Two months without running through the rings of Hell, dodging demons, and rescuing lost souls drove Zane Gideon as close to crazy as he ever experienced.
By all accounts, the last rescue mission should have cured his itch to pass through the Gates of Hell for all eternity. They damn near lost every Soul Saver on the mission, either through the open door to Heaven or to the dark powers of the fallen angel Baalberith.
Despite facing the worst evil imaginable, they escaped with their lives and shut down the First Ring of Hell forever. The ache to return to field work—to find the ever-missing Wilder Swift in one of the remaining eight rings, to save suffering souls from damnation—consumed his every thought.
The walls of his bedroom seemed to close in with each day he spent confined to the apartment complex located in a rural suburb of Philadelphia. House arrest instilled by the Councils governing the seven Gates, all to keep Soul Savers from getting near Hell without approval.
He stood and twisted at the waist to get his blood moving. Maybe a long run around the complex track would clear his head. The apartment door opened, and he heard the slam of the knob against the rubber wall stop.
“Yo, bro!” His twin brother Boone yelled as if he were across a field on the family ranch in Montana. “Get your lazy ass out here.” His brother slammed the door shut. “I’ve got good news.”
Good news? Zane’s heart jolted, but he immediately tamped down his hope. With Boone, good news could range from winning a cold six-pack of beer to achieving world peace.
“What’s up, short-stuff?” he asked, emerging into the bright living space they shared.
“We’re getting outta here. Going to Paris for a vacay.” Boone grinned and chucked a manila envelope his way.
Zane caught the packet with both hands against his middle. “Paris? For a vacation? That doesn’t make any damn sense. We’re on lockdown.”
“Not anymore.” His brother moseyed into the kitchen, beelining for the refrigerator.
Instead of asking Boone to elaborate, Zane reached into the envelope. Sure enough, two airline tickets for Paris—plus a letter signed by the Paris chancellor, Maurice Vipond. He walked to the sofa, dropped the tickets onto the coffee table, and then read the letter. His heart thundered against his breastbone like a thousand hooves racing across a valley.
His brother plopped next to him on the sofa, deposited a beer for him on the coffee table, and flicked on the TV.
“Shit, Boone.” Zane jerked the remote away from his brother and killed the power. “This is not a vacation. This is a hearing.”
“So they’ll ask a few questions. Who cares? We’re going to Paris. Jack will make them understand we had no choice. Aside from Satan himself, Baalberith is Hell’s worst demon.”
“We ignored protocol and closed the First Ring.”
“Protocol-schmotocol. And the Ring deal was an accident. There wasn’t time to ask permission from the Council to launch a rescue mission. Prudence and Jesse called to help save her dad, and we did the right thing. Seriously, would they want us to not save Jack and Swift before Baalberith did God-knows-what?”
“But we didn’t save Swift.” Zane tossed the letter onto the coffee table.
“We did. Baalberith didn’t kill him.”
“He’s still missing.”
His brother rolled his eyes. “Like Wilder hasn’t gone AWOL before. The guy’s about the bravest Soul Saver I ever met, but a total tool. He only gives a shit about us when he needs something. He lives and dies on his own agenda.”
“It’s the dead part we’re all worried about.”
“I’m not. And stop making that dad-face. No one believes he’s dead, not even you.”
True, but Zane detested his brother’s cavalier attitude.
Boone leaned back against the sofa arm. “Most likely, Swift escaped Hell through some secret hatch he didn’t tell anyone about and is living the life with a harem of hotties. Like a horny tom cat, he’ll come home when his dick gives out.” His brother slugged back a mouthful of brew. “So, what do you think would work better with the French girls, play up the cowboy routine or the brooding rebel?”
“Jackass.” Zane stood and paced in front of the sofa. Some of his brother’s rationalizations hit the mark. “As the Philadelphia chancellor, I’m sure Jack has already supplied all seven Councils with the details. Why a hearing? Why fly us to Paris?”
“Again, who cares? For fuck’s sake, they train us to take on demons and rescue innocent souls. We did our jobs. And by the way, the letter actually says ‘official proceedings,’ not hearing. For all you know, they could be honoring us with an award.” Boone hit the power on the TV and threw his legs onto the couch. “Until I feel their collective boots on my ass, I’m not going to worry.”
