Chapter Twenty Nine

Penryn?

Surprise slows my response to Hugo's hesitant call. I freeze in the long, skull-furnished corridor, gripping Paige's hand tightly. "Hugo? Jane's out of here already?"

I told you, she's deathly afraid of Lucius. She was practically sprinting to escape. How did things go between the two of you? Which buttons did she push?

I sigh to myself. "Well, for some reason, she let me pass, so that's something. But she was really making me mad. She's a madwoman, a sick madwoman, and she boasts about that."

There is a pause before Hugo speaks again. No, she doesn't. Not in my experiences, anyway. Knowing her, she was acting the entire time, just playing the parts of a madwoman and a serial killer so she could extract character information from you.

"I don't know," I mutter dubiously.

I can hear her as you relive events in your mind, and trust me, that's not like her. She doesn't like talking anywhere near that amount, for starters, and second of all, if she had an angel pinned like that, she would never just kill him. It would disrupt her experiment. Poor bastard was just part of the act.

"That doesn't exactly clear her actions," I disapprove, roving the flashlight's beam up and down the skulls.

She's a madwoman, Penryn, but she's a good one. You snapping at her was fine in a test designed for you to do precisely that and most likely excusable, but steer clear of her from now on. Repent the moment you clap eyes on that wolf. I've seen her casually slaughter an ally because two days ago he'd refused to look her in the eye and she'd only then gotten around to butchering him. The capricious bitch is very, very good at killing for no good reason.

"Why doesn't someone take her down?" I wonder, half-convinced that Bryon would approve of an extermination mission after hearing about the terrors of her den.

We've tried to, trust me. I've tried. But she's a ghost. She can detect your thoughts a second before you're aware of them yourself, so it's easy for her to outfox you. Don't you dare challenge her, Penryn Young. Your uncle would have my hide.

"Alright." Unhappily, I begin to trudge down the tunnel once again, pulling Paige along with me. "So, how do I get to the center of this hellhole? Where am I?"

How the hell should I know? The halls all look the same. Wait until we get to an intersection, then I'll tell you.

"Okay." After a few moments of eerie silence, I contact him again. "So, what's everyone up to?"

Well, after your comment about his whittling, Ogden has decided it's his God given mission to create an entire army of wooden garden gnomes to welcome you back. Bit creepy, honestly. Scruffy's still bouncing about, knocking over garden gnomes and licking Jane to death. I expect he'll have calmed down by the time you get out of there, but then you'll just rile him up again, won't you?

I laugh. "And you? What are you doing?"

Arguing quite viciously with a Raffyon shipper online. Also, watching the video of Gabriel getting shot over and over again to look for something I've missed. I'm also reimagining the entire Young family in a steampunk world with this lucky pencil of mine. Might post the sketches online.

Ducking to avoid a particularly low ceiling, I chuckle to myself. "Multitasking, much?"

It helps me think. No judgment in this place. Take a right here.

Complying, I shield Paige' s eyes from the mural of bones at the corner. "Does she have to be so brutal about everything?"

We just don't appreciate her, I suppose. She's been successfully hunting the top predator in all the world for thousands of years without discovery. That is gruesomely amazing. She's just a hunter, and this is her gallery. Just like human hunters and human scientists with animals, really.

"Does she think of the angels as animals?" I notice the skulls progressively getting older as we continue. "It explains the slaughter..."

I really just don't know enough about her to answer that question. Best I can tell, she doesn't really believe in souls or beings the way we do. She's got a very machinelike view on life, a view which tends to revolve around the profuse use of animalistic violence. In her mind, she's a predator, and her sole duty in life is to be a predator. So she kills angels in abundant numbers because it's her purpose in life. Keep going straight at this intersection.

"She's crazy," I marvel as I lead Paige through the fork in the path. "Absolutely bonkers."

There's the million dollar question. I swear Hugo sounds delightedly fascinated. Is the madwoman mad at all? To be truthful, I don't think of her as truly mad by the typical definition. Just very, very different. She's brutal but practical. She does what needs to be done. Her machinelike mindset opens her thoughts to new areas of creativity. The idea of the World Wide Web started with her and one of her rare rants about the threads that connect all minds and how to telepathically tread along those thin wires. Madwoman or genius, you decide.

"I still think she's nuts."

Well, it is a madman speaking, so my point of view is slightly tainted...

