Etched in Bone by Adrian Phoenix Read Free Book Online

EHENNA ,
T HE PIT OF S HEOL
Night of March 27–28
     
    F URY PULSED THROUGH D ANTE like blood.
    The Morningstar’s bone-white wings fanned through hot air thick with heat and smoke and the stench of rotten eggs as they descended into the stinking pit. Heat baked against Dante’s skin, sucked at his breath. His mesh-sleeved arm wound tighter around the Morningstar’s neck.
    Lucien hung in the depths of the ember-shadowed pit, thick curves of barbed steel impaling both shoulders, blood smearing his skin. The orange light from the glowing coals glinted in the bands clipping Lucien’s smooth black wings together.
    The Fallen pricks had tossed Lucien onto hooks like a side of beef. Had fucking tortured him as punishment for a crime thousands of years cold, according to the Morningstar.
    Dante didn’t know if Lucien was guilty of the murder or not and, in truth, he didn’t give a rat’s ass. All he cared about was getting Lucien off those hooks and out of the pit.
    “ Une main lave l’autre, for true,” Dante said, picturing Gabriel hook-impaled, his swagger and smirk gone all to hell like fresh air in the pit.
    “Is that French?” the Morningstar asked, tucking Dante even closer against his side. “Your accent is unusual.”
    “Nope. Cajun.”
    “Ah, ancient and corrupted French, then.”
    “Oh, hey, an unwanted and incorrect opinion. You know where you can cram that opinion, yeah? Not to mention how far, how hard, and how often?”
    “I suspect I do, yes. Think I’ll let the suggestion slide.”
    “Too bad.”
    “Sorry to disappoint.” Dry amusement buoyed the fallen angel’s voice.
    Dante snorted. “Oui sûr.”
    Dante wished he could’ve gone to Sheol on his own to fetch Lucien from its smoldering guts, but his own newborn wings, still wet with blood and untested, were useless until he learned how to use them. If he wanted to learn. So, no matter how much it had grated against his instincts, he’d accepted the Morning-star’s help.
    Besides, the sooner he reached Lucien and got the three of them—Heather, Lucien, and himself—out of Gehenna, the better.
    A tsunami of rapturous wybrcathl crashed into Dante’s mind, battering his shields and unraveling his thoughts as the Fallen resumed greeting him—en masse—a warbling choir composed of what sounded and felt like thousands of voices. White light flickered at the edges of his vision.
    Welcome home, young Maker!
    Holy, holy, holy!
    Take your place upon the Chaos Seat. We shall love you. Instruct you. Guide you.
    You shall breathe new life into Gehenna.
    Dante tightened his shields, shored them up with fresh mental steel, but exhaustion sucked at his strength, his focus. He resisted the urge to unleash his song in a furious back-the-fuck-off-and-let-me-breathe response, worried that he’d lose control of his power and accidentally hurt Heather or even Lucien.
    His muscles knotted and his wings fluttered in automatic response. Molten pain blazed along his back, twitching liquid fire from nerve to nerve. Sucking in a breath, he held himself still, jaw clenched, until the pain faded.
    < Baptiste? Everything okay? >
    Dante tilted his head and looked up. Heather knelt at the mouth of the pit above, her lovely, heart-shaped face illuminated by the pit’s fiery glow, her expression composed. But through their bond, he felt her concern, cool and coiled, nudging against his shields. She pushed her breeze-caught red hair out of her eyes with one hand, a big-ass Browning locked in the fingers of the other.
    
    < You too .>
    Dante hadn’t liked leaving her above and alone, not one fucking bit; no matter how capable Heather was, no matter how deadly an aim, she remained a vulnerable mortal in a world of winged and taloned Fallen. But the Morningstar had refused to bring her with them into the pit.
    If your father should be too weak to fly, I can’t carry all three of you out.
    “She’d better be safe up there,” Dante