Crossed (23 page)

But there was never a question, not really. Not with Jo’s and, yes, Armand’s, souls in the balance.

“Okay, Jo.” I move forward, and to my surprise, the demons let me go. I take Jo’s arm, pulling her to her feet and into something someone who doesn’t know us might misconstrue as a hug. “Okay.”

Some of Jo’s rigidity leaves her at my words. “Thank you,” she says thickly.

“Whatever you need, Jo.” I pull back, forcing a smile. “Besides, look around.” I indicate the demon hordes. “It’s not like I have an overabundance of great options.”

What might have been a weak laugh is cut off by zi-Ben. “Good.” The word snakes across the room. How he manages to imbue so much menace into one four-letter word I’ll never know, but I’m forced to lock my knees to keep Jo and me standing.

As if his word is magic, there’s a loud grinding noise and the wall behind us peels back as if it were made of wet clay, creating a tunnel. The tile and stone are bent and twisted as if the once-rigid material now has the consistency of softened butter. It’s carelessly done, with streaks and ridges apparent where the walls were forced out of the way by nothing by zi-Ben’s whim.

Armand and Chi are allowed to join us, Chi breaking free to grab Jo in a fierce hug. Armand moves next to me and the back of his hand brushes mine.

About fifty of the demons move simultaneously to encircle us, their movements eerily similar and precise, as if there were all merely individual cells of a single organism. With zi-Ben leading the way, we start down the tunnel. The demons don’t physically take hold of us, but we’re forced to keep moving or risk being trampled.

The tunnel slants gradually downwards and, unlike any other hallway in hell, it’s perfectly straight. “It’s good to be the king,” I murmur. No one laughs.

As we tromp downward, a light becomes visible at the end of the tunnel. My feet slow of their own volition, as uninterested in reaching our final destination as the rest of me. Inevitably, we do anyway.

The tunnel opens into a rough-hewn cavern, and I have to close my blinking, tearing eyes; the light is so bright. When my eyes adjust, I see that the entire far wall, which looks like it stretches for ages, is transparent. A magical barrier, holding back thousands of souls. Each one is a ghostly, humanoid shape in varying shades of grey and white. They shift and swim, some energetic, frantic even, in their movements, while others drift, desolate. There’s something about them, a feeling I can’t quite explain, that overcomes me in as I stand in their presence. An otherness that declares them to be something different, something more. As if in each one I can sense the thousands of experiences that make up each one, each of their unique histories, their unique personalities. As if each one is a book, a massive tome filled with hundreds of thousands of words describing their entire lives, their struggles, their petty problems and their large ones. I stare at the back flyleaf. The story is over, but the book has never been closed.

It’s thousands of souls,
Armand had said.
It’s not exactly going to be inconspicuous.

Too right.

My awe even manages to distract me from the terrifying presence of zi-Ben. At least until he speaks.

“Swear,” he demands. I turn, blinking to find his dim face after the brilliance of the souls, then almost jump out of my skin when I realize how close he’s come. He towers over me, his red-writhing-fleshed face inches from my own. He smells like sweat and terror.

“Swear,” he repeats, leaning in closer.

I flick my eyes back to the souls, fishing for my absent courage. “Let the guys go, first.”

Too fast for me to respond, zi-Ben reaches out with his clawed hand and brings it, hard, across my forearm. I squeal as my skin parts, hot blood bubbling from the wound and rolling down my arm. At the same time, my friends are grabbed by the waiting demons, held back from coming to my rescue.

“Swear,” he demands again. His hot breath burns my nostrils and my eyes tear.

I tuck my bleeding arm against my chest. “You keep your end first,” I say between gritted teeth.

He narrows his eyes and I almost piss my pants. While cowardice has its benefits—longevity, for one—it has its downsides, too.

Jo jerks in her captor’s arms, trying to limp forward. They don’t allow it. “Let the boys go, release our souls, then she’ll swear.”

