The Labyrinth of the Dead (11 page)

"Just get on with
it. I really have no use for this quaint reminiscence."

Belial only smiled. "You are just like
your father. Rash, impatient. Pity you will never meet him." The statement hung
there as Belial waited for Portia’s question, but she remained silent. "Tell me
you do not even want to know why?"

Portia shrugged. "Not especially, but I
figure you’re going to tell me."

"Ask Nigel, then, you little minx. He
dreamed up this ploy, and Zepar was all too happy to
go along." A subtle ragged edge in her voice caught Portia’s attention. "And
now they are both lost."

"Nothing can be so lost that even you
cannot find it. Really, madame, your touching show of
emotion is nothing but a melodrama."

Belial’s eyes narrowed. "You think
yourself clever, don’t you? You spoke my name as if it gave you any power. It
does not. And you want to condescend to me about theatrics! That wisdom does
you no good, Portia, my darling. I know my name and so does the rest of
humanity."

"Not so many as you might think. I had
no idea until a moment ago. You aren’t Lilith, for crying out loud. Your name
was never taught to me in Penemue, where we were schooled on all of the
important
demons and fallen angels. But yet you think so much of yourself."

"I have been compared to Satan!"

"Really? So have I. Ask my mother."

The demoness
pursed her lips and toyed with one of the golden claws that curved from the
tips of her wingbones. "Maybe I shall. Or maybe I
shall ask another. Perhaps I should inquire with Fereshte."

Fereshte
. The word echoed through Portia’s skull and froze
her limbs in place. With eyes stretched wide and the breath not stirring in her
lungs, Portia’s world reeled.

The convent. She ran through the
never-ending hallway, beat upon the brick wall, entered the tiny dim room and
heard the voice that sounded so much like her own.

Name?
It said to her.
I have none. Not anymore. No
name save Portia. Portia Gyony, Nephilim of the Grigori.
Portia, of the Penemue chapter house. Portia, beloved of Imogen. Portia defines
me now, Portia describes me. None other, and nothing further. I am a pitiful
echo of all that you are, now, Portia.

The angel within her awoke at the sound
of its own name. The tiny essence raged like a bonfire that threatened to
consume her as it sought to purge itself from her dingy mortal carcass. No
longer simply the pitiful echo of Portia, Fereshte
became fully aware.

Two souls staggered beneath the weight
of that knowledge, of that name. The sigil on her sternum seared hot and
painful, and for a moment, Portia feared she would burn from the inside out.

In the dim reflection of the floor she
could see the throbbing light glowing through the flesh of her chest. The
likeness gazing back up at her changed, but only slightly: the forehead grew
higher and the cheekbones broader, more defined. The angel stared up at her,
its face passionless and cool.

"Fereshte,"
Portia whispered softly. The tide of memory, of knowledge and vision,
threatened to overcome her. She pressed her hands to the cold marble floor,
leaning her forehead against them. Faces streamed by like shooting stars,
faster than she could recognize. Some, she thought she knew: her mother, her
childhood playmates in those dim days before Penemue. But others were ringed in
white fire and blazed with the glory of heaven. Perhaps these were Fereshte’s family. Nausea churned as she struggled to
regain control. Power blinded her then, overwhelming her vision just as it had
the night she lay strapped to the altar in the convent with Lady Analise
leaning over her. The potency within her was savage and relentless—there was
fire in her veins instead of blood. From somewhere outside of herself, she
could hear the raw screams that could only be her own. Portia’s stomach
clenched furiously, and when it released, she coughed up a mouthful of bile
that tasted of blood.

She thinks she has found a weapon, and
she has. But it will hurt her far more.

The thought pounded through her skull,
and Portia wondered if it was hers or the angel’s.

She breathed through the spasms of her
throat and trembled with the agony of one soul struggling against the other.
They rubbed together like serrated blades, jarring and jagged.

Don’t leave me, Fereshte.

 The angel’s voice was surprisingly gentle.
These
are bonds that I cannot break. And even if I could, you are too much of me, and
I of you. What would be left of me should I shake myself loose from you? For
better or for worse. This weak image is all that is left of me, of what I once
was.

