Page 186 of A Kingdom of Wild and Power
Mal dropped into the next ring without the shock or struggle that had accompanied her last arrival. She turned just in time to see Wren landing beside her, and in that single moment the worries that had weighed upon her for months seemed to lift from her shoulders.
Mal remembered the long black table shrouded in souls—hunched over, slurping and gulping down food, their hands shaking with the need to consume. She immediately unsheathed her sword at the sight of the king of Hell. Beelzebub sat at the far end, his small beady black eyes focused solely on her.
‘You return,’ he said, licking his oily lips as if eager to snatch Mal back into his ring.
Mal grabbed Wren’s arm and walked calmly down the long room, stopping at Beelzebub’s height. She pointed the tip of her sword at his face, his expression growing weary. His large form overflowed, the black robe he wore so tight it seemed to vanish between the rolls of his body.
‘Ah, but you return different this time.’ He sniffed the air, thenhis eyes widened. ‘What have you done? What have you become?’
‘I am the God-Killer now.’
Beelzebub remained silent for a moment, before bursting out laughing. Mal had not expected such a reaction from the king, and almost stepped back.
‘What is so funny?’
‘Your father found a way.’ The king seemed to find it difficult to laugh and speak at the same time, wheezing in large gulps of air. ‘Have you come to destroy us all?’
Mal shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’ She let go of Wren, snatched the apple on the table and bit into it. Swallowed. She smiled at the king of Hell, his eyes wide with fear.
She turned to leave, but Beelzebub’s words gave her pause.
‘Careful, little God-Killer,’ he said. ‘The one you seek likes to play games. Why don’t you stay here?’
Mal ignored the king of Hell. She took Wren’s hand once again, slapping a pear that Wren had picked out of her pale fingers. Mal reached the end of the room, and slammed the doors open with the heel of her boot.
They had entered what appeared to be a brothel.
Mal recognised the place at once from her previous visit. The walls were painted a deep, luxurious green, and the sofas were upholstered in velvety red. To the right, a pool of steaming water shimmered invitingly, beckoning the souls trapped in this ring to sink into its warmth and surrender themselves to indulgence.
Around the room others lounged at tables, gambling loudly as laughter and the hazy scent of smoke curled through the air. Cups of drink passed from hand to hand as though eternity itself were little more than an endless celebration.
‘Don’t touch that,’ Mal warned, swatting Wren’s hand awayjust as she reached to examine the long blue feather woven into a soul’s hair.
Here the inhabitants dressed as they pleased, some wandering naked without the slightest shame, others draped in extravagant fabrics and jewels that glittered in the dim light. Mal’s attention swept across the room as she searched for the king of this ring, remembering all too clearly the threats that had greeted her the last time she had stood here.
One of the souls approached and casually twisted a strand of Mal’s black hair between his fingers.
Mal turned her head slowly and offered him a wicked smile. ‘Keep touching my hair like that,’ she said sweetly, ‘and I’ll bite that finger right off.’
The soul recoiled at once and retreated.
Mal stepped towards one of the nearby tables where several souls were deep in a game of cards. She drew her sword and placed the sharp tip lightly against one player’s forehead.
Every single one of them froze.
‘Where’s the king of this ring?’
Without hesitation, every hand at the table pointed towards the back of the room.
Mal left the sword in her grip. She had a feeling she might need it. As she moved forward, she glanced around, suddenly realising Wren was no longer beside her.
For a moment her stomach dropped, dread clawing its way into her chest, until she reminded herself that Wren was already, technically, dead. Still, that did not mean she couldn’t become trapped here.
Yet Mal doubted that would happen.
Wren, she suspected, was one of those rare souls that Hell itself could never quite manage to claim.
Mal found Wren seated at one of the tables, laughingbrightly as she shuffled a deck of cards and dealt them out with surprising confidence.
