The Pleasures of Hell
Copyright© 2023 by Novus Animus
Chapter 76
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 76 - An epic fantasy adventure through Hell, with demons and angels, and a couple humans with targets painted on their back. David and Mia didn’t want to be a part of this, but their unexpected first deaths land them in the middle of events grand and beyond knowing. Why are they in Hell in the first place? Why don’t they have the mark of the Beast, like other souls do? And why does everyone either want them, or want them dead?
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Consensual Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction High Fantasy Paranormal Demons MaleDom FemaleDom Spanking Gang Bang Group Sex Harem Orgy Anal Sex Double Penetration First Lactation Oral Sex Tit-Fucking Big Breasts Size
~~Day 113~~
~~David~~
The fire sky burned above, and the group walked the shallow hills of the Red Pits. But, time for a quick break, first.
“Pegasus.”
The goort looked up at him and tilted his head.
Nodding, David patted the red and black unicorn with spikes and wings. “Pegasus. Your name is Pegasus. Pegasus.”
Pegasus jumped, but only his front half. A half-rear. He made another one of those strange, horse-whinny, growly sounds. It didn’t sound like a typical happy animal, but that’s exactly how he behaved: happy, coming in closer to David and pushing his shoulder into David’s hip. His ears were subtle things, more like a lizard’s ears, snug under horns near the eye ridges, so David couldn’t try to read those. But the horse closed his eyes as he pressed against David’s side, and he was sure that was pretty damn universal body language.
Had the wurm in the vision been that girl’s pet? She’d looked down at it, crying, before the rider killed her. Her pet. Her companion, like Pegasus was his now.
David clenched his fist, ground his teeth, closed his eyes, and did his best to suppress his aura. He failed. Bits of fire crept out through the cracks in his mind, seeped into his limbs and into the world. Pegasus took a step back from him, but David didn’t watch, eyes still closed, picturing the way the girl’s hands had looked, the only things he’d been able to see through her eyes. Shaking. Trembling. Terrified. Traumatized. Sad.
The rider. The fucking rider. He’d killed her in cold blood. Executed her. Killed her companion. Butchered her.
He clenched his fists harder until pain worked up his knuckles into his forearms, and his arms shook. The ground stirred around him, his aura playing a song a little too loud, too direct, too harsh, and tiny spikes of blackstone pushed up from the red and brown dirt. He didn’t need to look to know they were there, his sixth sense painting a blurry picture of the world around him.
The memory burned his brain, scalded his soul, and no matter how hard he fought to push it down, it came back up and punched through years and years of practice suppressing his emotions. They hadn’t been his emotions. For a fleeting second, he’d been someone else, and for that single moment, the sensation had been so strong it’d crossed the goddamn fucking universe so he could taste it.
“David.” Someone’s voice. A woman’s voice. “David!”
He opened his eyes and stared into Caera’s eye. She stared at him from only inches away, her hands on his shoulders so she towered over him. Hands on his shoulders? He hadn’t felt that, lost in his own world.
“I’m okay,” he said. “I’m okay, I—”
Around him, was everyone. They circled him, some with their weapons drawn, large black weapons, axes and swords, banged-up metal held together like pieces of scrap from a junkyard. Some were snarling, some grimacing, but not at him. They were caught up in the aura, ready to fight, ready to kill, ready to unleash their—unleash his anger on whoever needed to die. Even Pegasus looked ready to fight, stomping the ground with a hoof.
A hundred one-foot-tall spikes of black stuck up from the ground, circling David in a chaotic mass. Caera stood between them, grip solid on his shoulder, eye locked on him.
He took a deep breath and squashed the aura.
“Sorry,” he said, and he turned and looked at everyone. “Sorry, really. I just ... yeah.”
“Sure you’re okay?” Caera asked, and she nudged her nose into his cheek. “You almost had us all going to war against ... no one.”
He nodded and peeked behind him. With a heavy gulp, the betrayers peeked out from behind their succubi and incubi, and even Tacharius kept his distance. Tatiana did not. She approached, stood outside the ring of spikes, and stared at him, eyebrow raised.
“I can see why the demons talk about you in hushed whispers,” she said. “Even before I met you, word of your power spread.”
He shrugged. “Talk like that will go straight to my head.”
Maybe she thought he was dismissing her, because she gestured at the ground, and then at everyone around them.
