Darklands (38 page)

Pryce clung to my waist as we dangled inside the cauldron. My instinct was to try to knock him off—kick at him, bang him against the wall—but I resisted the urge. I didn’t want him to fall into the cauldron and merge with all those demons. I needed to drag him out with me.

I looked down. Whoa, big mistake. From outside, this cauldron appeared maybe twelve feet deep. Inside, though, it was bottomless. At least, I couldn’t see any end to the space that yawned below us.

Getting out of here would definitely be a good thing. I braced my feet against the wall and pushed out and up. If I could just hook my other arm over the rim…

“Let go, damn you!” shouted Pryce. He grabbed my belt with one hand and tugged at my arm with the other, trying to loosen my grip. I ignored him and concentrated on hauling us out. My feet slipped on the wall, and I scrabbled to regain a toehold. My
arms trembled with the strain. Pryce’s fist pounded at me—my arm, my back, my kidneys.

Abruptly, he stopped hitting me. His laugh echoed hollowly through the cauldron.

I didn’t like the sound of that laugh. I chanced another look down. Pryce was drawing a knife from a sheath in his belt.

I twisted sideways, pushing out with my feet, and slammed us both into the wall. Pryce grunted and tightened his grip on my belt. He cursed, and I looked down to see the knife tumbling end over end as it fell.

Score one for the shapeshifter.

But my victory was short-lived. More blows battered me. I let go of the rim with my left hand and reached down to grab Pryce’s face. My thumb found an eye and pressed. He swore and grabbed my wrist, yanking my hand away. I jerked upward, breaking his grip, and drove my fist back down. His nose cracked under the blow. Again, I got my hand around the cauldron’s rim and tried to pull us up.

Somewhere far below, a rumbling sounded. The cauldron shook.

Pulling harder, I managed to hook my left arm over the cauldron’s rim. Almost there. I heaved, and got one leg up. Now I lay on the rim, but Pryce still hung from my belt. The weight felt like it was cutting me in half.

The rumbling intensified, hurting my ears. The pressure threatened to crush my head.

I reached down to grab Pryce by the hair and haul him up. As my fingers brushed his scalp, he suddenly wasn’t there. Whether he’d lost his grip or purposely let go, Pryce plummeted into the cauldron’s depths.

The rumbling stopped, like some angry volcano god appeased by a sacrifice.

I hoisted myself onto the platform, then spun around and peered into the cauldron. The interior was dark, smoky. I couldn’t see anything through the murk. Pryce had disappeared.

The city, too, was overrun with smoke. I got to my feet. All around me, Tywyll was burning. Bodies littered the ground. Demons that had evaded Myrddin’s net swooped through the sky or rampaged through the square. Screams rose over the terrified babble. An airborne demon—fangs bared, hideous face twisted, claws outstretched—dived at me. I somersaulted out of
the way. There, a little to my right, lay my dagger where the other demons had dropped it. I snatched it up and got to my feet. I turned, knife poised, ready to attack.

But the demon stood there, staring stupidly at a blade that protruded from its chest. Someone had stabbed it from behind. As I watched, flames—not bright, but dark as shadows—flared from the blade. The demon howled. It touched the sword, and its hand caught fire. The shadowy flames spread up its arm. The howl became a scream as the demon batted at the flames. They spread to its other hand. Soon dark fire flared from every part of its body. The blade withdrew with a slick, sliding sound. The burning demon danced and writhed, its furious, agonized screeches rending the air. Its body shimmered. The shimmers turned black, like embers winking out, and the demon collapsed into a pile of black dust.

Above the pile, holding a black-flaming sword, stood Arawn, lord of the Darklands. He was alive.

Arawn kicked the ashes, scattering them across the platform. His face was streaked with filth and soot. So were his robes. Under the dirt, they were no longer purple but lavender.

Lord Arawn had been regenerated. He must have gone into that cauldron while I was struggling to get out of the other. Or maybe it was harder to kill a god than Pryce thought.

Two more demons landed with heavy thuds. They charged Arawn, coming at him from both sides. I hurled my knife at one, getting a solid hit between the wings. The demon roared and whirled around. As it turned, it lost its balance. It teetered on the edge of the platform, wings flapping crazily, then plunged into the cauldron I’d climbed out of.

