Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81261 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81261 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
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.