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  • Published: 30 Jul 2013
  • Updated: 31 Jul 2013
  • Status: Complete
*For the 24 Hour Competition*


3. Blood and Bone


Unlike how most people imagine it; Hell wasn’t hot. It didn’t spit flames that engulfed lost souls. It didn’t have large infernos that towers into pillars of heat.

Hell was cold.

Phoebe’s knees were brought down hard onto the ice floor as the ribbons of heat left her body, snaking down onto the ground and joining its master on the ice throne. I will not look at his face and let him see me scared, I’d sooner die, Phoebe thought, tracing her finger along ice, feeling its frost. One of the quirks of Hells’ capital city, Pandemonium, was that once your body heat is gone, you can’t get it back. In short, you’ll endlessly freeze.

“Phoebe Laine,” the voice on the ice throne thundered, shaking the ground. Phoebe was as good as her word, she may have kneeled but she wasn’t looking up. Infuriated, the half-man boomed. “Look at my face when I speak to you!” Like a rope wrapped around her neck, Phoebe’s neck was snapped forward with a casual flick of the demi-beast’s wrist. She was a puppet and he had all the strings.

“What is it you want?” Phoebe asked, keeping her voice level. Her insides were churning with hatred and, worse still, fear. Traitorous fear, she thought as she looked into his face. His hair was one of a pony, thick and coarse and black. His lips were full and red like a girl’s and his nose similar to one of a pig. His skin was patched black and white like a cow’s but he was built like a boulder, all hard muscle and height. Worst of all was his eyes; he had her sister’s eyes. He was ugly and had a name to match so: Utakka.

“’What do I want?’ I thought we were well past these silly questions,” he chuckled, his laugh sounding like knives on a chalkboard.

“I said it out of formality, I don’t really care,” Phoebe countered. Her fingernail drummed on the ice and from what she could see the Army underneath was sleeping. The Prodigium army was numerous, in the millions, and they were all powerful: they had the quickness of a cheetah, the core strength of a boa constrictor, the strength of a hippo. And Phoebe caused them to be so strong.

“My, my Ms. Laine. Aren’t you being prickly today?” And the ice whip came down.  It slashed at her back, taking her warmth and stinging like fire. Phoebe bit down a scream. Her knees dung into the ground as she looked into Utakka’s face.

“I’m sorry master but I was in the middle of an important Fusion, one that you ordered me to make. I would like to get back to the city,” she said, half sarcastic. He stood up now, circling her like a vulture.

“Why do you call us ‘Fusions’? It sounds so...unholy,” he said with a sneer.

“Isn’t that what you are, unholy? We are in Hell after all,” she said casually. He barked out a laugh.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue. Curb it. I don’t like snappy servants,” he growled. “Now, I want you to make another Fusion, but this time,” he grinned evilly. “Give me your mother’s eye, before you killed her it was quite beautiful.”

Phoebe paled. “You took my sister’s eyes already. You made me make a monster to kill them. Isn’t that enough?” Her mind was already forming a new plan, her previous Fusion was forgotten.

“I was born of death,” he said, a hint of gravel in his voice. “It’s never enough.”


Utakka laid out straight on the steel cart, his bulking body taking up more space then there was table. The Black Book was laid at his feet as Phoebe waved spells in front of his eyes.

“Eyes of the Fallen, Sight of Death,” she said, her voice shaking. “Give Utakka sight which you have gained and guide him in his endeavours.” She drew a circle of blood around his eyes.

He was in the changing state, he could not move for a few precious seconds. The scalpel hidden in Phoebe’s sleeve slid out and she made an incision on her wrist. She began to chant.

“Mother O Mine, take these eyes and blind him. Keep him from the light. Take my blood, blood of the true man, and poison him. Take my hands,” her voice wavered as she crushed through her bone. “Take my hands and stop him. Stop him from bringing certain doom.”

His lion’s paws lifted and so did Phoebe’s limp hand. She gripped her wrist, seeing the blood and stump of bone, and knew she would die. Her delicate monster-making hand re-attached onto Utakka, his eyes bulging with pain.

“I’m not your servant anymore. My hands are free. Let them damn you,” Phoebe said with a smile. As she withered on the floor and Utakka howled in pain, she let herself think of the city and it’s intoxicating music.

I’m coming home.

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