The Liberator (A Dante Walker Novel) (Entangled Teen) (25 page)

36

Welcome to Hell

Aspen and I shed our heavier clothes as the temperature rises. Everyone assumes hell is the hottest place they can imagine. It isn’t true, though hell certainly isn’t cool, either. Within a few seconds, sweat pricks my forehead and arms. I seriously wish I could sport shadow down here; it would make things a lot easier. Of course, I guess it doesn’t matter if Aspen is with me. I also regret not bringing a weapon. I know what Kraven said about losing my cuff, but right about now I’m fretting over things much worse.

We take the stairs down for what feels like an eternity. I try to keep my eyes on the steps in front of me instead of the walls. Aspen hasn’t noticed what they’re made of, and I hope she never does. But at one point, as we’re finally nearing the bottom, she slips. Her arms flail, and she catches herself against the walls.

“Watch it,” a gravelly voice says.

Aspen almost screams. I have to cover her mouth to stop her. “Shhh,” I tell her. “No matter what you see, no matter what happens, don’t scream.”

I spin toward the wall. “And
you
. You’re not supposed to talk unless you see something unusual.”

Aspen’s eyes widen when she sees the faces. Hundreds of them stick out from the walls like they’re masks. There isn’t much light in the stairwell, but it’s enough to make out that they’re human.

“She nearly pushed me back through,” the face complains. “You know how hard it is to get a spot.”

I imagine the bodies trapped between the walls, shoving their faces through so they can see who comes and goes. The faces don’t actually protrude. It’s more like the wall bends to their shape so that each one looks bluish-black, just like the stone that locks them inside.

“Shut up,” I order. “You’re not hurt.”

“It’s Dante Walker,” a face nearby whispers.

“Ooh, Dante is back,” another says.

“Who’s the girl?”

“Dante is bringing the king a live one.”

“I knew he’d come home!”

Their voices blend together like a warped song. It almost drowns out the sound of the moans, ever present.

Aspen’s trying to make herself as small as possible. Her cheeks are scarlet with fear, and she’s trying to look everywhere at once. “This can’t be real. I just—”

“I know.” I grab her hand and force her to keep moving. Near the bottom of the stairs there’s a soft glow. Aspen must think it’s the flicker of a light or a torch. But it’s neither. “Remember, no matter what happens, no screaming.” I look ahead and consider what waits there. “The collectors are the only ones who will definitely recognize I shouldn’t be here. The others may not know.”

The others. The demons and tortured humans.
Those
others.

I decide not to clarify and instead lead the way. As we move forward, I say a silent prayer to Big Guy that the collectors aren’t here, that they’re all above ground recruiting more sirens or sealing souls or whatever.

Aspen and I step down from the last stair and walk into a circular room. Red dirt covers the floors, and a green glow washes the area. The ground shakes, and I grip Aspen’s hand tighter.

“What’s that sound?” she asks, her voice shaking.

Before I can answer, a bear the size of a barn pads into the room. The familiar green hue radiates from his eyes. It burns bright as he studies us. Aspen stumbles backward as the bear rises up on his hind legs and roars. The sound is deafening. It shakes the bones beneath my skin, and my eardrums feel as if they’ve ruptured.

Hello, old friend.

The bear, coated in thick black fur with teeth the size of my arm, drops down onto all fours. He kneels and opens his mouth wide. It’s so wide, a human could walk into his jaws if they only hunched down.

And that’s exactly what we’ll do.

“We have to go in there,” I say.

Aspen’s face twists with dread. “Inside his mouth?”

“It won’t be for long,” I clarify. After we’d left the Hive, Max and I tried to prepare Aspen for what she should expect in hell. But she wouldn’t listen. She said if she knew too much, she’d be tempted to back out. So I only explain what I have to, when I have to.

Together, Aspen and I approach the bear’s mouth as we would the entrance of a cave. Saliva drips from his teeth like rain falling from the side of a house. We wait just outside his jaws, and his pink tongue rolls out like a red carpet. As soon as we step inside, the snakes come. I’ll give them credit; they waited longer than they usually do, coiled in the pockets of the bear’s cheeks.

At first, Aspen kicks at the serpents, trying in vain to free her legs of them. But they come faster, more and more until we are covered. They twine around our wrists like bracelets and squeeze our middles until it’s hard to breathe.

I can tell Aspen is dangerously close to breaking The Rule.

A snake with black scales and an orange head sinks its fangs into her neck. She cries out but stuffs a fist into her mouth to block the sound. She shakes her head back and forth.

My muscles clench. I don’t want her to be here. I don’t want anyone to know this is where I came from or to experience this level of terror. But I try and push the thought from my mind and focus on the end goal: get to the soul storage room and get out of here.

“Aspen,” I say, keeping my voice as calm as I can. “The snakes won’t hurt you. Just keep walking toward the bear’s throat. We have to go into his belly.”

“Oh, God,” Aspen wails, tears streaming down her face.

She keeps walking.

Darkness swallows us, but I know it won’t last long. I can hear Aspen whimper. She’s strong, so strong that her legs carry her forward even though she’s blinded by fear. Aspen may think she’s failing me, but she’s doing as well as I could’ve possibly hoped.

Slime drips down my back as we stoop low and continue through the bear’s massive throat. Beside me, slick pink ridges quiver when I touch them.

“Aspen, do you trust me?” I ask.

Aspen hesitates. When she speaks, her voice is choked. “I trust you.”

I tickle the bear’s throat with my fingertips. I want to get this over with. The mammoth animal works his tongue so that we’re thrown side to side.

“What are you doing?” Aspen hollers.

I would tell her to keep it down, but it doesn’t matter. Not in here.

The bear swallows.

We slip down his throat like it’s a water park slide. Aspen grabs onto my leg, and we tumble head over heel. My heart pounds against my rib cage. Not because of what’s happening—I’ve done this too many times to be afraid—but because I know how Aspen must feel, how her mind must scream for release.

We land hard, and I pull Aspen to her feet.

She wipes her gloved hands over her eyes and tries to hide the fact that she’s been crying. I don’t know why. She just got swallowed by an oversized bear, for crap’s sake. I think she’s allowed a few tears.

I take her shoulders in my hands. “Are you okay? We’ve got a few more rooms to pass through, not too much longer. This place is an unending labyrinth, but I know the way. Can you make it?”

Aspen’s eyes widen as she takes in her surroundings. “What is this place?” Her face holds a child-like fascination. My stomach lurches; that fascination will soon change to something very different.

“The Hall of Mirrors,” I answer.

The room is a perfect square and filled with reflective objects. An intricate chest, a suspended chandelier, musical instruments, picture frames, scattered furniture, children’s toys, stairs leading to nothing—they’re all mirrors. An uncertain smile slides across Aspen’s face. “It’s so beautiful,” she says, turning to me. “How is it possible?”

Light radiates from an unknown source, illuminating our bodies and bouncing off the mirrors. It’s a pristine palace. A house of wonders.

But it’s also a place of nightmares.

Aspen picks up a sphere and tosses it between her hands. It’s amazing how quickly she goes from tearful to confident curiosity. But then she looks closer at the globe. Her eyes narrow, and her features harden.

“What am I seeing?” Alarm colors Aspen’s voice.

“It isn’t real.” I rush to her side but stop when the images begin bouncing from the mirrors. My mom stands with her back to me, laughing. My father watches, blood dripping down his cheeks. I move toward the center of the room, stepping over glass tiles that play an endless reel of Max being torn open. My mind repeats what I just told Aspen, but it’s hard to believe what I’m saying because it’s all right here.

This room is always hard. No matter how many times I pass through it, my head throbs. My muscles tighten.

I can’t breathe.

Aspen drops down onto the floor and covers her head. She’s in the fetal position muttering about her father. Her back rises and falls too quickly. I’ve got to get to her before her heart gives out.

But it’s hard when Charlie’s face stares back at me, her eyes gouged out.

“You have to believe it isn’t real,” I say to Aspen, and maybe to myself, too. “You have to believe it isn’t real, or we’ll never get out.”

I drop onto the floor and watch Max being dismembered beneath my hands. Then I lunge at Aspen. I yank her into my arms and whisper in her ear, “Think about Sahara. Think about Lincoln. Remember why we’re here. This isn’t real. It’s in your head. Believe what I’m telling you. You have to, Aspen.”

Several seconds pass before her head lifts. She looks around the room, and though her face is contracted in pain, she says, “It isn’t real.”

The moment she speaks those words, I believe them, too.

The room changes colors. It’s red. There are human bodies everywhere, shielding their eyes and screaming for the images to stop. Aspen never knew they were there. But I did.

Beneath us, the floor cracks into a million pieces.

Aspen freezes and I see him—a collector—standing in the Hall of Mirrors, arms folded across his chest.

The floor shatters, and we fall.

37

We All Fall Down

I’ve memorized this fall. I know the way the gravel will dig into my muscle when I land. But it doesn’t lessen the blow when I hit the ground.

Aspen smacks onto her side and rolls to the left. I land flat on my back. The breath is ripped from my lungs, and if I could, I’d lie still. But I can’t. Not after who I saw. “You’re all right,” I tell Aspen, helping her up. I’m not sure if she is or not, but I need her to be, so I keep tugging on her arm. She stands and looks overhead. The shattered floor is now a stained-glass ceiling. Light slinks in through the jigsaw pieces, casting a riot of blues, greens, and purples across the area. The heavenly colors do nothing to soften the smell.

“Oh, my God,” she groans. “What is that? It smells like…”

“It’s decay.” My blood hammers behind my temples as I search for him. He’s here. He must be.

There’s a narrow bridge connecting the dark platform we’re on to a similar one on the other side. We have to cross over to get where we’re going. I contemplate not telling Aspen about the collector—about Patrick—but I must. This isn’t something she’d want to be in the dark about.

Aspen is running her hands over her long, dark ponytail when I say, “They know we’re here.”

Her head whips around. “How do you know?”

“There was one back there. In the Hall of Mirrors.”

Aspen glances around like she’s searching for him. “It could be only one,” she says, but the way her brow furrows tells me she doesn’t believe that. “How fast can we get to the soul storage area?”

In response, I grab her hand, and we dart toward the bridge. The pine boards creak and sway beneath our feet, and far below, black oil bubbles and pops. Moans fill the air, and I know what they are, but we have to keep moving.

The bridge sways wildly, wider and wider, and I order Aspen to run.

The demons. They’re coming.

They’re climbing up the posts that support the bridge, nails digging into the old wood. If Aspen sees them, she’ll scream. And once that happens, the demons will scream, too. There’s a rule in hell: no matter how much pain you’re in, no matter how many horrors you face, you can never scream. If you do, they’ll come for you. And you will be punished.

The creatures are close. Their stench makes me light-headed, but I have to keep pumping my legs.

“If it isn’t the infamous Dante Walker,” a voice shouts. It isn’t a scream, but it’s dangerously close.

A shiver races down my back as I turn around, hanging onto the rope handrail for balance. Patrick, the collector, stares back at me, a shit-eating grin smeared across his face. I trained Patrick a couple of years ago. He’s a good soul collector and has a decent left hook, if memory serves. He’s a scrapper, a small guy who’s quick and eager to please. Patrick would like nothing more than to hand-deliver me to Lucille.

I gauge how far Aspen and I are from the other side and know we could make it there before he does. In fact, once the demons crawl over the side, they may even take him down. They’re slow and stupid, but they have strength in numbers. But if he runs fast enough—and God knows he’s a fast fucker—he’ll make it across, too.

Not if I hold him up, though.

My eyes lock with Aspen’s. “Run.”

Then I turn and race toward Patrick. The bridge rocks, and I almost tip over the side twice, but I keep moving. Patrick accepts the challenge and storms in my direction. I don’t know what his goal is. Maybe to toss me to the demons so I’m trapped. Then find Lucille and lead him here.

We both run hard, realizing we have seconds before the demons ascend. As we get closer, I anticipate he’ll go for my chest. Maybe even my face. But instead he drops low and barrels into my legs.

I smack onto my back with a grunt. Patrick dives on top of me like a Doberman, all snapping teeth and lean muscle. He goes for my throat, and I let him. My thumbs dig into his eyes, and he bites down to keep from screaming. Taking advantage of his pain, I bring my knees up. I kick out, and his body flies backward. He’s upright in a flash, racing toward me with wide brown eyes.

He stops.

Crawling over the side of the bridge is a demon.

Its body is shaped like a human’s, but it’s all wrong. The angles are too sharp, and the spine is too curved. Black-and-yellow scales cover the creature’s torso, and talons grow where fingernails should be. The demon’s beady black eyes fix on me. Its mouth drops open. A low whistle emanates from its throat. The sound could be from a young girl strolling through a park with a boy’s face in her mind. It’s a sweet, innocent noise, but coming from this creature it’s chilling.

This thing, this
creature
, used to be a person.

The demon moves toward me, toenails clicking against the bridge. Behind it, Patrick scurries backward. He smiles. This is exactly what he wanted. I contemplate what action to take. If I flee, the demon probably won’t catch me, but I’ll lose sight of Patrick. And it’s better to have your enemy in view than hidden in the shadows. So I’ll fight it. I’ll toss it back into its bubbling grave and then toss Patrick in after him.

But I’ve got to hurry, because more demons are coming.

The creature is bigger than me, but not nearly as quick. And that’s what I’m counting on. I rush toward the monster but stop when a
thump-thump-thump
comes from behind.

Aspen rushes past and charges toward the demon. The heel of her hand rams into its mutated nose, and the creature hisses and falls back. She doesn’t give it a moment to think. Aspen ducks when the monster swipes a clawed hand at her, then she drives a closed fist into its side. She hits it again on the opposite side.

“Oh, man!” Patrick says from a few feet away. “Boss Man is going to love her.”

My mind buzzes as I try to pull her away, but she brushes me off and keeps fighting. This time she rears back and thrusts her foot into its stomach. When the demon hunches over with a sickening gurgle, she kicks it in the face. The demon recovers quickly and attacks. It drags a single claw across her bicep, and somehow Aspen doesn’t scream.

She just gets angry.

Her fists fly faster than I can follow. She’s totally kicking its ass, and though I don’t want to leave her alone with the creature, I know this frees me up to take care of Patrick.

I set my gaze on the collector. Then I brush past Aspen and tackle him to the planks. He grabs the rope handrail over his head and uses it as leverage to kick me away.

I’m back on him in a blaze, sweat covering my brow. It’s sweltering in here, and the
smell
. I ignore both and fling myself on him. Taking a cue from Aspen, I throw my fist into his sides, then land a blow straight into his shining teeth.

Once I’m standing, I pull him up with me. And then I underestimate him, forget how fast he is on his feet. He reaches out and grabs a handful of my hair. My scalp stings as he rips me forward and then past him. I fly toward the edge of the bridge and just manage to keep from falling by grabbing onto the handrail. The bridge sways like a drunken sailor, and it’s everything I can do to stop myself from tumbling over the side.

I look back at Patrick. He grins from ear to ear. Then he lifts his leg up. I understand what he’s about to do a moment before he does it. He’s going to kick me off the edge. And that’s going to be it.

But the collector stops cold, his knee still raised, when he hears the whistling sound over his shoulder.

The demon rises up from behind him like the moon. It lowers its black shiny head until their cheeks are pressed together. They almost look like lovers. Patrick is shaking and turns a shade of white that seems impossible.

The demon wraps his arms around Patrick and then kicks off from the side of the bridge.

They are gone.

Falling toward the thick oil.

The collector may be there an hour, a day. Or he may stay for eternity. It just depends how hard he fights, and for how long. Maybe he’ll let go of his humanity entirely and become one of them. The same way I think Rector has begun to do.

Once I hear the splash of his body hitting the oil, I join Aspen in her battle against the demon. Together, we are able to shove it back toward the dark liquid blanket. Aspen glances around, her breath coming fast.

“Is he gone?” she asks.

“For now,” I answer. “How’s your arm?”

She grips the place where the creature cut her. “I’ll be fine. What now?”

“Stick to the plan. Get to the soul storage room and get out of here. Handle obstacles as they come.” We race toward the end of the bridge as more demons claw their way over the side. Thankfully, they’ll never make it to us in time. We near the door, and I tell Aspen, “Remind me to thank Lincoln for teaching you how to fight. You’re an animal.”

She grins. “That was a lie.”

“What?”

“He didn’t teach me how to fight. I taught him.”

I slow down and stare at her. “How did you—?”

“Dante. The door. Do we need a key or…?”

I shake my head. “Right. No, we just go through.” The door swings open beneath my hand, and we step into the next room. Aspen immediately falls back with fright, but I push her forward. We must close the door behind us, or the demons will keep coming.

Aspen’s hands fly to her ears, and she looks at me, eyes dancing with fear at what she sees.