“Caera is right. You had us all ready to do battle, trapped in your aura. We were completely enthralled.”
“Sorry, sorry. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Past Caera, Laoko watched him, both sets of arms folded across her chest. Moriah stood with her, a scrutinizing gaze aimed at him.
Daoka clicked at him, rubbing Pegasus’s back, the horse at her side.
“Yeah,” Jeskura said. “She’s right. I’ve never felt an aura like that from you, man.”
“I was thinking about the girl the rider killed. It really got under my skin.” He waved a hand down at the surrounding spikes, and they melted into the ground. Sighing, he squatted down and held out a hand to Pegasus. Did he burn that bridge?
Pegasus came up to him immediately and pawed at the ground with a hoof. Thank god. David hugged his horse around the neck, and Pegasus hooked his neck over David’s shoulder.
“Is this going to be an issue?” Tatiana said. “Your great power is apparently at the mercy of your emotions.”
“You try experiencing visions of people dying.” Before she could retort, David held up a hand. “No use talking about it. We got a mission. How far until we reach the spire and Khazeer?”
“The Scar is only a few days behind us, so eleven days at least. Maybe more at this pace.”
No need to say it. Everyone started walking.
He felt naked, out in the open like this. Death’s Grip had tall mountains and tunnels. The Grave Valley had fog and buildings, mausoleums, and black forests. The Scar had its canyon and the two tall mountains running its length. But out in the Red Pits, it was mostly flat land and shallow hills too short to mean anything. If anything, there were no hills at all, but shallow dips in the ground, each a potential spot for a red pit to open up. No fog at all. No cover at all.
Sure enough, the inevitable happened. Demons. No angels, thank god, but while the Red Pits and Navameere fields were supposedly the only two provinces to force their demons into actual militaries, that didn’t include every demon. Some demons roamed in large groups, raiders, warbands, looking for easy meals. A group of demons was heading their way, and judging from the look of them, a tetrad led them, followed by a bunch of vratorins and devorjins.
Vratorins, or vrats, were nearly eight feet tall, almost as big as Caera. Classic demons, walking on two clawed feet, with a tail and a couple big horns. Two arms, body spikes, and demony, skull-ish faces, usually with black tendril hair. They were the most common demon breed in all provinces, according to Laoko and Caera, except for the imps and grems. And these, several dozen at least, walked with bits of black meera metal strapped to their bodies, and swords or axes at the ready.
The devorjins, or brutes, had no weapons or armor. They didn’t need them. They were almost as big as tetrads, nine-feet-tall juggernauts of muscle, also with skull-like faces, except far more so than the vrats, with tiny red eyes within large eye sockets. Their skin wasn’t just dark red, but almost solid black, and their clawed hands and feet were thick and heavy. They had no body spikes or horns of any kind, leaving all their freaky muscle fully exposed.
There were some others in the group, too. A few gorgalas like Jes. A few riivas like Daoka, surprisingly; satyrs preferred mountainous provinces. They had a couple of tregeeras, tigers like Caera. And at the front walked a korgejin tetrad.
Of the four tetrad breeds, korgejins had been the most problematic so far. They had the same demony face of a vrat, except, predictably, even more scary, more skull-ish, and his lack of lips meant all his big teeth were fully exposed. He stood ten feet tall, decked out in a dozen pieces of bent meera metal, and walked on hooves. No tail, but he had giant wings, bigger and stronger than Acelina’s, and he held an axe in hand, the same size as the one Acelina got from Caera’s dead tetrad friend Renato, way back in Death’s Grip. A lifetime ago.
Skulls. The demons were decorated with skulls, many attached to their armor by straps through the eye sockets and necks or carved holes. Some dangled from black metal chains, likely plucked from a Hell growth, or traded from the Scar and the vola — succubi and incubi — demons who’d crafted them, along with the leather straps.
“Tatiana?” David asked. “Know who that is?”
Laoko spoke first. “I do. That is Marcelo.”
“Friend or foe?”
“I do not know. Last I heard, he was not happy with Khazeer. He was not a bailiff, thought he should be, and once challenged Khazeer to combat for the right. He lost, but barely, and Khazeer valued his prowess in combat. Het let Marcelo live.”
David blinked up at the huge lady. “A demon let another demon live, just because he was almost good enough to kill him?”
