Page 50 of Dissection of Immortal Hearts (Hospital for Immortal Creatures #3)

Constantine

Constantine’s consciousness shot upwards. It was liberating to move in this weightless state, but he had no time to revel in it. Something else occupied his mind.

In his youth, Constantine had heard tales of predestined soulmates.

When a necromancer found theirs, they would see their own image engraved into the other’s soul, woven with threads of both darkness and light.

Centuries had passed since then, and he’d not only ceased to believe in the tale but had also forgotten it.

Until he’d recognised the skeletal reflection of his essence in Diana’s soul.

Ascending, he conjured a protective layer of energy around himself, a shield against the malevolent influences of the incorporeal world. It wouldn’t help him in Hell, though; that realm was as tangible as Earth.

Within a blink or two, he left the earthly layers behind and entered the near realms of existence. Here, recently departed souls floated like scattered lights, their chaotic movements a futile attempt to flee from death, unaware that it had already claimed them.

Higher still, the lights grew dimmer, yielding to sluggish grey shadows. At this juncture, countless paths stretched out before him, all more appealing than the one he had chosen.

Finding the fires of Hell was simple – they drew him in like a pocket of warmth within the heart of an iceberg. Before their brilliance, they reflected one’s greatest dreams fulfilled and the deepest fears conquered. There were no warning signs reading ‘Deception’ or ‘One-Way Journey.’

Constantine moved towards the flames, allowing their welcoming heat to surround him. No, they would not harm him, nor scare him away before he had stepped onto Hell’s soil. Instead, they beckoned him with comfort and promises.

Both Earth and Hell shared the same material nature.

This meant physical pain existed in both realms. He emerged on the other side of the flames, his body reassembling – flesh and bone knitting together, clothed in garments identical to those he’d worn before, but unblemished.

He was no longer a child, as he had been during his last visit to Hell, yet his palms sweated no less.

The dread twisting his insides wasn’t of what Hell might hold for him, but of what awaited him back at the palace. Diana was his… soulmate.

His muscles stiffened at the thought, but his heart pounded faster.

He hadn’t found her just to lose her again.

Constantine wasted no time in examining the endless grey walls and the staircases leading nowhere.

These were the corridors of Hell – not dark, not bright, but grey.

A desolate street on a foggy day, where the clouds hung low, blending into the dull sidewalk.

This street branched into countless identical alleyways, weaving a labyrinth in which it was all too easy to lose oneself.

Thanks to Gretchen, Constantine’s first love, he’d learned the system.

The first demon crossed his path a few steps later.

His crimson-tinged body towered over Constantine’s, his bare torso gleaming under the dim light.

Black leather trousers encased muscular legs that ended in ugly, cloven hooves.

Thick brown hair veiled the base of his curled horns, while a whip hung from one hand.

Demons, the soulless sentinels of Hell, were beings of pure malice and cruelty. And just as dull-witted.

Constantine approached and spoke to him. In Hell, language didn’t matter. The sounds you made could be unintelligible to yourself but understood by demons. “Friend, do you know where the ‘altar’ is?”

The demon turned around. Though his pitch-black eyes showed no emotion, his expression held a flicker of curiosity. He probably wondered what sin had brought this man to be punished today.

He withdrew a small coin and offered it. “A piece of soul for a piece of information.”

The coin was an empty vessel, meant to be filled with a fragment of Constantine’s soul. Demons hoarded such coins to buy death for themselves.

He had no time for games. “Tell me where the altar is,” Constantine commanded, invoking his necromancer’s power. Better to test it on this lower entity than on Belphegor himself, whose infamy extended even to the earthly realm.

“Beyond the central square, descend a few staircases to the seventh circle, and you’ll find it,” the demon said, his expression darkening. “Hey, why did I just tell you that…?”

“Thanks.” Constantine walked away before the demon could cause any trouble. He was familiar with the vast concentric space at Hell’s centre where demons gathered for gruesome rituals called ‘penances of the sinful.’ Constantine had no wish to remember the horrors he’d witnessed there as a child.

The realm held a secret: every street led to the central square, as long as one kept walking and didn’t panic.

Constantine pressed on through dense fog, shadowy expanses, and the occasional sight of demons punishing sinners.