"How far am I from the center of the maze?" I wonder as tiptoe around the crumbling remains of a decapitated skeleton strewn carelessly over the floor. "Everything around me is getting a lot older, isn't it?"

Yeah, it's not far. Maybe ten more –

He cuts off abruptly, a searing bolt of surprise cutting through my thoughts. I stop in my tracks, almost fearing that Jane had lashed out at Hugo for having such a rude conversation about her.

"What happened?" I ask, rubbing at my temple, wincing away the pain. Silence. "Hugo?"

Penryn, I know this really isn't a good time, but your mother just showed up. How the fuck do I take care of this?

"What?" Dreads sinks its icy talons into my heart. "Why? What is she doing? Don't let her in here!"

Right, that's exactly what we need, three Youngs running wild. She's actually not all that interested in the tunnel, best I can tell. No, talking to Ogden's garden gnomes is immensely more interesting than the creepy tunnel, silly me...

I breathe out with relief, puffing my cheeks and relaxing the hand that'd automatically strangled Pooky Bear's hilt. "Just don't let her in here. I don't want her finding Jane's experiments and conducting tests of her own."

Don't you worry about it. Mad people tend to get along. It's why Bay and I are two peas in a pod. Left here.

I scrunch my brow as the odor of rotting flesh invades my nose, pungent and inescapable. Paige sniffs once and then moans, burying her head into my leg to muffle the scent. "God, is that fresh?" I ask, coughing the foul taste from my mouth the air brings against my tongue. "I thought the things get older as we go along!"

That's precisely where the problem lies. Most of it is too old. Even super-duper strong angel bones don't last forever. Eventually, they need to be replaced. Jane does a very good job with keeping her halls well maintained.

"God forbid she be an untidy housekeeper."

Onward Paige and I plunge, the stench growing more and more potent with each step we take into the heart of the den. Hugo's constant commentary of everything I happen to see keeps my mind off the horrendous sights of freshly fetched skulls, with fleshy glue still sticking to the bone and grey skin slowly rotting off. When at last we do reach the final stretch of tunnel, a single hub where many other passageways meet to converge into one great corridor, my flashlight's beam starts to flicker and shudder, as if it, too, is terrified of what lies beyond the bones.

See, that's why you've got to bring batteries. Hugo's voice is matter of fact. We haven't even reached her sleeping chamber, and already, your technology is going haywire because of all the demonic activity. You still have them, right?

After a few batteries checks and much shaking of the flashlight, we venture deeper into the maze with a relatively reliable flashlight in hand. Everything now is tense – despite our best efforts, every so often, the flashlight's beam flutters over the mass of skulls. The sounds that'd abandoned me for a long stretch of time have returned, wails of agony and dying moans, most likely originating from another torture room and another set of experiments. As if the shadows here are denser, the tunnel seems to get darker and darker, despite the light of the flashlight. Paige's quivering does little to remedy my terror.

The corridor in which we tread is somehow more menacing than the other winding tunnels – it's almost unnaturally straight, the dirt beneath my feet packed so tightly that not even dust can be kicked up. Instead of a craggy, uneven ceiling, the skulls curve into a domelike top, grinning down from above. The only flaws in Jane's are the occasional neck bones littering the ground alongside jaws and peeled feathers, complying with gravity's demands and gently falling to the dirt.

The flashlight beam pitches violently, and, in between the flashes of light, I catch sight of a large open area far down the tunnel. As the flashlight convulses, I turn to Paige.

"Stay right by me, you hear?" I insist. "Paige, honey, I'm going to have to do something that involves a very, very bad man, and some very, very bad rituals. Whatever you see and whatever you hear, you've got to promise me that you won't run away unless I say so. You've really got to listen to me, baby, and do whatever I ask you to as quickly as possible. Promise?"

Her big eyes seem on the verge of tears as they meet my gaze, a glossy polish of fear over the dark pupils. A smile spreads over her pale face, the edges of her lips pulling against the purple lines of her stitches. "Ryn-ryn," she sighs, the trust in her voice heart-melting.

"Love you, Paige." I press my lips to her smooth forehead, avoiding the raw stitching puckering the skin of her face. "Stay close."

You're almost there, Penryn. Just a bit further. Keep that chin up.

And so I do. I keep my chin up until I reach the end of the hall, and then I let my jaw drop. Jane's sleeping chambers lie before me.

