The Midnight Realm Read online

  When we were cast from Heaven eons ago, it was meant to serve as a punishment. But we’ve done our penance.

  As we walk toward the bridge, Calix says, “Skicru is here to see you.”

  I blink in surprise. She’s one of the heads of the five noble lines in the Underworld. “Did she say what she needed?”

  “Only that it was private and would not take much of your time.”

  I nod but don’t respond. Skicru will have to wait until after I render my judgments. It’s an event that calls out the inhabitants of Otaxis, the capital of the Underworld.

  The Bridge of Judgment is a massive obsidian walkway that connects the castle to the city. It crosses the Crimson River that flows two hundred feet below, constantly churning and bubbling with the violent souls of the condemned.

  Halfway across the bridge, a slab of flat rock juts out. Upon it sits the throne made of ebony crystal from which Kymaris used to rule. I had it relocated from the castle out here to the bridge for a few reasons. Mostly, I hate sitting in it, and since I conduct most of my business inside the castle’s throne room, I wanted it to be more comfortable for myself.

  Out here, I don’t use it often, but it is rather imposing. As I decide the fate of those who come before me, I don’t ever want them feeling safe. They’re in Hell for a reason, and I want their fear maximized.

  On the far side of the bridge, two Dark Fae wait with a long line of recently departed humans here to be judged. Those fae are part of what would be considered a royal guard. They wear the same clothing Kymaris had put them in—pure black from head to toe, including helmets with face shields. Tall, brawny, and intimidating, these fae ensure the humans remain cowed and don’t cause trouble.

  As I walk to the throne, I take in the landscape of Otaxis and beyond. I’ve changed it a great deal. Before, it resembled a dark cavern with a craggy ceiling so high up and dark, it was hard to see. The buildings were all made of brown mud, stone, and wood. The only light came from the glowing red river and by torches throughout the city. Dull and depressing, and I still feel tremendous guilt that this was all Zora ever knew for twenty-eight years of her life.

  The changes I’ve made are quite beautiful. I first used my powers to clean up the city. Buildings are now pristine whitewashed stone, veins of magical light run down the center of all streets providing a warm glow, and streetlamps abound with the same soft light.

  On the outskirts of Otaxis, I birthed night-blooming trees and carved a crystal-clear river, cool and refreshing, through the rocky hills. It is the antithesis of the Crimson River.

  Overhead, I wove a magical spell to create a velvety, night sky to hide the ugliness of the cavernous world and lit it with a billion low-hanging stars. On the horizon, I faded the sky from blues to purples to pinks and finally a yellow incandescence that simulates a rising sun just on the edge of tomorrow. The Underworld is vast, so no matter how far you travel, you will always have the black velvet sky melting into a sunrise on the horizon like a never-ending painting.

  Yes, I gave the Underworld a makeover. A world I’d have wished for Zora to see when she lived here, knowing it was too late but still providing me with satisfaction because I made this place mine. If and when Thalia or my future grandchildren visit, it will be a place they enjoy coming to.

  All that aside, this is still Hell, and no matter the beauty I’ve chosen for it—for myself and the Dark Fae who live here—it’s a place where nightmares are formed for some.

  I move to the throne and settle into it, tucking in my massive black wings as the back of the throne is too high to settle them over. On the other side of the river, with Otaxis looming behind them, many residents have come out to watch the festivities. There’s an almost carnival-like atmosphere as the tossing of souls into the Crimson River is genuinely considered a good time.

  We’re Dark Fae.

  We’re evil.

  This is high entertainment for us.

  With a flick of my wrist, Calix strides down the bridge toward the line of humans, stopping about twenty feet away.

  Clasping his hands behind his back, he lifts his chin and calls out so the people across the river can hear as his voice echoes off the stone caves where the dead humans are kept. “Listen, one and all, it is Judgment Day. Sitting before you is his magnificence, King Amell, anointed by Zora, the god of Death. I am his steward, Calix, and I shall reap you individually for the king’s consideration.”

