AI My boot slams into loam that reeks of fermented honey and burnt sugar, and I stumble forward, palms scraping over bark that oozes thick, gold resin. The rift I stepped through fizzles shut behind me, leaving only the faint crackle of the torn Veil hanging in the warm air. The Heartstone around my neck throbs so hard it bruises my sternum, the deep crimson gem glowing like a smothered coal.
Nyx flows through the space where the rift was a heartbeat later, their shadowy form solidifying into the 6’2” humanoid shape they favour when they want to be seen by mortals. Their violet eyes glow faintly in the amber light that drenches the landscape, no sun visible, just a permanent hazy warm glow that paints everything in burnt orange and gold.
“Easy. The ground here binds what it senses as weak. Plant your weight , don’t hover.” Their voice is a whisper that carries on the thick air, like wind through a keyhole, the same as always. I push myself to my feet, brushing resin off the knees of my scuffed black jeans, and glance at the crescent scar on my left wrist, still pale even after all these years. It itches, a faint warning tingle I’ve learned not to ignore. I tug the cuff of my hoodie down over it, my hand brushing the hilt of the moonsilver dagger Isolde pressed into my palm before we crossed. The blade stays ice cold even through the leather sheath, just as the half-Fae seer had promised it would.
I replay her words in my head, the riddles she’d spun as we stood between the ancient oak standing stones marking her grove’s boundary in Richmond Park. The Veil thins more with every day till solstice, she’d said, her silver waist-length hair trailing over wild bluebells that bloomed in her hidden space even in mid-November, what the hungry realm does not consume, it spits back. Only what carries the mark of your own blood will keep you. She’d left no footprints in the soil when she stepped back, her pale lavender eyes sharp, I cannot lie to you, Rory Carter. Your ex traded his soul to Belphegor for the power to hunt you across every realm. You either kill him in Dymas, or he will burn your London flat to the ground with you and everyone you love inside it.
That is why we are here. That is why I left the safety of my home above Silas’ bar, why I stuffed the taser I kept in my delivery bag for Yu-Fei’s Golden Empress restaurant into my hoodie pocket, why I let Isolde tear a hole in the Veil that dropped us into the heart of Hel’s realm of gluttony.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, thumbing the screen awake. Three missed calls from Eva, all timestamped four hours ago. It had felt like ten minutes to cross through the grove’s rift. The time distortion that plagued Isolde’s pocket realm had followed us into Hel, it seemed. I shove the phone back, my gaze sweeping over the landscape stretching out before us.
Vineyards roll for miles, the vines twisted and dark, their leaves a deep glossy purple that glows when the amber light hits it. Clusters of grapes hang from every bough, each one the size of a plum, the same indigo glow seeping through their skin. Beyond the vineyards, orchards of trees bearing fruit I can’t name, some that look like apples but bleed golden juice when they fall, others that look like pomegranates but wriggle like they are alive. Further in the distance, spires rise, carved from white sugar and bleached bone, twisting up into the amber sky. The distant clink of cutlery and roars of laughter carry on the wind, faint but clear, the sound of a feast that never ends.
“This is Dymas,” I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. The air is thick enough to chew, sweet with the scent of roasted cinnamon and spiced wine, undercut by a faint tang of copper that nags at the back of my throat.
Nyx nods, their shadowy form rippling at the edges as they step beside me. The land here does not like them, I can tell. The grass cringes away from their boots, the vines pull back when they reach out to tap one. “Belphegor’s playground. He steals souls from Earth, contracts them to work his kitchens, tend his vineyards, feed the endless feasts. Most never leave. They get consumed by the realm, their essence baked into the next course, poured into the next bottle of wine.”
I step forward, moving along a faint dirt path that cuts through the first row of vines. One of the grape clusters brushes my shoulder, and I reach up to pluck it, curious. It bursts in my palm, warm wine spilling over my fingers, and I lick it off without thinking. It tastes like starlight, like the first sip of hot chocolate on a snow day, like every good thing I have ever tasted, all wrapped into one. I freeze, the sweetness turning sour on my tongue a second later, when the vine let out a low, mournful whimper.
The vines are singing. All along the row, I hear it, low harmonies, the sound of dozens of voices trapped in the wood, moaning and humming. I wipe my hand on my jeans, my stomach turning. “They’re alive. The souls are in the vines.”
“Those that tried to run, that refused to work. Belphegor binds them to the land. They feed the grapes, their pain makes the wine sweet. That is the gluttony of this place. It consumes everything, even the people that refuse to participate.” Nyx’s voice is harder than I have ever heard it, a faint edge of anger there. I remember they were once a human sorcerer named Aldric, trapped between realms after a failed 17th century summoning, they know what it is like to be bound to a place you cannot escape.
We walk for what feels like an hour, or maybe ten minutes, time here as slippery as it is in Isolde’s grove. The feast sounds grow louder, the laughter sharper, the screams I had been mistaking for cheers become impossible to ignore. The moonsilver dagger at my hip starts to glow, a faint pale blue light seeping through the leather sheath, the blade warming for the first time, a sign it has sensed a demon. My crescent scar burns, so bad I have to clench my fist to stop from scratching it open. Evan is close.
We round the corner of an orchard, and the entire feast ground spreads out before us. Long wooden tables stretch for miles, loaded with whole roasted oxen, towers of honey bread, barrels of wine that flow nonstop into golden goblets. Hundreds of people gorge themselves, shovelling food into their mouths so fast their jaws split, blood running down their chins, but they do not stop. They cannot stop. Soul after soul, gorging until they collapse, and servants, the contracted chefs, drag their bodies away, to be butchered and served at the next sitting. It is a cycle, endless, the gluttony that fuels the realm.
I scan the head of the main table, the largest table, at the foot of the sugar and bone palace. I spot him before he spots me. Evan. My ex. The man who had put his fist through my Cardiff flat wall, who had followed me to London, who had sold his soul to have the power to hunt me forever. He is changed . Horns curl from his forehead, his eyes are solid black, his hands are clawed , he sits on a throne carved from oak, a golden crown set with rubies on his head. He is not gorging, he is watching the feast, like he has earned his place in Belphegor’s court.
Then he turns his head. His gaze locks on mine, across the hundreds of souls, across the miles of groaning tables. He grins, his teeth sharp as shards of glass, and he stands, his voice carrying over the roar of the feast, loud and clear, cutting through every other sound.
“There you are, Rory. I’ve been waiting for you.”