The stone walls are worn and smooth, without a crag of blemish on the grey rock. It's ovular and riddled with concaves in the stone, each of the alcoves bedded with trembling white hairs. In the very center of the room are the stains of past rituals, the faded blood marks a map for me to follow. Unlike the rest of the halls and rooms, no bones plaster the walls; however, other skeletons sleep in the chambers, mouths held open eternally with the terror of their last screams.

"Oh, my God." I ogle at the harrowing corpses, horrified by the tufts of fur clinging to the ivory bones, recognizing the slender design of the exposed skulls. "Are those…?

Wolf pups. Hugo's presence is grim, quashing anger. Her own. Neither of them were over a month old.

"Jane's pups?" My voice cracks at the sight of their little wings, half-folded against their decaying sides. Between their ribs, the squirming white bodies of maggots burrow into their flesh. "…Scruffy's pups, too?"

Oh yes, they were. Scruffy was going to be a Papa. I noticed she was pregnant with those poor things and got the entire Nephilim community excited for Scruffy's pups. The dude was excited himself. Even more than usual, I mean. I noticed one day that she wasn't plump anymore. Thought she'd had them, thought they were back in her den, squealing bald things. When we found them there with their necks snapped, Scruffy started nosing them and licking their foreheads. He couldn't understand why they wouldn't wake up. Heartbreaking. Got out of there as soon as I could. Haven't come back since. Sickening to see she hasn't even moved them.

I clap a hand over my mouth in case the nausea in my stomach may attempt to escape, and with the other hand, I position Paige's gaze away from the carcasses. "And you think she isn't crazy…? This… this is sick!"

It put a dent in my theory. Maybe she saw them as competition.

"Her own children?" I shake my head to dispel the thoughts barraging my calm façade. "This really is a place of tragedy, isn't it? There's an excuse for the angels, but Scruffy's pups…"

I find myself recalling her words: But only a fool chooses a madwoman to bear his pups, and a fool that wolf is.

Hugo's thoughts wrench my back to the present. A place of tragedy… that this place is, isn't it? Perfect conditions to draw out a demon. We'd better get started. We've wasted enough time on condolences and petty observances. Now, Penryn, now we work to call the demonic sucker.

Bryon claps slowly, the sound echoing through the room like the lethargic beat of a dying heart. His lips twist into a wry smile. With every clap of his hands, the staff cradled in the crook of his arm shifts, rolling lazily up and down his bicep. As the golden noonday light falls upon feathers once so feared by none other than himself, Bryon can only muse upon how absolutely adorable the very Wrath of God looks as he struts about, grinning like a child with a new toy.

"At last!" the angel trumpets, breathing deeply and sighing heavily. "Feathers! I forgot how much I missed feathers. You poor pathetic monster, not having any wings. Must be miserable, being grounded all the time."

"Not as miserable as you'd think," Bryon chuckles, leaning back against the bookshelf he'd been rifling through. "Although if I could as for one bodily correction, I would ask for wings. Unfortunately, though, God doesn't often make house calls. My wings would be beautiful, I'd wager."

"If God made house calls, you'd end up getting those black bastards. Never trust Greeks bearing gifts." Still grinning broadly, he takes the old severed limbs in his hands, and begins to methodically break every slender bone bound together by the leathery skin. "Oh, goodbye, hooks, goodbye, bats. I can go home, can't you see that, you pitiful monster?! I can put that damned Uriel in his place and I can go home!"

Bryon bites his lip as Raphael begins to spread his snowy wings wide. "Ah, how about we don't do that?" He surges forward, rapping the edge of the staff against the wing's joint. "Remember what the Seraphim said? You can't move them for at least a day, and you can't fly for a couple."

"That's bull." Raphael rolls his eyes. "I was up and flapping around not even an hour after I got these disgraces to the air." Another bone pops, folding in his hands.

"Yes, well, you weren't exactly flying flawlessly." Bryon winces as the archangel bundles a few of the spindly bones in his hands and cracks them together, creating a sickening crunching noise. "And I saw you nearly a few days later figuring out that those scythes were retractable. Bravo on that one."

"True." Raphael sighs heavily, studying the tips of his wings, sliding the scythes in and out absentmindedly. "And I do need to do something about those scythes, don't I? I wonder what."

"That's not exactly what I meant," Bryon mumbles. Clearing his throat, he continues, "Well, Penryn asked after you while you were gone. I told her you were still in a test. Which, I suppose, it sort of was."