  Zora’s really the god of Life, but I don’t correct him. He thinks it sounds more ominous, and so do I. I also don’t insist he shorten his little speech. It makes him feel important.

  His voice is imperious. “The recently departed will step forward, one by one, and receive the grace or vengeance of our esteemed ruler. Prepare thyselves.”

  My eyes drift to the line of humans. Their bodies aren’t real, facades of what they looked like in their prior life the moment before they died, including an illusion of the very clothes they were wearing at their time of death. The only thing that’s real are their blackened souls within.

  Today’s crowd to be judged is quite small. Maybe only a hundred. It varies, depending on who gets sent to me and how long I go between judgments. Usually when the prison cells are full, then I have to reap.

  Thankfully, I don’t have to judge every human death. In its simplest form, the ones who led good lives go somewhere other than here. I don’t know where that is, but I’m guessing up to my former boss, the supreme deity who rules the heavens and cast his traitorous angels down into the Underworld.

  The souls that are inherently evil without any chance of redemption go straight to the Crimson River. Zora’s far-reaching power lets her judge the nearly one hundred and eighty thousand deaths in the world each day. It’s instantaneous and spot on, and she keeps the river churning.

  Those who might be questionable are sent to me. It’s what some call purgatory, but those souls don’t linger here long. They’re brought before me and one of two things happens:

  I either judge them unworthy and into the river they go where they will suffer unending torture and suffering.

  Or, I give them a second chance to make things right. A reincarnation into a harder life than what they had before. An opportunity for them to do penance and save their soul. I hand those out rarely because frankly, I don’t give much of a fuck if people get second chances.

  Calix motions to the fae guards, and they drag a man forward kicking and screaming. He’s maybe in his fifties, wearing a track suit with pizza sauce on the front, and has the disconnected look of someone with no conscience. Doesn’t mean he’s not emotional as tears stream down his face. He looks intermittently over the side of the flat bridge as his socked feet slide across the slick obsidian. The guards shove the man ahead until he’s standing before Calix and then return to their post.

  Under Kymaris’s rule, Calix had been granted nominal powers to help make his servitude easier on her, not him. One such power is the magic of conjuring, and with a flourish, he twists his wrist, and an ancient-looking scroll appears in his hand.

  It’s over-the-top embellishment, but Calix likes his flair. He pulls it open and clears his throat. “Jordan Baxter. You appear before King Amell to be judged on the crime of murder where you knowingly and without conscience put a pillow over your mother’s face and smothered her until she was dead. You did this for the inheritance money. How do you explain your actions?”

  The man clasps his hands and falls to his knees, tear-filled eyes pleading with Calix. “That’s not true. I didn’t do it. She died of natural causes, and her life insurance was only ten thousand dollars. I would never do such a thing. I loved my mother.”

  Calix angles his body and points to me. “It’s not me but King Amell you should beg to.”

  The man opens his mouth, but I make a shooing motion with my hand, my magic slinging him off the bridge. He hurtles over the side, screaming all the way down until he hits the river.

  The lava flow incinerates the soul with a wild shriek of approval and a spray of sparks. The Underworld rumbles slightly as it receives the sacrifice.

  The Dark Fae across the river cheer in approval, and the humans at the end of the bridge start screaming and begging for mercy.

  Just another day in Hell.

  Judgment Day moves quickly as I don’t need to hear pleas and excuses. Whatever charges Calix reads off are the absolute truth. No mistakes are made. You either belong in Hell or you don’t. The only reason we even bother with this is because once in a blue moon, extenuating circumstances pop up that might please the gods to award the accused another try at life. Zora is the one who gets credit for such generosity.

  After tossing a good thirty people over the edge, the guards drag forward a young woman. She’s incredibly beautiful, and based on the way she’s dressed, I’m guessing incredibly wealthy. She died in designer clothes, dripping with expensive jewelry. I can tell she once held power and sway over many people because of her looks and money, but now, she’s just a terrified woman on the verge of pissing her fancy lingerie.