“You never do.”
“Positive vibes attract positive vibes. That’s why I score all the pretty girls and you get nerds.” He grinned like a teenager on the last day of school and drank more beer.
Zane didn’t believe in vibes or empty platitudes or lazy faith.
He believed in hard work, valor, and in the strength of his conviction.
Consequences belonged to the ungodly and the evil. Yet his gut roiled with tension and doubt.
They broke a dozen rules embarking on a rescue mission to the forbidden Ninth Ring. Wilder Swift remained missing after two grueling months of waiting. Baalberith wanted them all dead.
The Society couldn’t afford liabilities, even if that meant cutting the best and the bravest free.
He’d better start thinking of a new career.
»»•««
At the behest of the Paris chancellor, Zane Gideon rose from his seat at the conference table and flatly recited the fifth rule from the Hell Runners Handbook to everyone in attendance at the closed-door meeting.
Not that the rule needed repeating.
Every Soul Saver employed by the Society memorized all six pages of Section I. Not for the purpose of an impromptu quiz, but because the rules kept them alive. All of them ran through Hell daily, rescuing lost souls while demons dogged their every step.
“Section I, Paragraph E, of the Hell Runners Society Handbook states: No mortal—born gifted or otherwise blessed with the ability to pass through Hell’s Gate unfettered—will cross said Gate without an official mission to rescue a lost soul. Unsanctioned excursions into Hell will result in disciplinary action.”
Even if you risked your ass every day for the past ten years because you believed in a greater good, he thought, easing into the cushy chair once more.
“Thank you, Monsieur Gideon.” Paris chancellor Maurice Vipond closed his eyes and frowned. Dark bruises circled his deep-set eyes, and wrinkles etched lines as defined as knife slits around the corners of his mouth. He’d been the Paris chancellor since Zane’s father ran missions through Hell, and every year showed on his wizened face. “I need a moment. Before we commence.”
Oldest trick in the book. Vipond didn’t need the moment for himself, but wanted the silence to instill a sense of dread in the accused. Like the hours flying over the Atlantic hadn’t been enough.
Could the Council actually consider saving the lives of the Society’s best Soul Savers a punishable offense? All because they’d not obtained permission first? He glanced across the table at the Philadelphia chancellor, Jack Luckett, the man they’d rescued from the whims of Baalberith. Vision blurry with anger, he couldn’t decipher his boss’s expression.
Without a doubt, Zane believed adherence to the rules was paramount. But the rules had been written a hundred years ago by the Society’s first benefactor, Gilles Deschamps. Deschamps brought order to chaos when Rodin wanted to run roughshod over Hell. But Deschamps either lacked foresight or else never considered the Society would last, let alone grow.
Since that time, a training program had been developed and six more Gates opened around the world, including his home base in Philadelphia where their stellar reputations for safety during soul extraction shined brighter than Heaven’s light. These days, Soul Savers walked into the field with a hundred years of experience in their back pockets and the mental acuity to evaluate every unique situation.
And evaluate an emergency situation is what he’d done. What they’d all done.
Baalberith left his fiery realm to stop the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy by collecting on a series of bogus debts. Debts incurred by Hell Runners trying to maintain order, including his good friend Jesse Thorne and their boss Jack. The demon lord opened a flaming pit into Hell right in the boss’s living room, and then had the gall to torture Jack’s wife by suspending her over the pit.
A physical battle with Baalberith ensued. Not a wise course of action, but sometimes lashing out is all you have left. Jack, along with rogue Soul Saver Wilder Swift, dropped the demon down to the burning floorboards, only to roll into the pit with him.
Despite all his years as a company man, Zane didn’t waste a second to call the Council when Jesse contacted him with the news. Instead, he grabbed his brother Boone and joined Jesse and the boss’s daughter Prudence on the biggest rescue of their careers.
Of course the unsanctioned mission wasn’t the only reason for the meeting in Paris.
Prudence performed nothing less than a Society-changing miracle. With the key from around Baalberith’s neck, she opened a secret door between Heaven and Hell. All of the lost souls trapped in the First Ring released with a rush into Heaven. A millennium of reclamations accomplished in a single action.