Raffe looks up, and drops his discarded wings. "Has she gone through with it?" There's an anxious, worried tone in his voice that both soothes Bryon's nerves and riles them back up again. "Is she alright? Has something happened?"

Bryon swivels his head from side to side, closing his eyes to better formulate a response. "Said they didn't make good time, and that she was just about to enter the den. That was an hour and a half ago. Depending on whether or not Jane was quick and whether and not she's any good at navigating mazes, she could be with Lucius, done with Lucius, or still stumbling around."

Raffe nods impatiently, eager for more news, the demonic wings all but forgotten in their oozing heap on the tablecloth. "How was she? Did she seem alright to you?"

Bryon hesitates, uncertain upon how many secrets he's willing to spill to the archangel. "Well, she seemed frightened. Said she was pretty nervous. But who wouldn't be?"

Raphael's fists clench and unclench. Bryon watches them in the corner of his eye, keeping a watch on the muscles flexing up and down the lengths of his arms as well as the concern and frustration that drives him to grind his teeth together. He almost seems like a man with a place to be caught in a place he doesn't want to be.

"Do you want to call Hugo?" Bryon fishes the phone from his pocket, extending it towards the archangel. "You might not be able to get Penryn on the line, but, from what I know of their little plan, he should know how she's doing."

Raphael hesitates. Then he snatches the phone from Bryon's hand.

I stumble backwards, hands gripping the smooth surface of the stone as best they can in a battle to keep myself upright. Though my heart splutters in my chest as I feel the power of the Devil's son's name, true and full, ripping through the chamber, the response to it is less than I'd expected – no thunder ripples through the tunnels, nor does my vision go white with the pure presence of darkness in my midst. But something I hadn't prepared for does.

The room goes cold as ice, my breath pluming before my face in a billowing silvery thread. Dread prickles at the back of my neck, sending rivulets of sweat rolling down despite the drastic change in temperature. Paige whimpers and whines, clutching me.

Perhaps she feels the same cold nothingness trickling down her spine, pooling in her stomach. Perhaps the same emotionless and wearying sensation begins to drag at her bones, as if they'd hardened into heavy stone to drag down my limbs. As if my thoughts are freezing over, I can feel my mind slowing down, though whether it's because of the demon or the fear throbbing in my heart, I'm not sure.

In the center of the demonic pentagram, focused between all the rays and angels of the stars and triangles I'd painstakingly etched in the nasty lamb's blood, is a growing mass of what seems like third dimensional shadows. It swells and froths, fanning out over the ground, the dark mist held back by the lines of blood. And, from the depths of the fog, something else takes form – I only catch it in my gaze for mere milliseconds as it bares great, hooked wings up to the ceiling before the flashlight's beam goes out, the bulb bursting with a dying shriek of shattering glass.

The loud noise serves as an audacious reminder, a yelp to yank me from the horror that'd stolen my thoughts. I scramble back to my feet as the shadowy mass begins to ebb away, the red torches in all four corners of the room illuminating a dark figure amongst the fog. Gluing my eyes to the ground, I recall Ogden's instructions.

Before the shadows flee completely, I begin to speak in as strong a voice I can manage through the tight, dry throat strangling my words. "I am Penryn Young," I announce, my cadence quavering and voice cracking. "I have come to –"

Brrrrring! Brrrrring! Brrrrring!

The rude noise of a cheesy telephone ringtone echoes from my pocket. I start, spooked by the noise in the overall quiet, eyes flying to my pant legs. Again, it sounds, obnoxiously ringing around the chamber like some shrill bird cry.

Brrrrring! Brrrrring! Brrrrring!

Hugo's lamenting voice echoes in my head. Jesus, that's got to be embarrassing. That's why you don't take technology near demons, Penryn. Bad enough you're screwing up my phone…

Brrrrring! Brrrrring! Brrrrring!

The figure in the shadows sounds like a thousand serpents twisting together, the smooth slide of scale-on-scale magnified to monstrous degrees. Arrogance chills his tone. His R's sound like icy barks.

"Aren't you going to answer that?"

I quiver at the sound of Lucius's voice as it blankets the air with the shadows of its hissing melody, but the slithering words and bizarre dances also bring on other questions, even as I hurry to fish the phone from my pocket – true, he sounds icy, but not to the extent of the rough voice from my dream. There is something distinctively more serpentine about Lucius.

My fingers fumble clumsily over the screen, affected by the ice in the air and the forlorn sensation gripping me tightly.

Brrrrring! Brrrrring! Brrrrring!

