No Shadows Fall by L.J. Labarthe

Author:L.J. Labarthe [Labarthe, L.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Published: 2012-10-27T11:00:00+00:00

ADRAMELEK sprawled comfortably in his antique armchair, a cup of fragrant jasmine tea in his hands, and his cat, a ginger tomcat, lying at his feet. The cat’s eyes were closed, and it was purring, front legs outstretched and kneading the priceless Iranian handwoven carpet that covered the floor.

A fire burned merrily in the grate of the marble fireplace, candles in silver candlesticks on each end of the mantle, their flame giving forth a gentle light. In the background was the sound of singing, a discordant, unharmonious singing, a hymn to a ruler rarely seen but always feared.

This was Hell, and Adramelek’s own little slice of it. He had constructed a Russian dacha from the late eighteenth century with his power and furnished it with priceless antiquities, bought at auctions and from black market dealers around the world. Adramelek wasn’t picky about who sold him the items he had in his collection—after all, being a Fallen One and an Archdemon, scruples were not something he bothered with. It was enough for him that this latest house he’d created for himself and his cat was opulent, decadent, and protected with all manner of spells and sigils and wards.

Adramelek was fond of Hell. It wasn’t as light as Heaven, but that was because demons preferred the shadows. All the Archdemons had palaces made out of their own power, creating everything from castles that were perfect replicas of the majestic structures of the Middle Ages to buildings of hard lines, created out of chrome and glass, mirroring the modern forms of architecture that had been so popular with some of the classes of rich humans at the end of the twentieth century.

Adramelek sipped his tea, listening to the hymn, humming along tunelessly. He was relaxed and content, nothing was wrong with his little slice of the universe, and he had no pressing business to attend to. Later, he’d go out of Hell and up to Earth, journey to one of his favorite restaurants, follow that with a nightclub somewhere, and indulge himself in a little sin.

He smiled to himself at that thought, a smile that slid off his face as suddenly the most awful noise tore through Hell.

“Shit!” Adramelek spilled hot tea on himself and swore at length in several languages at once. The cat leapt to its feet with an angry meow, eyes opening to reveal blood-red orbs with silver pupils. The cat turned to look at Adramelek in reproach as Adramelek waved his hand to clean the tea off himself.

“It isn’t my fault, you ungrateful flea bag,” he said in response to the look, and the cat sniffed in disdain. Before Adramelek could say anything else, the noise grew louder, and Adramelek’s eyes widened in astonishment.

“What in the name of all little devils are they thinking?”

“Mrow?” asked the cat.

“The Grigori. They’re singing a—gah, I feel ill—a hymn. From Heaven.”

The cat hissed, ears pinned back.

“My thoughts exactly, Sprite.” Adramelek squared his shoulders and marched toward the door of the room, preparing to bellow for one of his servants.

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