Arawn drove his flaming sword into the other demon’s stomach and held it there. Black flames sprouted from the wound, and the king yanked out his sword. As before, the demon was consumed by fire, burning until it was nothing but ashes.

Chest heaving, Arawn held his sword ready as he surveyed the square. Most of the fighting had moved to my left, on the square’s north side. Shades pressed toward the exit, shouting and trying to escape. Demons scythed through crowd, tossing bodies left and right. Some demons stomped through the exit and into the street. Others took to the sky. All were heading north.

Lord Arawn squinted at them through the smoke.

“They’re making their way to the border,” he said.

“Which border?”

“With Uffern. They’re trying to get back to Hell.” He turned to me, his eyes mirroring the dark flames that still burned along his sword. “You are a stranger in my realm. Who are you?”

“My name is—”

An explosion rocked the platform, knocking both of us to its floor. Fire rained down from the sky. I threw up my right arm to protect my face; red-hot pain seared my forearm. I brushed at the spot, but there was nothing there.

Nothing but the place where I’d been marked by a Hellion.

A roar, primal and vicious, shook the city. I looked up. A massive demon, fifty feet tall, shot up from the cauldron of transformation. Its blue skin, the color of moldering bruise, flickered with hellflame. More flames shot from its eyes. A building on the edge of the square burst into flame.

It was Difethwr. Pryce hadn’t created a new shadow demon. He’d resurrected the Destroyer.

Fear sliced through me with a blade of flaming ice. Difethwr. My worst enemy. Chief demon of Hell. My father’s murderer. Destruction personified. I’d killed this Hellion once. But the Destroyer I’d killed had been nothing—a baby, a toy—compared to the nightmare that now rose from the cauldron.

Pryce dangled from the Hellion’s chest as though he’d been glued there. His head and limbs hung limply. Was he dead? Difethwr raised its arms. Pryce’s head snapped up, eyes open, and his arms moved skyward in the same gesture. His expression was pure terror. Pryce had been right; without more human spirit in him, he couldn’t control the Destroyer. Without my spirit, he was the weaker half of his new demi-demon whole.

Difethwr roared again, torching another building. With Pryce drooping from its chest like a rag doll, the Hellion jumped from the cauldron and bolted through the south gate. Explosions and flaming buildings marked its path.

I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. But the Destroyer was back.

I had to stop the demon before it completely ravaged the Darklands. Before it found its way to the Ordinary. If Difethwr entered my world, I had no doubt my vision of destruction—flames, death, ashes everywhere—would come true.

My foot was on the ladder when a hand fell heavily on my shoulder, fingers clamping hard enough to bruise. I turned to see
Lord Arawn scowling at me. His sword no longer burned, but the same dark flames still flickered in his eyes.

“You will speak to me in my palace.” His words were not a request.

AS FOUR ARMED GUARDS MARCHED ME THROUGH THE TUNNEL to Arawn’s palace, I wondered whether our destination would be an interrogation room or a cell. It was neither. Instead, they left me in a small, well-furnished sitting room deep inside the palace. A fire—one with normal, yellow-and-orange flames—burned in a stone fireplace. Crossed swords were mounted over the mantel. Tapestries hung on the walls, and a mahogany bookcase held leather-bound volumes. Ornately carved wooden chairs, with brocaded cushions on their seats, were positioned around the room.

Guards stood outside the door—I’d pulled it open to look—but they’d let me keep my knife and Rhudda’s arrow (I’d picked up the pieces before I left the platform). Not that a broken arrow was much of a threat, but the guards didn’t seem bothered by my weapons. Until someone demonstrated otherwise, I’d consider myself Arawn’s guest. A guest with a knife at the ready.

I paced, feeling restless and irritated. My demon mark was hot and sore, like a hornet’s sting. I was wasting time, waiting in this cozy room while the Destroyer was out there torching the Darklands. My best chance for killing the Hellion was
now
, when it was newly resurrected, disoriented, and unsure of itself. But I couldn’t kill it without decent weapons. And that was one of the reasons I needed to talk to Arawn.

I plopped down in a chair and lay the broken arrow on the floor. Where was Arawn? If he didn’t show up soon, I’d leave. I’d kill any guards who tried to stop me. I’d smash down the door and—

Deep breaths, Vicky.
For ten years, the Destroyer’s rage had burned in me through the mark I bore. I’d fought to control it then. I wouldn’t let it control me now.