“Yes. Khazeer — indeed, all spire rulers — are smarter than you believe, boy. They think ahead, unlike others. Khazeer used Marcelo for centuries, fighting against the Navameere Fields. But I was not around to see the fallout, working with Azailia to take the Scar.”
“So Marcelo likes to try and take things he thinks he deserves?”
“Yes.” Laoko nodded, withdrew her four short swords and gave each a spin in her hands, testing their balance. “Yes he does.”
The closer Marcelo grew, the more demons came into focus. David had thought it less than a hundred before. It was looking like two hundred now, shoulders and horns no longer a blur at a distance. Wings, tails, a hundred weapons, all coming into focus.
David’s group fell into form immediately. Laoko and Moriah stood directly in front of him. Caera and Jes stood beside him. Daoka stood directly behind him with Tsila. Acelina stood behind them with the four Las around her legs. Ideally, Acelina and the Las wouldn’t get directly involved in the fight; not exactly suited for full-on battle. But it’d come to that before, and they drew their weapons, ready and waiting.
David set a hand on Pegasus and pushed him toward Daoka. With a quiet click down at the goort, she guided Pegasus back and set him on his way past Acelina toward the volas and betrayers in the back.
“Tatiana, keep an eye on Pegasus,” he said.
“I—”
“Now!” David snapped his glare back at her, and the succubus shut up. She gulped, nodded, and guided the small horse away from David and his crew.
“Summon batlam?” Moriah asked. Weapons and armor would certainly help the angels. They’d help him, too. But they also made their merry little band more noticeable, especially to anyone flying overhead. Against a backdrop of black and red, white stood out like a beacon.
“Not yet. You can draw your armor and weapons pretty fast, right?”
“Almost instantly.”
“Then keep it ready, but not yet.”
Moriah nodded and stayed beside Laoko as they approached.
Less a warband and more like a small army. At least two hundred demons now, spreading out more and more as they approached.
“I will speak to him,” Laoko said.
David raised an eyebrow. “You sure? I can put on a presentation, be intimidating and do the whole ‘unmarked special journey blah blah’ shtick?”
“I would prefer to speak with Marcelo before you inevitably trigger a battle.”
“Me? You don’t think you’re more likely to do that? Remember what happened with Priscillian? The bailiff you callously murdered and—”
“I do believe that,” she said, voice smooth, not taking his bait.
“Why?”
“Because Marcelo and I have history. I understand him. He understands me.”
The way she said history put images in his head. Romance? Unlikely. Fuck buddies? Maybe.
“Alright.”
She grinned down at him, stepped forward, and sure enough the army stopped twenty meters away, and Marcelo walked forward. Neither she nor he put their weapons away.
David scanned the crowd, and they scanned him in return. Slowly but surely, a whisper ran through the army, some demons stirring and shifting as they realized who—what David was. He stood his ground, Moriah directly in front of him. They looked at her and Tsila, too, and Acelina, of course; spire mothers — zotivas — never left their spires. But they always came back to him, eyes locked on his forehead, making sure there was no number underneath his shaggy red hair.
“Marcelo,” Laoko said.
The korgejin grunted and thudded his breastplate with a fist, axe in hand. Laoko did the same with hers.
“Laoko,” he said, voice full of gravel. “I thought you were in the Grave Valley.”
“I was. I met this unmarked boy behind me, and since then, we have been on quite the journey.”
The korgejin tilted his head and looked past Laoko, giant horns sticking out from his hairless skull.
“Two angels and a zotiva, as well. Quite an interesting crew.”
“Indeed. It’s been interesting times, for everyone. I assume you’ve heard of the alien invaders.”
“I have. Creatures from outside the Great Tower.”
Laoko nodded. “Seen them yet?”
“No.”
“Pray you do not.”
David smiled. Pray? Judging from Marcelo’s reaction, a head tilt and sneer, the word choice was annoying and typical for Laoko. These two knew each other very well.
Look at him, reading people better than ever. Where was Mia so he could gloat?
“Then I have no choice,” Marcelo continued, “but to believe these rumors are true? That there is an alien invader, some creature from the beyond, pushing its way into Hell? And that this unmarked boy is connected somehow?”
“Indeed,” Laoko said. “We are on a journey to stop this madness before the Great Tower itself is destroyed. We—” She stopped, looked around at Marcelo’s group, and slowly pointed all four of her swords out at them with spread arms. “Tell me, Marcelo. This group does not look like a regiment from Khazeer. I see a group of random demons in a random array of gear.”