  Calix reads out her charges, which include over two decades of gluttony, narcissism, bullying, taking advantage of weaker beings, cheating, and drug use. It was an overdose that caused her death. Ordinarily, a bad personality wouldn’t end you in Hell, but her repeated unsavory behavior, along with the knowledge that she enjoyed hurting others, has her standing before me.

  “How do you answer these crimes?” Calix asks.

  The woman’s pained stare comes to me. “Please… Your Highness.” Tears slip from her big blue eyes. “I may have led a selfish life, but I haven’t murdered anyone. I haven’t raped anyone. Eternal damnation is too strong a penalty.”

  “You never helped anyone either,” Calix point
s out, scanning his scroll.

  “That’s not true,” she insists. “I donated to many charities.”

  “Only for the tax break.” Her jaw drops that he knows all her dirty little secrets. “You were mean, self-centered, and vindictive your entire life. You not only took advantage of people, but you enjoyed causing their suffering.”

  She changes tack and surprises me by admitting it all. She purges her sins. “Yes, you’re right. I was an awful person. I was raised by awful parents and surrounded myself with horrible friends. I didn’t have any good role models. But if you give me another chance, I swear I’ll do good. I’ll be everything I wasn’t in my life.”

  It’s a pretty speech, but I don’t hear any truth in her vows. She’s desperate and thinks she can manipulate me like she has others. Besides, she blames others for making her the way she is, and I can’t suffer people who don’t take responsibility for their crimes.

  I give her my verdict with a subtle hand motion, and she goes hurtling over the edge with a high-pitched scream of terror. The river hisses its pleasure, the ground shakes, and the fae cheer.

  I motion for the next person to be brought forward.

  CHAPTER 4

  Nyssa

  This nightmare is apparently very real. I’m in Hell.

  Another person—an old man who bilked money from people in a Ponzi scheme—gets tossed off the edge of the bridge, flipping end over end. I watch with fascination as the churning lava river reaches tendrils of molten liquid up to catch him, as if it’s plucking a meal out of the sky. I swear it even lets out a satisfying belch when the man disappears beneath the fiery liquid and the creatures across the river—a mix of human-looking and monsters—cheer their excitement.

  “Move it, human.” I’m jabbed in the back by one of the massive guards.

  It appears I’m next, and while I know it’s a 99.99999 percent certainty I’ve got no hope of escape, I won’t go down without at least trying to make a run for it. I immediately dart between the two guards who are so stunned by my move, they don’t react quickly enough to grab me. No one had tried to run yet, and they’d gotten complacent.

  I push through the remaining people waiting for judgment and focus in on the two guards at the end of the bridge. They squat low, brandishing the pointy ends of their spears my way.

  I won’t make it past, but I kick it into high gear and sprint faster, barreling right at them. It’s my only option. Maybe I’ll be able to dodge their weapons.

  Maybe I can do one of those slick moves you see in the movies, like a baseball slide under their legs.

  Maybe I’ll—

  Something wraps around my waist and I’m pulled backward. My feet fly up, and I land flat on my back, hard. Hard enough that I should be wheezing, but there’s no pain at all.

  So strange.

  I’m hauled up by the two guards I’d blown past earlier. I look down but there’s nothing around my waist, and I have no clue what pulled me off my feet. The guards drag me across the slick stone toward the creature named Amell, king of the Underworld. I have stupid thoughts about why he’s called Amell—I thought Satan ruled Hell. Or is it Lucifer? Hades? No clue.

  It had been surreal watching the massive man with his glossy raven wings flick his wrist casually, rendering judgment with a mere wave. Bodies over the edge, burning up far below.

  It’s what awaits me now.

  I jerk and struggle against my captors’ hold, trying to back up as they push me forward. My thrift store boots scrabble against the slippery black rock. I curse vicious snarls of expletives. “Let go of me, you creepy, motherfucking douchebags.”