"It's rude to keep friends waiting." So scaly and cold…

Trembling slightly, I tap the button and hold the phone up to my ear, not even bothering to glance at who'd called at this ungodly moment.

"H-hello?" I whisper, voice shuddering with each panicked breath I take. My hand quivers so violently that the phone vibrates at my ear. "Who is th-this?"

"Penryn?" Raffe's voice flows into me, like the antidote to a poison. Warmth flares first at my cheeks with the red blush flaming there, spreading slowly through my veins. His voice, though alarmed, holds the familiarity akin to that of wrapping my arms around a beloved teddy bear.

"Raffe," I choke out, courage lifting my heart, battling off the unnatural fear gripping me.

But before he can respond, an icy burn spreads over my skin, and the phone vanishes from my hand. I gasp and snatch at it, but as my fingers brush against flesh as cold as a dead man's, I recoil with a sharp cry, cradling my hand against my chest.

"Ah, yes, the infamous Wrath of God." Lucius's chilling voice almost reminds me of a rippling slinky. "I am in the middle of an operation, little Wrath, and I do not take to interruptions kindly. If you even attempt to call again, those pretty new wings of yours will be off before you can say 'dead Daughter of Man' three times fast. I have business to attend to. Good day."

The light cast from the screen cuts into darkness, plunging the demon into the shadows from which he'd come. Quickly following the loss of light is the mechanic sound of something snapping from the depths of the shadows.

Two halves of the iPhone rattle towards opposite sides of the room, hitting the walls and spiraling off with violent speeds. Lucius does not utter one more word.

Hugo's horrified squeak at last sounds. My phone! My phone! How could he? That's my phone!

"That won't do, either." Milky flesh catches the red gleam of the torches, illuminating the dark purple webs of veins riddling the back of his hand as he lifts it to the sky. "Good day."

Hugo's acknowledgement of the words he'd spoken comes slightly too late. Wait. Wait, wait, wait –

The crisp snap of his fingers rings through the chamber.

The voice of Hugo in my mind sounds no more. Though I wait for Hugo to respond with jeering, scornful critiques on Lucius's performance, no such critiques arrive. Hugo has left me, and the plan is no more.

"You were saying, Penryn Young?" Lucius purrs from the depths. "What have you come to do, you and your little friend, not to mention the one who doesn't play fair?"

I frown, placing my body between Paige and Lucius, keeping my gaze at the figure's feet. Paige, she could be the little friend to which he'd referred, but the one who doesn't play fair…?

He was speaking of me. Though lacking the deep, warm tones of Raffe's voice, Ogden's high, flowing voice has the same effect, banishing Lucius's frigid presence with its melodic cascade of notes.

I risk a fleeting glance towards Lucius, my gaze skating up the crisp white suit cladding his slim build, pausing at the crimson tie gleaming in the torchlight.

"Why can't you get rid of him, too?" I murmur, still grappling for confidence. "If you can snap your fingers and get rid of Hugo, why can't you do the same for Ogden?"

"Interesting story." His brutal voice grows cool and suppressed, as if he's hiding anger beneath the serpentine hisses of his words. "You see, little Young, Ogden is slightly older than I am, and slightly more experienced in such fields. He should be able to hold his tongue, though, considering he has none."

I will stay with you. Ogden's vow restores some of my courage, causing me to wrap my hand tighter around Paige's, rubbing my thumb over the back of her palm.

"Yes, yes." Lucius draws attention back to him as he waves one spindly-fingered hand dismissively, as if we hold no interest for him. "Such noble actions. And I'm ever so certain you'll be able to keep all your promises. So." I glimpse the vague notion of the demon lifting his head, straightening his cuffs, and squaring his shoulders. "Shall we make a deal, little Young?"

Raffe is obviously freaking out. Most likely Bryon too. What with a foreboding message like that.

I'm so excited to finally get around to Lucius's character. I've tried to place him so many different ways (playboy, prankster, rich daddy's boy, problem child, pervert) but none of them seemed to work. True, I originally imagined him having a sense of humor and I scratched that – I feel it would undermine his position as an antagonist – but I think that I like him all the same.

It's perfectly alright if you don't share in my glee. He's most likely not even that interesting a character.

POLL: Does anyone have any ideas as to what sort of deal Lucius may attempt to pitch? Though Bryon is rather indifferent on Paige's appearance, Penryn wants her fixed badly, and that can become a weakness.

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh