Through Flame and Blade

Ch. 41 Make No Promises

*Logan

The darkness of the tunnel was complete, even for his demon sight. Leading the way, he patted the sides of the crevice, Chiara's hand on his shoulder and her head low behind his.

It wasn't long before the voices started whispering. Chiara's hold on him tightened. She must have heard them, too.

They promised such sweet things to him. They even promised he could keep Chiara, if he would betray her by handing her over to the guards. An image came to him so strongly, he had to blink to be sure he wasn't actually seeing it: he was on a gold and bone throne, among the lords of hell with legions of fighter class demons on bended knee, bowing to him in a great hall. At his feet, though, was Chiara in fine silks and dripping with jewels, her delicate head resting on his lap as she clung to his legs in adoration, her back—wingless.

His gut roiled. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip despite the cold air. Fuck that shit.

He forced the voices out of his head. The vision dissipated into the darkness.

A frightened whimper sounded behind him.

Right.

"We have to get out of here. Hold on," he hissed. Hands up, he barreled forward, letting his arms take the brunt of hitting the rocks.

Then his foot landed on nothing. He fell—

He was in Zeigfel's room again, but not with the harem ladies. Zeigfel sat at his table, a meal of the finest delicacies from the celestial and human world spread out before him. Zeigfel motioned for Logan to take a seat in the finely sculpted chair waiting, empty, across from him.

How had Hell gotten into Logan's mind so firmly? His hands fisted. The poison from the Fountain had weakened him—that was how. Plus, Zeigfel must be panicking, calling in every favor to the dark things that lurked on the edges of hell to help him.

"Take a seat, my brother in arms," Zeigfel said.

"I would take your head, but I'm not really here." Logan searched for the lurkers that must have made their way inside his mind. He sensed nothing, though, and didn't know how to break free of this vision.

"Let me speak. Sit."

Sit? Was he a fucking lap dog? "When I see you again, I will stick my blade through your gut and pull out your intestines to choke you with them."

The vision wavered. Logan was breaking free.

Zeigfel stood, hands on the table, expression pure fury. "You will either suffer for eternity or you will deliver the angel as I have commanded, for which you will be rewar—"

Logan sucked air into his lungs. Tiny lights exploded in his eyes like a private fireworks display. He shook off that otherworldly coldness that had crept into his muscles while his mind was away.

"Logan," Chiara hissed in the darkness. "Are you all right?"

He was on the floor, moisture seeping through his scant clothes and into his bits and pieces of armor. He stood, leather creaking, buckles chiming. They were close to a square opening filled with blinding light. Dust swirled up and in to meet them, carried by hot air. Smells of charred flesh, fresh blood, old sweat, and dirt immediately told him where he was.

Wrath.

But fuck. He pressed his chest, testing a sore, throbbing spot behind his ribs.

The Fountain water—the poison slipped through muscle and bone, leeching his powers. That single drop of water created a wreckage of his innards.