INTERLUDE II
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Martin had been in Hell for a very long time, so long that he no longer remembered how much time had passed. And little by little, he could feel himself losing little pieces of who he used to be. Some things, he could no longer remember at all.
His favorite food.
His favorite beer.
The day he was born.
His mother's name.
The name of the first girl he'd fucked.
The name of the first man he'd killed.
Some others, he had yet to forget, he would never forget. Like the faces of his brothers as they were murdered in the name of science.
The spell the old man had taught that would give him what he wanted.
The feeling of hot blood in his hands as he took a life.
The face of the bastard who had taken the last piece of who he had been and changed him into what he was now.
Alastair's prized student was good, Martin had to admit that. Hundreds of years being eaten alive by the lesser demons of Hell had left him merely bruised. A few years on the rack under the attention of Alastair's golden boy apprentice, who wasn't even a full demon like the others, and Martin saw the last glow of his human soul ebb away and be consumed by the darkness. He became one of them.
He was rock, like the old man.
Martin left the rack and golden boy welcomed another victim, probably forgetting all about Martin as soon as he was out of sight.
Golden boy.
The expression had annoyed the living hell out of Martin when he was alive, always referring to privileged people who thought they were better than others just because fate or birth had dealt them with better cards to play the game.
In Hell, the expression was more literal than on Earth. There was a light surrounding Alastair's apprentice that made it hard to look at him. A golden glow that was slightly different than the rest of the human souls.
Definitely different from the demons, who had already lost theirs eons ago.
Martin had seen his face though. Once only, but it was enough to never forget it.
It happened that last time, as Martin stopped being a man and became something else. There was something that the bastard carved into Martin's body, some long and painful symbol that marked the end of their session for the day.
Martin could tell how each inch of the symbol felt on his bones, on his skin, on his soul. It hurt. That last time, however, the pain was almost a thing of the past, a welcomed lover that he longed for and then embraced. That day, Martin wasn't screaming his tongue out and he could see.
Golden boy had a pretty face with pretty green eyes, the kind you saw only in ladies' magazines and on fancy whores. And he was crying.
Martin was the one with his guts hanging out three feet in the air, the left side of his head flattened out by a hot iron and the bastard who had done it all was the one crying.
The light, that had so often proven mysterious to Martin, was now an annoyance, painful to look at. But still Martin stared. Memorized every inch of that hateful face.
That day was his last day on the rack. The last day he would have to be at the mercy of Alastair and his puppet.
He had the rest of eternity to get his revenge on them. Make them pay. And then he could move on with his plan.
But then... then all Heaven had broken loose. Martin figured that would be the appropriate way to put it. After all, they were in Hell and the things that descended on them, spitting fire and lightning bolts, looked too much like angels for his comfort.
They were for someone, those heavenly rats with wings. For a split second, Martin had almost hoped that they were looking for him.
But no. They had come for him.
Golden boy, like every privileged prick he'd met in his life, was plucked from the murk and rescued, leaving all the other mongrels like him beings behind.
Some things, they never truly changed.
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