“We’re not with Khazeer.”
David clenched his teeth and waved back at the demons and people behind him, arm down. They stepped back.
“Then why are you here?” Laoko asked.
“I spotted white wings at a distance and came with intent to earn a meal.” He licked his teeth, and let out a heavy, deep rumble. “It has been ages since I’ve tasted angel heart. The Spires War was so long ago.”
Marcelo was old, Laoko old. Maybe older.
Moriah took a step forward, still in her potram rune, no armor or weapon out. Maybe she was trying to bait the demons into attacking her so she could summon her armaments and kill them in surprise. Good plan, if things had to get violent.
“We are trying to save everyone’s lives,” Moriah said, glaring. All David could see was the back of her head, but Moriah’s glare knew no bounds. “Get out of our way, or escort us to Khazeer.”
Marcelo shook his head. “No, I don’t think I will.” He took a step forward and chuckled.
David ran through a thousand scenarios in his head in moments. None of them ended well. Many ended with friends dying, or at least their lives being in danger. This encounter was going to go like so many others, demons who just didn’t want to see past their stomachs or their egos. They wanted a fight. They wanted to eat Moriah and Tsila. And now that they knew he was unmarked, they wanted to eat him, too.
David summoned the batlam rune. His flimsy red, revealing toga, his black gladiator sandals, his bits of black jewelry, it all vanished in a glow of red light, and armor replaced it. A full suit of metal armor, a combination of heavy plate mail, but also something more artistic, less functional, more decorative. Spikes. Pauldrons. Red silk that dangled from the joints. And a black crown with red jewels on it and spikes that shot up the sides.
He stuck his hand out to the side and summoned his staff, a solid piece of black metal with claws at the top, encompassing a red jewel with amber flames swirling within. A battle wizard dressed in red and black.
Matching Marcelo’s sneer, he pointed his staff at the korgejin tetrad. “Moriah, Laoko, step back.”
For the first time yet, Marcelo raised an eyebrow in surprise as both Laoko and Moriah did as told.
“Unmarked,” Marcelo said. “Just like the one from Navameere. Come to slaughter us all?”
“I don’t know why the other unmarked is fighting you,” he said. “I’ll kill her if it comes to that. Do I have to kill you too?” He already knew the answer.
“I heard,” the demon said, “that the other unmarked has been hesitant to use her powers. Her forward push into the Red Pits has slowed because of it. I wonder why. And I wonder if you have the same limitation?”
David reached deep into himself, found the strings, and played music. Marcelo had a point. If David played the music too loud, Hell would join in, pull him into her currents, and some primitive part of his mind would get swept along in the song. The song would be massive, grand, a symphony of power, and the aliens would hear it. The invader would focus in on his position, attack, and if the alien army was as big as last time, his girls wouldn’t be able to stop them, and he’d be blocked from playing another note, silenced the by invader’s strange presence.
But he didn’t need to play loud to make a statement.
He summoned three black spikes, each ten feet tall, and each straight up from under the legs of two vrats, and one brute. Blackstone, the hardest ‘natural’ mineral in Hell’s crust. Hard enough to pierce even brute flesh. The three demons opened their eyes wide as a slab of metal six inches thick shot up through their guts and into their throats, from crotch to brain. They died in seconds, and their bodies slowly slid down the black spikes, dragging blood along the blackstone where the spikes stuck up through the tops of their skulls.
Marcelo jumped back. Moriah stared over her shoulder at David. He didn’t look. Striking first like this twisted his stomach until his insides burned. It had to be done. It still fucking hurt.
“I’ll kill every last one of you,” David said. “I just came back from conquering the Scar. Tarkissa is dead, and the new spire ruler serves me. I have two angels with me, a bolstara tetrad, and the rest of the girls are all battle-hardened, Marcelo. Get the fuck out of my way or I will skewer you all and take your skulls.”
He was so fucking tired of this shit. Every time he thought maybe things wouldn’t go this way, the demons played their hand and made violence inevitable. At least, maybe this way, he could stop the battle from escalating.
Time for the response. Marcelo would back off or commit.
With a heavy growl, Marcelo held out his hand to his army, palm back, and gestured them to step away. They did, all of them baring their teeth, all of them looking for a fight.