Zi-Ben turns his head, snake-like smooth, giving me a reprieve from those black eyes. “I am not a genie to grant wishes.” His eerie, multileveled voice makes my hair stand on end.

“Good,” Jo shoots back, “because I have no intention of rubbing your lamp.” Jo has balls of steel. BALLS. OF. STEEL.

She jerks again at the restraining arm, and this time it releases her. “
You
are holding
us
hostage—her oath is the only leverage we have.” She tips her head. “While I appreciate your faith in our abilities, what is it exactly you’re afraid we’re going to do?” Jo looks incredulously at the dozens of demons surrounding us.

Zi-Ben pauses, considering her words, and I hold my breath. Without taking his eyes off her, he lifts his arm over my head and I flinch. He ignores me and curls his fingers as if picking a ripe peach. A chunk of the ceiling pulls free and slowly sinks to the floor, creating a ramp. The base, where it meets the floor, flattens and spreads out. Indentations of steps appear, uneven and rounded, as if pushed into the ramp by the pressure of giant fingers. At the top, stories high, is the brilliant white of a cloudy sky. A brave autumn-brisk breeze stirs the sulfur of hell’s sour air.

Zi-Ben waves his hand towards the guys in a manner that, were it done by anyone less terrifying, I would describe as ironic. The demons release Chi and Armand. Chi jumps forward immediately to grab Jo’s arm, taking the pressure off her weak leg, while Armand takes a cautious step towards us and the stair as if he doesn’t quite believe it.

As for me, I stare at that bright patch of sky and it takes all I have not to declare “pirate-code” and tear up those stairs like the whole host of hell is on my heels.

Which, of course, it would be.

“You just expect us to leave,” Chi demands. He sounds more incredulous than angry, though there’s that, too. “To just walk out of here and leave you?”

“Yes.” In contrast, Jo’s voice is as cool and calm as a lake at dawn. “You can’t help us by staying. You’d only give them more hostages.”

Chi has no argument in the face of her implacable logic. He never has. “Jo . . .” Two letters, yet filled with aching depth.

I turn sharply away. I won’t show any weakness, not here, not in front of zi-Ben. Instead I hide behind humor and bluster. I turn my attention to Armand. “What, no heroic offers?”

“That’s not really my thing,” he says, but there’s a question in his voice, one he doesn’t dare say out loud. He wants to know if I have a plan; he wants to know what he should do.

He sees the answer in my eyes and his jaw hardens. He shoots a poisonous glare at Jo behind me. I grab his arm to pull his attention back to me. “Get somewhere safe. Get
Chi
somewhere safe,” I murmur. “Don’t give them any more leverage.”

He doesn’t answer, but instead looks up the stairs to the patch of sky. The muscle in the side of his jaw flexes, then he looks back at me, his eyes intense. “You could make it, you know,” his voice is low, barely a murmur. “Leave her. She did this to herself. Follow us,” he pleads. “You’re faster than they are, stronger. Use your magic to distract them, and you could
make it
.”

“You seriously don’t think that occurred to me?”

His eyes close. “But you’re not going to.”

“Not today,” I say, and my blasé tone almost makes him smile. “Nothing’s over until it’s over. In life, hope.
Dum spiro—
”

“Do
not
quote the Crusader’s motto at me right now.
Do not
.”

“Hey, didn’t you hear? Apparently it’s actually the demons’ motto.”

He shakes his head sharply, but my needling does manage to open his eyes.

“Armand . . .” I swallow, looking for words. I clear my throat and shake off any melancholy. “I’ll see you again. I have to.”

The little flame that always resides just behind his eyes intensifies. He opens his mouth, but I forestall any comment. Humor and bluster. “The Crusader magic, remember?” I murmur as low as I’m able, not wanting to give the demons anything else to use against me. “We’re still married.”

A wry smile twists his lips. “And here I thought you were being romantic. I should have known better.” His words are sarcastic, but he looks more amused than hurt.