  I twist to the side and launch a kick at one of the guards. My foot bounces off his shin, and he doesn’t even break stride. I lean into him and try to bite his forearm, but he claps me in the head, dislodging me before I can sink my teeth in.

  It’s not lost on me that I didn’t feel any pain from my kick to his leg or his big hand smacking my head. My body clearly isn’t functioning right, but that just makes me fight harder. The fact I can’t feel pain means I shouldn’t have anything holding me back in my desperate attempt to not get hurled into that river.

  I kick, spit, try to bite, curse, and scream. I’ve been debased to a cornered, rabid animal. The guards’ hands clamp on tighter, and their steady strides bring me closer and closer to the man named Calix who has been reading out the charges and seems to know a lot about each person per the document in his hand.

  My eyes flick over to the king lounging on his throne. He sits upright, not slouched, but he does lean against one armrest casually as he watches, drumming his fingers on his thigh. The king is all rippled muscles that flex under a formfitting leather vest and pants. His face is near perfect, precise angles and lines, along with full lips standing out starkly against his cropped blond hair. The two slashing golden brows above his dark blue eyes make him look distinctly annoyed.

  When we reach Calix, the guards shove me forward as they release me, and I fall to my knees. It’s where many of those who came before me have fallen, pleading for their salvation.

  I don’t do that. I pop to my feet and my hand shoots out, wrenching the scroll away from the man. My move is so sudden, he stares at me dumbfounded.

  “Got your scroll, motherfucker,” I sneer and toss it over the edge.

  It doesn’t even anger the man. He merely twists his hand and another scroll appears. He reaches out, making a move to offer it to me. “Want to toss this one over? I can play this game all day.”

  His smug amusement enrages me, and I scream as I charge at him. The smirk is wiped off his lips as I punch and pummel him. I know it will do nothing to save me from my fate, but it sure feels fucking good to throw some violence before I die.

  Or rather, before my soul becomes fully damned.

  Suddenly, I’m ripped away from the man, though not by the guards. Not by anything I can see, but my body moves as if the massive hand of a giant were around me.

  I’m hurled to the side of the bridge, my feet stopping right at the edge, and my body leans way out. My arms flail as I try to pull myself back, but I hover in midair, the balls of my feet now the only thing touching the stone walkway.

  My head twists and I see the king holding out his hand with his fingers down as if he’s controlling marionette strings and I’m the puppet he’s manipulating.

  This is it. He doesn’t even need to hear my crimes. He’s going to dump me in.

  I hiss at him. “Go ahead and do it, you big old, winged bat. You don’t scare me.” I look around wild-eyed at this place called Hell and scream, “None of you scare me.”

  The king arches an eyebrow and slowly rises from his throne, his massive wings stretching outward. I should be scared, but I’ve lost all common sense. I’m either immersed in the worst but most vivid nightmare imaginable, or I’m on the precipice of eternal suffering, which I undoubtedly deserve for killing Vince.

  Looking like an angel of death, the king doesn’t walk my way. Instead, he pulls his arm back hard and as if invisible ropes were tied around me, I fly toward him. I crash onto the rock bridge, sliding to a stop right at his booted feet.

  I look up, pushing my hair out of my face to find him staring down at me. He’s utterly terrifying as he towers above. The silky-looking wings arch high over his blond head as they settle against his back.

  “Aren’t you quite the feisty girl?” he says in a rich baritone as he squats before me. His fingers come under my chin, pushing my head up for a better look.

  I snarl at him. “I’ll have your balls for lunch if you let me have that dagger on your hip.”

  Surprisingly, his lips twitch as if he’s fighting back a smile. But maybe I imagined it because he stands straight and looks to Calix. “The charges?”

  “Murder,” the man replies as he consults the scroll. “Oddly, just before she died herself. Tied a man to her bed and slit his throat.”

  The king’s eyes come back down to me. “You really do like cutting into men.”

  “You’re not a man,” I snap.

  “No, I’m not,” he agrees. “How did you die so suddenly after you committed murder? Did you kill yourself?”