The most dangerous beings in Hell rarely roamed its public avenues, and if luck was on his side, he would encounter none of them today.

He moved with a steady stride, though it felt agonisingly slow under the weight of what he’d glimpsed in Diana’s soul. How could he have missed it during their first meeting in Alberobello? Would he have changed anything if he’d known from the start?

Focus. Hell often had a way of leading one’s mind astray.

The central square stretched out ahead. It resembled an empty football pitch, but oval-shaped, broken only where many streets led into the central ring. Endless, towering stands encircled it, large enough to hold millions of demons.

Constantine stayed on the outskirts, crouching at the entrance of each street he encountered and running his hand along its coarse stone surface.

Eleven streets later, he lowered himself again, counting the irregular protrusions on a stone.

Seven. To be sure, he traced his fingers over another.

Seven again. Every stone on this street bore seven uneven ridges – this was the ‘seventh circle’.

Gretchen’s teachings had proved useful once again.

He hurried down the path, searching for anything resembling an altar. He found one in the form of a golden elevation, engraved with intricate symbols.

Facing it, Constantine hesitated. How was he supposed to summon a demon? His fingers twitched at his sides as doubt clawed at him. What if he got it wrong? What if he failed and never made it back?

His insides twisted at the thought that Diana might remain the Queen’s prisoner.

Desperation urged him to act. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “Belphegor, I summon you!”

A lightning bolt struck Hell. In the next instant, standing at the centre of the altar was none other than Belphegor himself.

And as Constantine had expected, he was an eyesore.

His sharp chin had black stubble, a golden ring dangled beneath his flattened nose, and two curled horns grew above his elfish ears.

Thick muscles and coarse black hair covered the exposed areas of his nearly ten-foot-tall frame.

Tight leather trousers encased legs that ended in hooves, and on his hands were… dark brown leather gloves.

Beneath his furrowed brow, Belphegor’s glowing red eyes mirrored irritation. Perhaps he disliked being summoned? Constantine pondered which would cause more pain – being kicked with a hoof, gored by a horn, or beaten by the demon.

He fixed his gaze on Belphegor’s and ordered him, “Take the gloves off your hands and give them to me.”

The demon’s initial reaction was to freeze, fighting against the compulsion. But then, as if struck by a sudden revelation, his face filled with understanding. He removed the gloves and handed them to Constantine.

“Thank you?” Constantine’s eyes widened. Too easy.

He was just about to compel the demon to lead him out of Hell when he spoke in a deep voice, “It is an honour to serve.”

Constantine furrowed his brow. Too strange.

“Hmm… Thank you again?”

Belphegor folded his muscular arms across his chest. Bare, his fingers seemed ordinary except for the sharp black claws, which could probably inflict as much damage as his hooves and horns.

“Would you do something for me, necromancer?” Belphegor wrinkled his nose, the movement causing his nostril ring to twitch. “Amelia…” What? “The Oracle,” Belphegor clarified. “Would you tell her it would be my honour to wed her?”

“To marry you ?”

“Tell her that here she will have every comfort – far more than anything she’s used to.”

Constantine scratched the back of his neck. Rarely did anyone surprise him to this extent. “Fine, I’ll pass it on,” he said. “Now, would you help me safely leave Hell?”

“I insist you relay my request, necromancer. If you do not, I will find you even in the farthest dimension and—”

“I understand. In case she declines, I hope you won’t hold me responsible.”

The demon raised his bushy eyebrows. “Why would she decline?”

Constantine shook his head. “Women can be odd sometimes… Friend, I really need to go. I promise I’ll deliver your proposal to Amelia.”

The demon nodded. “Thank you. Walk to the square, take the third ring, and after ten paces, you’ll see the fire. Tell it that Belphegor sends you on an errand to another world.”

“Tell…the fire?”

Belphegor vanished much the same way as he had appeared – with a flash.

How theatrical. And what an odd conversation…

Constantine grasped the gloves, hoping that he’d communicate with the fire as well as he had with the demon, and headed back to the square.

Now that the gloves were in his possession, uncertainty gnawed at him. What would happen once he handed them to the Queen? No path to saving Diana appeared viable – each one seemed to risk both their lives. He could only hope a solution would dawn on him before he returned to the palace.

“Constantine?”