“So it is real,” Marcelo said. “Your ... power. You can manipulate Hell. But I had heard—”
“You don’t know the details.” David stepped up, replacing Laoko at the head of the group, and she and Moriah stood at his sides. “And I have no intention of explaining them to you. You wander over here, uninvited, get in my way, and get ready for a fight? I have walked here from Death’s Grip and I have been baptized in fire. I’ve had to fight off spire rulers, the rider, a battalion of angels, an army of aliens, a fucking reaper, and had a face-to-face with Old Ones!” Every demon stared at him, wide-eyed. “I have no fucking patience left to deal with worms like you. Get. The fuck. Out of my way!”
Baptized in fire? In any other world, talking like that would have sounded beyond dumb. In Hell, after all the shit he’d been through, it fit.
Marcelo stood there, glaring, thinking. Thinking was good. Thinking was a big step up from many of the demons David had dealt with. No wonder he was acquaintances with Laoko.
Marcelo hooked his axe on his hip. His army swallowed down their energy and rage, bloodlust bubbling in their limbs, tails fidgeting and claws squeezing the air in frustration.
“You’ve ... talked with Old Ones?” Marcelo asked.
Finally. David took a deep breath, nodded, and held his staff at his side more like a walking stick instead of a tool of war.
“I have. Maybe I’ll tell you more someday, but not today. Today, you are going to leave us be.”
Marcelo nodded, stood up straight, and hooked his wings to his back like a cape.
“I suppose I should not be surprised,” he said. “I spotted angels and came here expecting a fight. I did not expect to meet one of the unmarked. You say you don’t know why the other unmarked from the Navameere Fields is attacking the Red Pits?”
“I don’t know why. If I had to guess, it’s because she’s a fucking sack of shit. I’ve dealt with another unmarked who was trash. He’d recruited Cainites and started his own little cult and everything.”
Marcelo laughed. “Oh? And how did you kill him?”
“Smashed his head in with a rock with my hands.”
Marcelo laughed again, louder, and unless David was going insane, that was a happy laugh.
“How many unmarked are there in Hell?” he asked.
“You know I’m not telling you that.”
“Where is your goal taking you?”
David shook his head. “Not telling you that, either.”
Despite getting shot down and shut out, Marcelo just smiled. “Khazeer won’t let you simply walk through the Red Pits uncontested,” he said. “I cannot stop you, but my band of demons is small. His is not.”
“We’re not going to just slip on by. We’re going to meet with Khazeer.”
Marcelo shook his head. “Khazeer won’t just—”
“I’m here,” Tatiana said, stepping up. Not quite up, but close enough, speaking over David’s shoulder. “I’ll deal with Khazeer.”
With another hearty chuckle, Marcelo licked his teeth, eyes on the tall, lean succubus. “Of course. Tatiana.” From the way his eyes roamed her body and her flimsy red silks, he knew her well. “This unmarked convinced you to leave the Scar?”
“I didn’t have much of a choice. The new spire ruler, Septima, sent me on this trip, as proof of David’s”—she gestured to him—”good will.”
“Khazeer will be happy to see you.”
“I’m sure he will.”
“I think,” Laoko said. “Perhaps we can assume a ... cessation of hostilities?” David blinked up at her, and she returned it with a playful little grin. “We’ll be on our way.”
This whole situation felt familiar. In the Grave Valley, when running from the rider, he’d randomly run into Laoko and her fellow tetrad, her friend Teleius, and their warband. Were tetrads just out here, randomly exploring province borders? It made sense, he supposed. Demons crossing borders from province to province were probably either easy pickings, or important, and good targets for powerful demons like tetrads and the little armies they always seemed to have.
“And us?” Marcelo asked.
“Stay here,” David said. “Do whatever it is you were doing before, just leave us out of it. Though, if you were planning on attacking the Scar, I suggest against it. They will eat you alive.”
Marcelo raised a brow, but when not a single person in David’s group laughed, he slowly nodded.
“Then well met, unmarked. You are no prey.” Nodding, Marcelo backed off, and walked the other way. His nearest troops stripped the weapons and armor from their dead comrades, but left the corpses skewered on the spikes.
David watched them go, eyes peeled, waiting for them to turn around and charge him. They did not. After ten minutes, the small army was far enough for David to relax, and he melted the three black spikes back into the dirt. The Las jumped the bodies and harvested the hearts, ripping and tearing with glee.
