*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.

He stood, ignoring the cold creating a gaping hole behind his ribs.

Voices chattered behind them in the stark black of the crevice, slithering along slick walls.

"Go," he said, pushing her in front of him. "Go!"

Something hit her from behind and she stumbled. He moved to protect her back. Lurkers were coming for them. A tiny blade whistled towards him and he deflected it with his arm-guard.

"Go!"

Logan raced through the door into the piercing light and choking dust, but Chiara, stumbled to a halt. She circled, taking in an arena, its sand and wooden viewing stands relentlessy baked by a desert sun, panic etched on her features. "My arena. What is going on?"

"Calm," he said. "Breathe."

"But—"

"Look closer. It's not your arena, love," Logan insisted. "Let's move to the side before we attract attention."

Still shaking her head in confusion, she followed him to the side, off the bright sand. The weapons in the stands along the curved walls of the gladiator-style arena were calling him.

He waited, nerves buzzing a warning, as patiently as possible while she scanned the arena again. Wrath was for fighting, the one hall design that made sense for the sin it represented. Like Gluttony, though, it appeared to be in the open air, the sun so bright it nearly turned the sky white, washing away the blue except on the horizon, low where the wooden rows of seating met it.

They were lucky—no one sat watching, not today, not with the alerts of escaped prisoners, and few demons were training today. They all were on the other side of the great expanse.

More would come soon.

With that thought, he stepped closer to a rack of weapons and clicked his tongue, taking up a heavy, two-sided axe. He spun it in one hand, openly admiring its craftsdemonship and deadly grace.

"This is my arena, Chiara," he continued. "Remember, the original fallen designed Hell, and I suppose they were feeling a bit nostalgic for the Heavens, and wanted a little something familiar to play in."

Chiara finally breathed in deeply and relaxed on her exhale. "I see the demons now. You're right. Still in Hell. For moment there, my mind went to strange places, and I thought I was home."

"One more hall after this one, if we survive," he said. He refused to listen to that quiet voice reminding him of his orders. He didn't obey orders. Instead, he studied her. Now that she understood where they were and that nothing was in her head, she had recovered from the panic that gripped her. She even pulled a small knife from her shoulder, embedded there by one of those things in the tunnel, and tucked it in her belt. The hole in her skin shrunk to a faint scar instantly.

Good. She was strong and ready to fight, and so deliciously desirable he might have a heart attack.

"I was forged here," he said, continuing. "I might die here."

"Not today you won't."

"Now you are talking."

Demon warriors were starting to notice them. Groups edged closer, wary and intrigued, and it was already clear that avoiding a fight would not be possible.

Eying them, she muttered, "Give me two swords and I'll do more than talk."

"And now you're just turning me on when I can't lay you on the ground and do anything about it."

"How sad." She shook her head, lower lip puffed out in mock pity. "You'll just have to fight with a hard-on for me."

He tossed her two blades—fine and slim with excellent balance and edges sharp enough cut the threads of time itself. She whipped them each in a circle, testing them. Sweat gleamed on her brow from the heat of the sun and a flush crept up her chest to stain her cheeks. Her wings lifted slightly to give her room to swing, and he knew the power in them for the attack, as well. A tall, muscled, hell-hewn warrior stood before him with all the beauty of the winter's dawn. He forgot to breathe a moment.

"By the Sleeping King of Hell, I might." He adjusted his stance to face the oncoming hordes, and told his stirring cock to calm the fuck down. "They will attack. If we're lucky, the Irrinuum won't leave Sloth and we'll only have to watch the ground troops. In any case, our goal is that arch."

He pointed with the axe at the far side of the arena where the curved wall was interrupted by a golden arch with firelight flickering in the shadowed interior. "That is the only way to Lust, no side tunnels go that way. Everyone passes through that arch. We have to reach it."

"I understand."

"And this time, my sweet, try very hard to hold onto your weapons and not stick them in any demons and leave them there. Right?"

She grinned. "I make no promises."

*** Neither are making promises, it would seem .... Hit the star if you enjoyed the chapter! ***