Page 18 of Devoted

Nothing but rough stone.

“There has to be a door.” My brother’s breath sawed in and out. “Find the fucking door, Em. Find the door.”

Behind us, that rhythmic tapping slowed, like the creature knew we were trapped and was savoring our panic.

I ran my good hand over the rough surface in front of me, feeling for something, any fucking thing that might… there… wood, boards, of some kind. And then…

There’s a handle, Luca.

Behind us, the tap, tap, tap grew louder, the sound echoing around us like a clock, ticking down the seconds until we were dead.

Fucking open it up, Em. Whatever’s on the other side can’t possibly be as bad as whatever’s behind us.

I took a breath, prayed my brother was right, and turned the knob.

7

NICO DRACONI

The heat would have cooked us alive if it weren’t for my shadows, and still, Dante stood motionless in the center of the hallway as we searched each cell for Rocco. His head hung low, flames pouring off him in great, devouring waves, naked as the day he was born.

Must be fucking nice.

“Hey,” I shouted. “Be part of the solution, not the problem. We could use your help, asshole.”

When I got no response, I cursed, then went back to maintaining the thick, impervious shield around Gabriel and me. But even inside my bubble, the air scalded my throat with every breath. Rivulets of sweat poured down my face and throat, soaking my shirt, and I gritted my teeth, fighting to keep my shaking hands steady.

Gabriel scanned the thinning shield, then me. “How much longer can you maintain this?”

“A few minutes, no more. Stop your yapping and try the next door.”

He’d wrapped fabric around his hand, a flimsy protection from the glowing hot doorknobs. Dante had turned this entire corridor into a death trap. I only hoped he hadn’t cooked Rocco along with the Ashbound, or Valeria was going to be sadly disappointed when we carted her crispy excuse for a father back home.

We stepped over another corpse… if you could call a pile of ash and bone a corpse. Not that I was complaining.

The creepy fuckers deserved to die.

If you could even kill something that was already dead.

“Empty,” Gabriel grunted. “Where the fuck did they put him?”

“What if they executed him?” I wiped the sweat out of my eyes. “I mean, it’s a miracle we didn’t kill the slimy fuck. Not much motivation for Giovanni to keep Rocco alive now that he’s worthless to the cause.”

“Only one more room,” Gabriel muttered, meeting my gaze before he set his hand on the doorknob. The heat was concentrated down at this end, having nowhere else to go, but beneath the smell of woodsmoke lurked the thick, cloying scent of old blood. Rot.

Fear.

I reinforced my shield one last time and nodded. Gabriel opened the door. The air inside the room was barely breathable, the smell of putrefaction so strong, my eyes watered. As soon as the door closed, I cast another layer of my shadows over the blistered wood, sealing us inside.

The stench of rot crept in.

Thick enough to choke.

A shirtless Rocco lay on his side with his back to us, hair askew, his skin translucent beneath flaking layers of dried blood. Iron shackles around his ankles locked down his magic. He’d been beaten as badly as Gabriel, and his right arm ended in a thick bundle of filthy, blood-soaked bandages.

Where his hand should have been.

We both froze.