“That went well,” Laoko said.
“I ... guess.”
“In the Red Pits, demons respect power. Truly respect it. In many provinces, demons are little more than animals, bowing to or fleeing from stronger demons. But here in the Red Pits, there is a ... hierarchy, beyond the simple one described to you. There are many groups, and they respect each other, as much as demons can respect. A ladder based on power. And individual demons have earned respect through their power, too, as Marcelo has. The only reason Khazeer has not sent a proper army to track him down and kill him for poaching from his army”—she gestured to the fleeing two hundred demons—”is the respect Marcelo has earned.”
“That’s different from other provinces?”
“Yes. The other provinces do not inherently respect power. They serve it, fear it, but respect it? No. A spire ruler like Azailia will kill a potential competitor. Khazeer, and Morgana of the Navameere Fields, would not, not unless it was a duel.”
“Almost sounds like a kind of honor.” Sighing, he dismissed his armor and staff, and rubbed his knuckles, trying to suppress the nausea callous murder set in his gut.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Laoko squatted beside him and kissed his cheek. “Your decisiveness today was quite impressive.”
He shot her a hard glare. She didn’t react.
“I killed three demons before we’d even started the battle.”
“Yes, you did, and prevented the battle entirely.”
“Ever heard ‘don’t fire unless fired upon’?” he asked. She tilted her head. “It means don’t attack first. You’d be amazed at how many lives can be saved when people stop assuming everyone is out to kill them. Peace can happen, you know.”
She chuckled in that calm, demeaning kinda way she did, like a cheese grater to the balls. “Between demons looking to eat each other?”
He sighed again. “No, I suppose not.”
“Then be proud your might and decisiveness saved many lives.” Shrugging, she stood up, swords already sheathed, and she gestured out to the path ahead between the enormous pits in the ground. “Shall we go?”
“Yeah ... Yeah, let’s go.”
They fell back into positions again. Back in his comfy potram rune, he looked at the ground as they walked, wincing. Doing things Laoko’s way was a bitter pill.
Daoka came up behind him, set her hands on his shoulders, clicked thrice, and nudged her cheek against his. At least she understood.
~~Day 107~~
~~Mia~~
A week later, they found a symbol. Someone had drawn on the floor. Hell didn’t have pencils or pens, and what information demons bothered to write, they wrote with Estian runes—which they almost never bothered doing. Someone else had written something by bringing up rock through the floor, rock from beneath the archangel flesh, rock that pointed straight ahead as an arrow.
Mia smiled. “James is getting better with the music if he can make specific shapes like this,” she said, gesturing at the two-foot-long arrow of stone sticking up through the rock-archangel flesh bloody carpet under their feet. He’d had to reach below the flesh, something he couldn’t affect with the music, and spun a very specific tune to craft this shape.
“Why is he different from you?” Azreal asked. “Why is his skill not at your level, or above it, if he’s been in Hell longer?”
“He was trapped in the Black Valley, tied up, and probably tortured and stuff. Zel back in Death’s Grip encouraged me to explore my powers, in hopes I could break Vin, and maybe even help her at a larger scale.” She shivered. Of all the people she’d killed, Zel had not only been the first, but was still the most gruesome. The feel of forcing a large spike — Vin’s horn — through her eye socket and into her brain, was permanently etched in her mind. Almost like ... like David must feel, after having caved in a man’s skull with a rock. Was that his first kill? Judging from the rage in his eyes, and how he’d swung the rock down several times, probably not.
She missed her brother. That memory, of looking up and seeing her brother bash her brains in through some other unmarked’s eyes, filled her stomach with cold bile. David usually put up a robotic front, acted like he was separate from the rest of the emotional, irrational world, but she knew him better than that. Hell, David knew himself better than that. He had to be hurting.
“That makes me wonder,” Mia said. “I’m learning this weird power, right? I spend every day testing it.” To prove it, she gestured around at the flesh tunnel they walked, the bloody walls, the hundreds of large, dead, half-closed eyes, and she played a little tune. A quiet, specific thing, like hitting a musical triangle. It was enough to summon a spike of blackstone up through the bloody floor at her feet, and with a small shift of the tune, crack it off so she could wield it like a club.
“That’s not dangerous?” Julisa asked.