“Hey, I can do romance,” I protest, forcing levity into my voice. “I didn’t feed you to the dragon when I had the chance. That’s romantic.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. You have the soul of a poet.”

I shrug, but it feels as stiff as the situation warrants. “I get that a lot.”

He looks up the stairs again, then back at me. He opens his mouth again, then closes it, giving his head a little shake.

“Armand…” This is the last time I’m going to see him for a very long time. Possibly forever, given Jo and my precarious position. But still, I don’t tell him I forgive him. I don’t tell him that I have looked into the horror of hell and I understand why he would trade the freedom of a girl he barely knew to escape it. How ridiculous, in fact, I would find it, if he’d done anything else.

I don’t tell him that he’s right, that I could not have been happy knowing he was here being tortured when I could have saved him. I don’t tell him how I framed my terror at the eel-like exposed nerves, the brutal servitude of the souls, and the horrors of the Pit around Jo, but that I always understood that she wasn’t the only one at stake.

I don’t tell him that he was right, that it would have been easier not to have to decide between him or the Crusaders. He was wrong, of course, in taking the decision away from me, but that I can forgive.

I don’t tell him any of that. For one, we don’t have time. And secondly, if we ever meet again
—
and I plan to see that we do
—
I’d like a little guilt trip reserved in my back pocket.

Hey, I’m a Beacon, not a saint.

I also don’t tell him I love him. I’m not that kind of girl and this isn’t that kind of story. Besides, I suspect he already knows.

So I kiss him; I grip him by his shirt and pull his mouth down to mine. It’s lazy and easy and fun and why the hell not. I’m a prisoner eating my last meal; I’ll take lust over vulnerability any day. His large hands slip around the sides of my face, his fingers in my hair, his thumbs stroke across my cheeks. My kiss says
see you later
because that’s what I hope, and
goodbye
just in case.

We break, our faces close together, catching our breath. Our eyes are locked together and his have a suspicious sheen. I want to say something, say anything, but there is something lodged in my throat. Armand suddenly breaks away and lifts up his hands to look at his wrists—for a manacle, I realize. “Just checking,” he says, his familiar crooked grin back in place.

Humor and bluster.

I laugh and I am grateful, so grateful. I hit him gently (for me) and the knot in my throat eases. “Yeah well, try to earn your soul back, while you’re up there, okay? I’d hate to have to stab you in the ass with a pitchfork when you end up back here.”

“Liar.”

I grin, showing more teeth than is strictly necessary.

His hand tightens on mine. He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t need to.

“Go, Armand.”

He nods his head sharply, then looks away. I give him a slight nudge, and he takes a step up the stair. I turn to Chi before I do or say anything stupid.

He hasn’t left Jo yet, their foreheads are pressed together. Jo’s voice, when she speaks, doesn’t sound like Bad Jo, but neither does it sound like old Jo (in no iteration was she ever “Good Jo’). She sounds too weak, too soft. “I’m sorry, Chi. I know this isn’t . . .” She swallows and shakes her head. Her vulnerability takes on a cynical bite, a hard edge. Something to hide behind. She looks away. “I know this isn’t the fairy-tale ending you wanted.”

He nudges up her chin. “Who says this is the end?”

“Idiot,” she says wetly.

“Optimist,” he corrects gently.

She laughs, but it breaks.

“You got this,” he says, pressing his forehead with sudden intensity. “You’ve
got
this, you hear me?” She doesn’t answer him. Not with words, but then, what would she say? She pushes away from him, balancing on her good leg, and turns sharply away, as if she doesn’t want to look at him. Or can’t.

“Chi,” I say, clearing a tight throat on his name.

It takes him a minute before he takes his gaze off Jo’s back. When he does, he latches onto me with an intensity that is almost frightening. “Meda, I don’t know what Jo’s planning, but she’s planning something. You have to help her.” The urgency of his words apparent in his eyes, his movements, his whole being. “She’s lying, you know that, right? She would never betray the Crusaders. She’s lying.”