 [I told you once that I would let you go if I
could…]

 
Do not insult me with noble pretense. I know every
intimate thought in your soul. You like this power, this strength, too much.
You would never willingly part from me.

[I won’t lie and tell you that’s not
true. But Imogen needs me. The world needs me, needs
us
. You don’t want
to help?]

Fereshte sighed.
I have no choice and I never did. Were
this bond broken, I would cease to be, I would dissolve into nothing, I would
become the foam on the sea.

[Were this bond broken, I think I’d
die. I don’t think I am strong enough on my own, anymore. You have grown into
me, become so much a part of me.]

What Belial tells you is true. Zepar is your father and you could live very nicely without
me. The power of your blood is your own.

* * * *

They still grated roughly against one another, like
a cog slipped out of gear. From somewhere beyond herself, Portia could see that
the herders had released her and stepped away, but Belial hovered over her,
watching and waiting and smiling. Portia returned her attention to Fereshte.

* * * *

[That doesn’t change what you are to me: a piece of
my own soul. Without you, I’d bear a loss not even Imogen could fill.]

I might as well comply,
the angel said with great melancholy.
I have
everything to lose and what to gain?

[Am I such a burden?]

Yes.

Portia’s vision cleared and she
regarded the reflection before her. She drew on her strength, that which was
hers alone.

[Fereshte,
you are a debt I will never repay. I cannot make this up to you, I cannot undo
it. You agreed to this once and I ask you to do so again. Please. Allow me to
subsume you. Become my soul. Even before, when I had let your light out, it was
like opening a door to another room of myself. You weren’t fully part of me.]

I would not allow it. You did not know
how to control the power. You would have destroyed us both.

[If we are to succeed, we can’t be as two like we
were in the beginning, or one-and-a-half as we have been.]

Fereshte blinked back what looked like tears.
I know.
But I am afraid. Regardless of either outcome, I will die.

[No, you will live. We both will. What
was Portia and what was Fereshte will become
something else whole and entire. We will be together what neither of us could
have been alone.]

The angel managed a smile.
I suppose
it is the only way. For after having been wedded to your soul, I love Imogen as
you do and could not bear to be parted from her. Or from you, Portia.

Portia kissed the reflection. "Come
home, then, Fereshte. I bind you to me. I command
your essence. Come to me, Fereshte, I am your home."

Portia defines me, Portia describes me.
I am nothing else, I am nothing further.
"I am
Portia Gyony."

She rose, wings spreading wide, and the
herders fell back. They did not attempt to restrain her again. The conflagration
that had threatened to destroy her before now filled her veins with a simmering
power.

Belial had returned to her throne,
where she sat watching, amusement clear on her resplendent features. "How
charming," she drawled.

For weeks, the angel’s voice had been
her own and the angel’s thoughts had been her own. Now, the angel’s memories
belonged to her as well, an eternity of existence. It could hardly fit in her
mind, yet she carried it effortlessly. Fereshte was
no longer, but with the power of the angel’s name, the essence was unlocked.
This of course meant only one thing: Belial had to die.

—8—

PORTIA STOOD facing the demon queen. The herders
cowered away from her, scuttling to the edges of the hall, but she could hear their
telescopic eyes whirring and clicking softly and the echoing wheeze of their
breath as they watched and waited.

"So, my dear
Portia, what do you mean to do now?" Belial hooked one leg over the lavish arm
of her throne, toying with the shadow-gold with her toes. One of her fleshy
wings draped down across her shoulder and her lap; the delicate webbing clung
to her every curve.

"What do I mean to do? It was you who
brought me here, at a dear cost, I might add. Those clockwork men of yours must
be expensive. And for what purpose? To toy with me for your own dreadful
amusement?"