Then the First Ring of Hell closed down, and a white void filled the expanse from Gate to Gate.
No souls to rescue.
No job.
Unless they grew some cojones and started saving the repentant from deeper Rings.
A long overdue goal, in Zane’s opinion.
And he intended to prove it was possible. He planned to leave Paris in the afternoon and travel across France on an archeological research expedition. If he could locate the diary of Julian Eymard, then he could produce evidence the saint not only blessed Rodin with his gift to cross into Hell, but possessed countless secrets about the lower realm. With a book of answers in hand, they’d be in business again.
The time had come for change. The Council must realize that too. Otherwise, why fly them across the Atlantic? For a pointless hand slap?
Vipond opened his eyes, his gaze stern.
Zane wasted no time on formalities. “Chancellor Vipond?” He rocked forward in his chair and leaned both elbows on the conference table, prepared to lay out his plan for the future. “Before we begin with the proceedings, I’d like to offer some food for thought.”
The chancellor didn’t respond, so Zane took his silence a please-go-on.
“I’m glad you asked me to recite Paragraph E. All of Section I is tremendously important. But—”
“But?” The nucleus of the harshest criticism, Councilman Emil Savard interrupted. “But you don’t like this rule, so you ignored—”
“We didn’t ignore anything.” He spoke firmly without raising his voice. “But I think it bears consideration that we faced a crisis without clear direction. As with so many of the rules, newer Sections contradict Section I. The handbook is not cohesive, not to mention some of the security measures are counterintuitive to our training, besides being restrictive to the cause.”
“We no longer have a cause since the First Ring closed.” Savard scowled and smoothed the lapel of his gray suit jacket. “And condemnation of the rules is not a defense.”
“I didn’t know we needed a defense.” He did, but that wasn’t the point. The meeting wasn’t presented to them as a trial, and by God, he’d do everything in his power to keep that from happening.
“Of course not. You’re like all Americans. The rules don’t apply to you.” Savard sneered and counted off their indiscretions on his fingers. “You’re too self-important, too arrogant, too belligerent, too stubborn, insubordinate—”
Zane considered shutting him up—the cowboy way. A career ender for sure, but instead of defending his country and colleagues, he chose the rational path for the greater good.
“Not true.” Zane refused to be riled. “In fact the Hell Runners Handbook has needed an overhaul for some time. Some rules have become outdated simply because our training program produces educated Soul Savers. I believe this incident presents an opportunity to expand our missions, to—”
“Expand?” Savard snorted. “We have nothing left to expand, thanks to you.”
“I totally disagree.” Zane aimed his gaze at Vipond. “Rodin wouldn’t have kicked back and given up. Don’t you think it’s time we consider objectives beyond rescuing the lost souls of the First Ring? We’re all trained with the worst case scenario in mind. Let’s take advantage of this time to reexamine—”
“No need to editorialize any further, Monsieur Gideon.” Savard cut him off again. “The rule is a clear statement, not an excuse to manipulate the Council. You are lucky to be present at this table. I encourage you to respect the chance to hear our verdict first hand.”
Verdict?
In less than the time it took for Zane’s heart to slam into his breastbone, Savard recommenced his verbal scolding of the Philadelphia Soul Savers.
Heat crept up his neck. Not out of shame, but entirely out of anger. Until this moment, he’d not considered the worst.
Termination without a probe or a trial or a chance to fully explain.
If they cut him loose, his subsequent trip to track Eymard surely died with his career. He’d waited years for the chance to uncover more secrets about Hell that the sainted priest surely documented. Did the French even have a plan? Or would they simply steal his.
“The consequences of your spontaneous actions affect us all. Every one of you deliberately ignored the rules.” Savard spoke in an accent so thick it sounded fake. He aimed his glare at each of them, as if he could intimidate field operatives that just browbeat the worst demon of the Ninth Ring. “Insubordination will no longer be tolerated. Neither will lies. No more glossing over the facts. We demand to know the whereabouts of Wilder Swift.”
