Page 36 of Hell Burns Between Us

He shook his head as if to rid himself of the pesky doubts he had, before he hurried to catch up.

Oleander received a cold clay pot, its weight heavy in his hands. He’d thought it would be empty and a shiver ran down his spine realising it wasn’t. His worries were embers, threatening to become a raging fire as he stared at it. Was this… had he seen these pots before?

The memory of a lone shoe, illuminated in crimson crashed into him.

All this time his siblings had told him the cost of becoming a soul reaper wasn’t worth it. He’d resented them for it. Knowing that anything would be worth the prestige of being a soul reaper—of finally gaining his father’s attention. Except now holding this pot, he was feeling less and less sure that this was what he wanted.

He stared down at it. Did his father harvest demoness souls? Could he really be holding a fucking disembodied soul?

No. That wasn’t right—No. It was a spell of some sort, some kind of magic that they were merely calling demoness soul.

Only.

The clay pot was holding something powerful and deeply corrupted, he didn’t need to take the lid off to know this to be true. It was filled with something tainted. He could feel the disjointed pain from whatever was contained in his pot vibrating through to his fingertips.

Fucking Hell, he needed out.

He exhaled a long, steadying breath, trying to quell the rising panic—a frantic plan for escape forming in his mind. Just set the pot down in the other room and then slip out. His father couldn’t fault him for leaving, no one would expect their son to help with something this grotesque.

With an effort, he joined the other Grand Dukes, filing into an adjoining room. The atmosphere was suffocating—almost claustrophobic, save for the large stone table in the centre, bathed in the uncanny red glow from the mushrooms that lit the cavern.

The Rune Circle proclaimed that mortals benefitted from bargaining with demons. That they were grateful for their second chance at life. Which Oleander had always accepted as the way things were. But nothing could justify the fact that they were now using demonkind souls. Nobody benefitted from being consumed.

Again he heaved a breath, trying to push the thought aside as he set the clay pot down on the stone table, mimicking the actions of the others. Waiting for his chance to slip away. His gaze landed on Samael, the Grand Duke of the Acquirement Circle. Unlike the rest of the demons present, Samael hadn’t offered his opinion on Oleander’s involvement. And now, as Oleander sat down next to him, Samael ignored him completely—his gaze locked straight ahead.

It was as though Samael hadn’t even noticed him at all. Which was good because now Oleander would be sneaking out and hopefully it would be either overlooked or dealt with later. He didn’t care. He just couldn’t stand to be here one more moment.

He tried to move his feet and found himself frozen, panic threatened to rise again but he quelled it. Honestly, if he had to he’d claw his way out of here, dragging his frozen feet behind him, he would.

But his knees wouldn’t bend.

In fact, Oleander found his entire body locked.

Stuck in this horror.

His breathing grew even more ragged.

Moments later, his father strode in with a wide, shallow basin, his expression grim and unwavering. With a practiced motion, he placed the bowl in the centre of the table. Floating within the bowl, was a grotesque oily sludge that held a horrifically distorted face—a vile caricature of expression. Oleander’s stomach twisted.

The other Grand Dukes began lifting the lids from their pots, releasing silver smoke into the air. Inside of the smoke were the very clear faces of screaming demonesses and Oleander was forced to stand there, unable to move. Unable to look away.

The sight was ghastly. Even without bodies, the souls retained their human auras, trembling like fragile, clammy whispers of what they once were. He often tried to forget demonkind’s connection to humanity, but here in this moment, he was forced to acknowledge that to procreate they required humans to sacrifice themselves. Which was admittedly not great, but the bargains were supposed to be mutually beneficial for both parties.

The souls of who knew how many demonesses, were instead destined to never be at peace. No, they were used and manipulated by those in power repeatedly against their will, until there was nothing left. Incubators for influential demons to prove that they are in control.

He was never one to worry about things that did not directly affect him, yet had he become so detached—so cold hearted—that he could not spare a moment of concern for someone outside himself?

Moloch, who had been eyeing him with an unsettling curiosity, reached over swiftly and uncapped Oleander’s pot. The souls floated out, their forms twisting and curling in the air. The chanting began, a guttural rhythm that Oleander did not understand, and honestly, had no desire to learn.

Still frozen, his disgust and the increasing terror tore through him. His eyes grew dry and he realised with a start that he couldn’t even blink. Some sort of magical force was holding him there.

His instincts screamed for him to fight harder to get away, yet some darker, more insidious part of Oleander whispered that maybe he deserved this. He had come here for power, after all. There was a time when he had believed he would do anything to have a place amongst the Grand Dukes. Maybe he deserved to stand here, trembling under the weight of what that ambition had cost.

Against his will, Oleander raised his arms mimicking those around him, a puppet to their motions. As the sludge in the basin opened its enormous, repulsive mouth, the souls floated toward it, consumed one by one, vanishing into its depths.

It was disgusting. Every ounce of his being screamed against it. But it was done. The souls had been consumed, their essence feeding whatever was in that bowl. Oleander thought he could push it from his mind now, move past the grotesque ritual. But then—

Slowly, the sludge began to disintegrate. The once-solid form shattered, collapsing into an eerie cloud of ink-black smoke. At its centre was the face of a demon Oleander had seen only in paintings or statues. The face spun faster and faster as the darkness tightened around it. Oleander recognised him—almost.