"You infiltrated my world. You dared to
bring your beating heart into the land of the dead. And now you dare mock me. I
do not take kindly to that. Any of it." The herders
tick-tick-ticked
and
Belial rose like a cat waking from a slumber, stretching languidly as she
strolled down the steps to where Portia still stood. Belial slunk to Portia’s
side, pressing her body against her. "But I am sure we can find a way that you
can make it up to me."

"Oh, really?"

"Perhaps, I should not have implied
that I was unhappy at your presence here, my daughter-that-could-have-been.
Because I think it could serve both of our purposes."

Portia froze. The demoness’s
breath was warm on her neck and smelled like cinnamon. Belial crushed her
breasts against Portia’s arm and back, grinding her hips against the worn
cotton of Portia’s full trousers.

"Portia," Belial whispered, "you could
be anything here. You have brought your power and your blood with you. You
could be a queen. Would you like that? You could be my sister-sovereign, my
heir-apparent. Your power would be limitless, my darling, and then you could
have any ghost in this realm that you desired."

"I only want the one. And then I want
to take her home."

"Your Imogen. Waiting for Portia the
savior, Portia the beloved, Portia who is hope embodied."

Portia could feel by the change in her
voice and the shift of her body that Belial had taken on her beloved’s image.
She shut her eyes. "That’s been tried before, madame.
And it didn’t work very well. I had much more cause to believe it then than I
do now. So, do us both a favor and drop it."

Belial sighed, dramatically. "So like
your father," she muttered. "He took joy in denying me my pleasures nearly as
much as you do." She did not step away, but instead clung to Portia’s body,
running her hands over the blood-soaked corset. Belial bent forward and ran her
tongue up the length of the busk, trembling with a
sigh. She smacked her lips. "There is nothing so sweet as raw human blood
spiked with the vintage of angels." She kissed Portia’s collarbones
insistently. "Portia, you are a better match for me, for my plans, than Nigel
ever was. I was a fool to allow those damned Aldias to convince me of Nigel’s
worth over yours. All I have ever wanted is you, the daughter of my soul, my
beloved. You, Portia. Only you. Do I dare ask your price? I already know it.
Imogen. Swear yourself to me and she is yours."

"She is not yours to give."

"Oh no? I beg to differ. All creatures
on this island are mine to control; all of them, even you."

"Then why offer me a choice at all?"

Belial ignored her. "Swear to me,
Portia. Swear to me and I will hold you above all others, you will be at my
right hand, you will rule beside me always." She stepped away, her hands
gliding down Portia’s arms until they entwined into Portia’s fingers. "Let me
bring you downstairs. Let me show you the rift engine. This world is too small
for me and I grow weary of waiting on souls to happen past my lair. When the
machine is engaged, I will be able to reach directly into your world and pluck
the ripest fruits. Can you imagine what we would be, then, you and me?
Limitless in power, that is what."

"What are you doing?" The shrill
question ricocheted off of the broken-down columns, but to whom it was directed
was unclear. Both Portia and Belial looked up to see Kanika standing beside the
throne with a small, unobtrusive door standing open behind her. She had
Portia’s satchel slung across her shoulder and the axe in her left hand, along
with a peculiar copper key that looked like it could have wound an enormous
clock.

"Oh, darling!" Belial pulled away from
Portia, taking several steps toward the throne.

Kanika drew back, raising the axe
between them. The coin wavered toward Portia momentarily, then hung still.
"Don’t come any closer!" She was angry, her coal-black brows pinched together
in an unflattering scowl.

The demon queen eyed the large key
suspiciously. "Where did you get that?"

The girl twirled
the key between her fingers and pushed it into the waistband at the back of her
skirt. "This was not in our plan, Belial. I thought you were going to kill her.
I thought
I
was the one to share your limitless power. I thought
I
was the daughter you had pined for all these years. And to think, I went right
along with this addlepated idea right from the start.
I brought her right to you, just like you asked me to. That was stupid of me.
Had I done what I ought, Portia and I would be making this same offer to you, O
Queen. Join us, love us, obey us, and all of this power and splendor we will
share with you." The girl scoffed. "And it would have been just as false as the
lies that ooze from your mouth like poisoned honey."