Anyway, I didn’t have long to wait. The door opened, and Arawn strode into the room. His face was still streaked with blood, grime, and soot, although his robes had cleaned themselves, their pure, pale lavender practically glowing. His sword was sheathed at his side.

“Don’t bother offering me anything to eat or drink,” I said, before he could speak. “I’m not interested.” My chances for leaving the realm weren’t looking good, thanks to the broken arrow lying beside my chair. But until I knew for sure that I was stuck here, I’d resist any and all offers of Darklands-style hospitality.

Besides, I was so hungry and thirsty by now, I was almost afraid I’d say yes.

Arawn stared at me for a long moment. He wasn’t a handsome man, but power radiated from him the way light radiates from the sun. His power, though, was dark. Death power. His craggy face, all sharp angles partially softened by a well-trimmed black beard, seemed half-veiled by shadow. His eyes burned darkly under thick black brows.

The lord of the Darklands inclined his head. “As you prefer. Although personally, I could use some wine to steady my nerves.” He motioned to a servant, who scurried from the room and then reappeared almost immediately, carrying a golden tray with a crystal decanter and one goblet. The servant filled the goblet with deep ruby wine and handed it to Arawn. The king took a sip, closed his eyes, and drained the glass. His Adam’s apple bobbed. When the servant had refilled the goblet and withdrawn, Arawn spoke.

“As I recall, you were on the point of telling me your name.”

“Victory Vaughn. But I answer to Vicky.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re Evan Vaughn’s daughter?”

I nodded, swallowing the lump that sprang to my throat.

“Your father ran from my court trying to avoid his fate. That was foolish of him. One day, like it or not, his name will appear in my book.”

“What book?”

“
The Register of the Cauldrons.
When a shade comes to Resurrection Square for a return, magic records his or her name in the current volume. That’s why I was delayed. I was consulting the court archivist about what happened. An entire volume filled itself with names—ugly, demonic names—for the cauldron of transformation. Your name appeared but, the archivist tells me, it was soon erased, presumably when you climbed out. And there were two others—”

“Pryce Maddox and Difethwr.”

Arawn nodded. “So tell me, Victory-Vaughn-who-answers-to-Vicky, why did disaster strike my realm today?”

“Pryce was the one who left the cauldron on your doorstep at the Devil’s Coffin.”

“Laden with hidden demons.”

I nodded. “He’s a demi-demon.”

A thunderstorm of anger swept across Arawn’s face. “How can that be? A demi-demon would never gain admittance to my realm. His garments were gray. He entered as any other shade whose time in the Ordinary has ended.”

I explained how I’d killed Pryce’s shadow demon and how Myrddin had brought his son back. “Without his shadow demon, Pryce was the same as any human. Do you remember a sudden influx of human spirits into the Black?”

“Spirits that didn’t pass through to here or the Beyond but returned to the Ordinary? Yes, I do.”

“They were victims of a plague, a disease that made them dead for three days and then brought them back to life. Pryce purposely infected himself with it.”

“So he could enter my realm with the guarantee of a quick return to the Ordinary.” Arawn stroked his beard. The gesture reminded me of Dad. “You say Pryce carries the spirit of Myrddin Wyllt. The wizard must have guided him out of the Black and across the Darklands to Tywyll.” His gaze snapped to me. “And you. How did you come to be here, Victory? From your refusal of refreshment, I take it you don’t intend to stay.”

“No. I made a deal with Mallt-y-Nos.”

“Ah.” He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. Firelight glinted off an onyx ring. “The Night Hag does not enter into any deal, as you call it, without being certain that she’ll benefit. Preferably while doing harm to the other. Let me guess. She requires you to smuggle something out of the Darklands before she’ll allow you back into the Ordinary.”

“Yes, she wants—”

“It doesn’t matter what she wants. She could ask for…” He looked around the room, then gestured at the fireplace. “She could ask for a speck of dust from my hearth, and the prohibition would be the same. Those who enter may bring nothing in, and those who leave may take nothing out. It’s been my principal rule ever since Arthur raided the Darklands and stole my cauldron.” Arawn chuckled, but his face remained hard. “It cost him, though. It did cost him. Many of his men became my subjects.
Your world has a poem about it, I believe. Do you know the refrain, ‘except for seven, none returned’?”