“No!” My dad tried to stand, but he was still too weak. Confused. He didn’t seem to realize Ira was holding him up.
“You’re safe now. Avari can’t touch you—any of you.” And they were under Ira’s protection. That much I remembered, but the rest of my deal with the hellion of wrath was... It was gone.
Terror furled through me at that fresh realization. What if I’d gotten something wrong? What if I hadn’t covered all the bases? It was too late now. I couldn’t even remember the details. I’d have to trust myself. I’d have to trust Ira, as much as any hellion could be trusted, but that was really just trusting myself to have made sure he gave his word.
“Kaylee!” Now my father was crying, and Avari let me watch. Avari made me watch, because my pain was already feeding him.
“Make him forget!” I shouted at Ira, and only once I’d said the words did I remember that he had to. I’d negotiated for that.
Ira put one hand over my father’s eyes and whispered something into his ear. Something I couldn’t hear and could no longer recall the specifics of, even though I’d made him promise to say it. To...do whatever he was doing.
Then they were gone. Just like that, my father was gone. He was safe.
I was alone in hell.
Avari spun me to face him. The world twisted around me, and pain spread through my flesh at his touch, like his fingers were icicles stabbing into me, spreading through my veins, freezing the blood in them. I would have fallen to my knees if he wasn’t holding me up.
“I always knew this day would come, little bean sidhe. I knew that someday you would scream just for me. So open your pretty little mouth, and let’s have a taste of forever.”
His hand clenched around my arm, and pain like a thousand needles shot through every muscle in my body, driving away all thought and all sight. My mouth dropped open, and a scream of agony ripped free from my throat, shredding the soft tissues as it poured out of me.
Avari laughed, and I realized I heard him in my head, because my ears were full of my own screaming. As he dragged me down the cracked sidewalk, my toes scraping concrete, snagging on vines and thorns, his next words seemed to take root in my brain, bypassing my ears entirely.
“Welcome to hell, Ms. Cavanaugh. Please make yourself at home.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The pain begins, and within seconds it consumes me. If I’ve ever felt anything else, I can’t remember it. Maybe I loved, once. Maybe I was loved. Maybe I touched something soft. Maybe I tasted something sweet. Maybe I heard something beautiful.
There is none of that here.
Here is every face that ever taunted me. Here is every heartbreak I’ve ever felt. Here is every doubt, every lack, and every failure.
In hell, I am the sum of my flaws.
This lasts for eternity, though I have no idea how long eternity really is. There is no time here. A minute, a day, a century, they are all measured by how much agony can be stuffed into a single heartbeat.
I scream as my flesh burns and my organs shrivel. My skin blackens and peels, and flakes of it fall to the floor, like a rain of ashes. This must be hell’s version of snow. I’m horrified by my own disintegration, but I never lose consciousness. He won’t let me miss a moment of my own torture, and he leaves my throat intact, because my screams are the soundtrack of his triumph, and somehow in hell I never lose my voice.
What he wants most from me is screaming, and I have no choice but to deliver.
Then, when there’s so little left of me that I can’t recognize the charred, twisted remains of my own body, he puts me back together so he can start from scratch, and there is no end to his imagination or to the pain it inspires. I cannot think. I cannot breathe. I cannot sleep. I can do nothing but suffer and scream, and here it becomes clear that I deserve nothing more. He shows me that I’ve ruined every life I ever touched, and I will spend eternity paying for every mistake I’ve ever made. I will pay, and I will pay again, then I will pay some more, and forever will come and go while I am still paying for sins I’ve long since forgotten I committed.
He wants to know every part of me. Every thought in my head and every cell in my body, and he seems to think that taking me apart one piece at a time—one leg, one finger, one memory, one thought—will show him how I feel things he can’t possibly understand. Things like love and pity and compassion, few of which I can even remember, with my own screams carving canyons through my mind.
But dissecting me won’t help. He will never understand any human emotion that doesn’t feed his appetite for greed or for suffering. Hellions don’t have that capacity. And when he figures that out, his anger swells like the ocean tide until I’m afraid we’ll both drown in it, and I know his fury should make me happy, for some reason I can’t quite remember, but it doesn’t, because in this place, his anger only means my pain. In fact, his pleasure means my pain, and his confusion means my pain, and his very presence means my pain.
And then, when my pain finally begins to bore him, hell changes, and I learn all new ways to suffer.
I remember me now. I remember who I was, when I was something other than this. Other than agony given battered shape and shrill voice.
I was a daughter. I was a cousin, a niece, a classmate, a friend, a girlfriend.
I am none of that here, and the pain is infinitely worse now that I know what I’ve lost.
He shows me what I’ve missed as I tumble through eternity, banged and bruised and abraded by my own memories. He shows me my friends. My family. He shows me that my attempt to save them has brought them all to ruin.
Hazel eyes, twisting in pain.
Long, thin hair, streaked with blood.
Black eyes flashing in fury, in futility.
Tears trailing down pale cheeks.
Grief and anger lead to violence, and neglect, and relapse, and pain that has no end.
I haven’t freed them—I’ve sentenced them to an existence of guilt and tribulations I’ve caused but cannot fix from beyond the grave. And I am so far beyond the grave now that the thought of being buried in a dark, quiet hole in the ground feels like mercy.
He shows me that Emma is lost. She is drowning in the suffering around her, and it takes over her mind until she can’t think. Can’t form coherent sentences. This time when they lock her up, I am not there to set her free. She sits in the corner of an empty room and screams my name over and over. I am the only thought she can still express, and the pain in her voice rips through my very center, shattering me into bits too small for the king’s horses and his men to ever find, much less put back together. And for no reason he will explain to me, Tod is not there. He does not help her.
Where is Tod?
My captor shows me that Nash has escaped Emma’s fate. He’s escaped everything, except for a saccharine euphoria and the memories he lives in, convinced they are reality as his body wastes away because he’s forgotten about food and rest and life. He pays for his high with bits of himself, and remembered bits of me, and when those are all gone, he pays with bits of Sabine, even as he pushes her away.
Months flow like water beneath the bridge of their lives, and when she cannot wakehimshakehimsavehim, Nash finally lets it all go, and I cannot see the reaper who comes for his soul, but I know Nash does not resist. He lets the last of his life fade away while he rides on a vaguely pleasant fog, unaware that it is dissolving beneath him until he crashes to the ground, to the floor of his own bedroom, never to rise again. And for no reason I can understand, Tod is not there. He does not help his brother.