*Chiara

The worst part of the dream was knowing it was a nightmare, but not being able to wake up. Her body was too exhausted. She watched, a spectator in her own head as she marched through the garden at the Fountain of Life and killed every angel in it.

Each face contorted in pain and fear. Eyes narrowed with hatred for her. They snarled at her—the angels—and she slammed her sword through their chests.

Her sword was drenched in sticky blood. The black onyx stone at the bottom of the hilt was red with an inner flame and the inscription of her family covered in red. She hacked off their wings when she killed them to throw them into the fire pits at the temple as a sacrifice. When she raised her arms and screamed to the starry sky above, she didn't know if she was begging forgiveness or shouting her out her victory.

Zeigfel strolled through the carnage. He stopped when he was in full view and clapped, the ringing tone of his leather gloves echoing in the dead space.

"Wake up," he said.

She blinked. It was day—or what passed for day in that pit of hell. She was hanging on the wall while Zeigfel and Dirk maneuvered Logan on the rack. Her chains were looser around her wrists than usual. She pulled her hand to test it. Her hand slid free. She blinked in confusion.

Zeigfel cursed, shoving Dirk to the floor. "Then find it!" he cried.

As Dirk scrambled to leave, Zeigfel followed, storming through the dungeon door. It slammed, but didn't lock. They were gone.

She blinked and shook her head. Her other hand slid free of the cuff. The scabs and scars were crusted with blood and rust at her wrists, but they were free. For the first time since she arrived, her hands were free. She glanced down. They must have forgotten to shackle her feet after—

Chiara couldn't remember what they had done to her earlier. Her heart thudded in her chest so hard, she pressed a hand to it to keep it inside. No one was watching. The hell hounds had trailed off after their masters. Logan was unconscious on the rack. She tiptoed forward.

Her knees buckled and she fell to the floor. Stones cut into her knees and palms, but she gritted her teeth. Nothing was going to stop her, especially not a little pain.

Jaw clenched, she hobbled forward. She hadn't walked on her own in weeks, and after countless times of her bones being broken, she wasn't healing fully anymore. Each step was agony.

She didn't care. There were noises coming from behind the dungeon door. No footsteps, though. Zeigfel made so much noise with his boots, she would hear him several minutes away.

The bastard probably lines his soles with silver so it burns when he kicks demons.

Pausing at the door, she listened again for someone coming. The sounds—yelling, banging, muffled grunts—seemed distant, possibly from other torture rooms. She gripped the handle and pulled carefully. The hinges creaked. She stopped. Blood trickled down her chin. She had bitten through her lip.

She swiped at the blood and pulled the door open enough for her to slip through. Then froze.

There was a ledge instead of the hallway she expected. The door opened directly to a massive cavern, spanning a mile or more. A stone path jutted from the wall where she stood, and if she took one more step there was nothing to hide her, not even a rail. The drop was dizzying. Although the stone path was wide enough for four to walk abreast, it snaked along the uneven wall, winding up and down and around for as far as she could see. Her heart failed her. She would be exposed for hours if she tried to run.

What about Logan?

Her eyes were dragged back into the room. Logan was slumped on the rack, limbs shackled. A frustrated sob shook her.

I can't save him. I can't even save myself.

Then an idea crept into her mind as seductive and sweet as any angelic lover that she'd never had.

I could jump.

She gasped in almost extasy. She could jump and end this, all of it. Her wings wouldn't save her, nothing would. She would be free. She took a step forward.

There was clapping behind her—slow and hollow from leather gloves.

She whipped around, her wings dragging on the ground and hitting the edge of the door. She would have jumped back, but Zeigfel grabbed her arm. She blinked in confusion. He was standing inside the room with Dirk. Logan was on the wall, watching, a gag in his mouth. His cheeks were blotched with rage and every muscle strained at his chains.

"I was wondering how much longer it would take you to get to the door," Zeigfel hissed, tightening his grip on her arm. "I was beginning to wonder if you didn't have it in you to try and run. Or perhaps you wanted to jump."

Chiara willed her expression not to change, but it was useless. He knew her too well already.

"Let me explain what will happen to you if you do jump," he said. He dragged her out onto the ledge and forced her to look outwards into the vast cavern. The only lights were torches and a strange bluish glowing coming from veins in the rocky walls. They pulsed, but faintly. The stench was stomach turning, as if a pit of rotten bodies was at her feet, and no air circulated. No soft breeze. She covered her nose.

"You've noticed the smell. You can thank Dirk for redirecting the air in your room so you don't have to breathe this in constantly. The fumes, I'm told, are poisonous to your kind. They will make you insane if you breathe them too long. But that isn't what we were talking about. Do you know what's in here? What exists in this cavern?"

She didn't bother to answer. He obviously wanted to tell her.

"The pestilences," he said. "They might seem small and insignificant when you have your armor and your sword, although I saw a few of your brethren swarmed by their packs at the Fountain. They eat the faces first, you know. You still don't seem to understand. Do you think they would let you fall to your death, when they could catch you and keep you alive to incubate their spawn at the bottom of the pit? Their larva would eat you slowly from the inside out, keeping you alive for months. And it would only take a handful to catch you on the way down."

She clenched her jaw, refusing to give him any emotion.

He shoved her. Screaming, she clawed at the air. For a second, she hovered at the edge. Then, with gut-wrenching weightlessness she tipped and fell. Air flowed through her fingers and numb wings. She flailed and kicked, plummeting past doors, torches, and other ledges. A high pitched shriek filled her ears. More shrieks. A buzzing swarm of small demons, the pestilences, streamed from the darkness below, coming for her.

Please...

She begged her wings to spread and fly her to safety. Above her, at the top of the cavern shone a light. Pure, white light. She reached up.

Tiny clawed hands ripped into her skin.

"Wake up," Zeigfel whispered.

She gasped and blinked into the darkness of the room. She was chained to the floor, drenched in sweat. Trembling, she tried to roll into a ball for comfort and warmth, but her arms were stretched above her head, and her feet pulled firmly the other direction.

"Nightmare?" Logan asked softly. "I can't seem to sleep, either."

Always—he always knew when she needed him to help her, no matter the darkness and the aching pain from the day. His voice, the only thing she could have of him.

She wanted to curl up for warmth and comfort in that voice, but he was the enemy. She understood better than ever before. For the first time, she didn't answer him. She didn't play their game that had kept her sane for so long.

The demons were in her head.

*** Thank you for reading! ***