Swift? Because he’d gone missing during the rescue didn’t mean any of them heard a word from him since. He’d adopted a habit of going off grid over the past six months or so. Apparently, Jack never shared that tidbit with the French, and Zane wondered why not.
“Every one of you involved in the—incident—” Savard’s heavily lidded eyes flickered with irritation “—will be required to prove your loyalty to Hell Runners if you want to remain with the Society.”
Not terminated. Not shut down for good. Zane almost blew out a sigh of relief.
The French councilman’s pale lips curved into a smug-ass grin, and his beady-eyed gaze swung to Zane. “And I’m sure you all want to keep your jobs. Maintain hope of moving onto the Council? I am correct, Mr. Gideon?”
His twin brother, Boone, rocked back on two legs of his chair and whispered from the corner of his mouth, “Which Mr. Gideon?”
“You wanna Council seat?”
“Never.” His brother smirked.
“Not you.”
By this time, Savard rounded the long conference table, his glare never moving off Zane.
Unnerved as much as pissed off, he matched the Frenchman’s stare. Obviously, Savard wanted to deliver bad news.
Savard reached into his suit jacket and withdrew a sheet of folded paper. With a flick of his wrist, the paper snapped to full size just above Zane’s face. “This is your signature, oui?” His arm extended and his fingers released. The crisp paper floated to land open on the table.
Uneasy and trying not to show it, Zane glanced down at the page. He didn’t need to read the grainy copy of the oath he’d signed, but he did anyway. There had to be at least one ambiguous phrase he could twist to his advantage.
I, Zane Gideon, as a human gifted with the ability to pass through the Gates of Hell and duly trained to dodge demons and their minions, pledge my undying loyalty to the Hell Runners Society. I freely offer my gifts to be used and governed by the Society in any way deemed fit by the Council. I understand the objectives of my duties as I have been trained, which include, but are not limited to the following tenets:
a.) To locate souls chosen by the oracles of the Society and free them from damnation.
b.) To ensure unholy creatures do not escape the boundary of the Gates.
c.) To maintain complete secrecy about the Society and its members.
d.) To disclose any and all violations that place the Society and its members in danger.
Duly sworn, I hereby affix my signature as my binding oath to uphold these tenets.
Shit. With his thoughts too muddled by anger, he couldn’t find one phrase to subvert in his favor.
Throat dry like he’d eaten another stale croissant, he answered at last.
“Yes. It’s my signature.”
“Then I trust no further explanation is necessary. Your trip to research Julian Eymard is suspended. You have a new assignment. Report to the Paris Gate site immediately. Do not let anyone, not even tourists, near it. Stand guard until I send your replacement.”
“Stand guard? You’re demoting me?”
Savard leaned close and placed an item on the table. “You’ll need this.”
At first glance, the black gun with the futuristic square nose appeared to be a toy, but his trained eye knew better. His gut tightened.
A Taser. Police issue.
“Use it. Without prejudice.” The smirk of satisfaction on Savard’s face could have curdled milk. “No one. Not your friends. Not Chancellor Luckett. Not even me.” He pressed his deep blue tie against his gray pinstriped shirt with a long-fingered hand. “No one passes through the Gates of Hell. Again.”
He walked away with his sharp nose tilted up.
Zane picked up the Taser and considered the penalties for shooting a councilman in the back.
Realistically, his choices had narrowed to two—follow orders or quit.
He glanced at Jack Luckett sitting across from him. The gray eyes of the Philadelphia big-cheese brimmed with understanding.
Yep. He had known this was coming and couldn’t say anything. A lot of not saying, not sharing, not communicating was going around. Like a virus.
“Go on, son.” Jack tilted his chin down and flashed a quick wink. “We got it handled in here. I’ll be by to get you ’fore long.”
Most likely a lie. Well intended, but a lie all the same.
Before he’d set foot on the plane bound for the east coast, his father had warned him that folks in high towers spewed a lot of horseshit. A Montana cowboy either watched where he planted his boot or learned to scrape it off and move on.
Move on, meaning tough it out?
Or move home where people meant what they said?
A pang of longing for high skies and jagged mountains and family he could trust washed over him like an instant fever.
Zane gripped the handle of the gun and swung a glare toward Savard.