conversation right now, clearly. His eyes darted about, and his breathing was too loud and uneven.

“I’ll show you later,” Malachy said. “It’s pretty cool. Shay, listen to me.”

His dilated eyes flicked back to Malachy. He looked troubled all of a sudden.

“What is it?” Malachy asked.

“It’s good to hear you say my name. I think I’d forgotten the sound of your voice,” Shay answered.

Malachy almost faltered. But behind the table, Lance was waking up. There would be other times for sentimental reunions.

Lance was weak and coughing blood, but he was trying to get the knife out. Rolling on his side, he sent them a venomous glare.

“Malachy you fool what do you think you’re trying to do?”

Ignoring that, Malachy reached out and took Shay’s hand. The one that was holding Lance’s keys.

“Take those keys,” he told Shay, “and go free as many prisoners as you can, all right? Do it fast. And if you know what prisoners Lance has been torturing specifically, free those gentlemen. Do you understand? Can you do that for me?”

Shay nodded, clutching the keys. He stepped back to give Malachy some space to get out of the cage. Malachy went to drag up Lance’s uniform, and he placed the cape around Shay’s frail shoulders. On the floor, Lance was trying to grab at Malachy’s ankle. Malachy just stepped away.

“Go, now.” Malachy squeezed his friend’s shoulder.

But Shay was searching Malachy’s eyes. He parted his dry lips but no sound came out.

Malachy sighed. “I know, I know. I’m going to stay right here, all right? I ain’t going anywhere without you. I promise. Now, go.”

Shay slipped away, threw the door open and ran off into the dark corridor, his keys clinking loudly.

“Ah, Lance,” Malachy said, turning toward the other occupant of the room, “Lance, Lance, Lance. Alone at last.” He had staggered up to his feet somehow, but he still had that knife inside him.

“You’re awfully pale. Need a hand?”

Malachy grabbed the knife and pulled it out with no warning. Lance choked out a strangled scream as blood splashed out in every direction. Malachy dropped the knife distastefully, and it went to clatter onto the floor, its blades retracting back into one. Lance was bent over the torture table, coughing blood, and gulping for air in between.

They could already hear the beastly sounds of the prisoners being freed from their cells out there in the corridor. Malachy smiled. Pushing a rickety chair out of the way, he reached down for a bottom drawer Lance never used.

“What are you doing?” Lance choked out. They heard the prisoners rushing over to Lance’s torture chambers. “You can’t do this.”

Malachy opened the drawer. It was empty, save for one beautiful, pure white blade. All Malachy had needed to do after sneaking in was swap the drugs in Lance’s vials, and stash Raven’s dagger somewhere; kids’ stuff.

“What do you mean, I can’t do this?” Malachy rose, holding up the dagger. “You mean, winning?” He flashed a grin as Lance looked over his shoulder. Malachy couldn’t help but laugh in delight when Lance’s dark eyes showed horror. “But I like winning, Lance. And I always win, in the end, don’t I? Don’t you know by now?”

“How did you get that dagger?” Lance hissed. He tried to maneuver away from Malachy, but he was weakened, and Malachy was fast.

“My new higher demon friend gave it to me.”

He wasn’t aiming to kill Lance. Not so quickly, anyway. Malachy just settled for grazing Lance’s hand with the dagger. There was more fear than pain in Lance’s expression as he looked at the shallow cut across the back of his hand.

At the same time, prisoners in blood-stained, ragged clothes started to spill inside the torture chambers. Five of them, then ten, then more.

They threw themselves at Lance. There was a chorus of ‘I’m going to kill you!’ and ‘You’re going to pay!’ and other things along those lines.

Malachy was retreating to the corner of the room, near the door to the fortified cell. He held up his blood stained dagger, and spoke loudly to be heard over the hassle.

“Please don’t take it personal, Lance. I needed a higher demon’s blood to open my portal.” Lance was being attacked from all sides, but Malachy knew he could hear him still. “And since you never accepted to make me one,” Malachy shrugged helplessly, “you were the only one available.”

The prisoners were drawing out torture instruments from the desks to hurt Lance, to get their revenge. Some of them couldn’t reach Lance, so instead their dirty hands grabbed the paintings and broke them against their knees, before sending them to the floor where they got stepped on all over.

Droplets of blood trickled from the white dagger and fell to the floor, just in front of Malachy’s boots. Malachy dropped to a crouch and pressed the tip of his blade to the blood-stained cement. He then spun on his heel, tracing a circle around himself with the dagger. The blade made an unpleasant scratching sound against the floor. When the circle was complete, it started to gleam red. Malachy slowly got up.

With perfect timing, Shay made his way back inside the torture chambers. So many prisoners were crammed up in the room that Shay had to slither his way around them. They were all trying to reach Lance. And the ones who couldn’t get to him yelled at the others. ‘Make that bastard pay! Make him suffer!’

Shay was breathing hard. He was a mess. He threw away the keys and the cape.

“Come here,” Malachy told him.

Shay stepped inside the circle and fell in Malachy’s arms. His heart was thumping so heavily that for a moment Malachy thought it was his own.

Some prisoners were frustrated because they couldn’t hurt Lance themselves, and there weren’t any more paintings to wreck. So some of them started to notice Malachy—more importantly, they recognized him.

“Hey, that bastard’s the one who sent me here in the first place!” one of them shouted.

Other voices shouted back in agreement.

Malachy held Shay close. “Time to get out of here, wouldn’t you say?”

The raging prisoners tried to reach him, but they found they couldn’t breech the gleaming red circle. Malachy smirked.

Even as he got dissected by the angry prisoners he had tortured for years, Lance found the strength to yell.

“Get Malachy! Grab him and I’ll make you a guard as a reward!” He tried to say something else but there was a sharp snap as someone punched him in the face to shut him up.

Malachy closed his eyes. He didn’t want to look anymore; didn’t want to see the angry faces of the men trying to reach him, wanting to hurt him, didn’t want to witness Lance’s sufferings on that table. Maddened prisoners torturing a mad man. And it didn’t matter what they did to him, anyway. Malachy had grazed Lance with Raven’s poisoned dagger. He was finished. It was over.

The red circle started to glow with such intensity that Malachy saw it through his closed eyelids. It became a protective wall shielding them from the noise and horrors of Lance’s torture chambers.

Everything seemed to dissipate, and Malachy felt something peaceful as he held Shay in his arms. The world tilted under their feet, and the air shifted around them.

“Where are we going?” Shay’s voice was a soft tingle in his ear.

“Does it matter?”

“No.” Shay seemed to relax in his hold. “It doesn’t.”