Steadfast: Prison Breaker Book 4, page 1
Steadfast
Prison Breaker
Book 4
Georgia Wagner
Text Copyright © 2024 Georgia Wagner
Publisher: Greenfield Press Ltd
The rights of Georgia Wagner to be identified as author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved.
The book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
‘Steadfast’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and events or locations is entirely coincidental.
To Paul H,
a man of mettle.
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
The story continues with Book 5
Chapter 1
Pain still racked my body, from the bruises along my face—a low, dull ache—to the splitting agony in my chest due to cracked ribs. Two fingers on my left hand were broken, bruised and purple where they bent at odd angles. Given my brother's propensity for violence, I'd gotten off easy.
Augustus, though, was no longer in sight. His demon dog had dragged him to some other portion of this deeply strange place.
My own hound had released my legs when I'd first appeared. The monstrous, wolf-shaped creature, with flames rising from its muscled shoulders, didn't even glance back as it stalked off between two mansions. Then, even the hellhound vanished from view.
And again, I was alone. Almost as if that had been the point.
“Good boy,” I muttered through chapped, blood-stained lips, tasting a hint of iron and salt.
I sat exhausted and agonized on the glistening streets, staring at the empty city. My hand still gripped the golfball-sized imagem Gildquail Lockwood had given me. The smooth, cold surface of the spherical insta-wish nestled in my sweat-glazed palm.
Curiosity is no reason to linger in hell, and yet my interest was piqued. I spotted mansions from different periods in history that must have once belonged to kings and warlords, popes and barons, CEOs and tech giants. Nearest to me rested a palatial manor with glass walls and a private infinity pool, but it neighbored a castle from the dark ages hewn from fresh stone, rigid and strong, boasting stained-glass windows between granite columns. The colorful blue, red and green glass touted horrible images and renderings I recognized from medieval artisans; pictures of red-skinned, cartoonish demons jabbed pitchforks into helpless humans. Crystalline flames singed flesh on rotisseries.
I noticed something else as well. The streets beneath me were paved with gold. But there were no trees. No birds. No people.
“Imaginative, isn't it?” a voice suddenly spoke off to my left.
Startled, I whirled, staring wide-eyed towards a figure reclining on a park bench.
A gorgeous man. Equal parts handsomely masculine and beautifully feminine. Like me, he had curling, Greek hair—dark locks. His skin was burnished bronze, his eyes twinkling like newborn stars. His lips were full and his cheekbones sculpted, pressed as symmetrical lines against his skin. He had almost elfish features, and yet not so inhuman.
It wasn't just skin-deep beauty, though. There was an allure about him. The way his hips tilted, even while sitting, one leg crossed delicately over the other. His eyes flashed with amusement and his lips tempted a thin-lipped smile. He wore gold-embroidered clothing, a loose shirt and pants that puffed at the ankles. Even his ensemble presented an air of comfort and invitation.
My eyes narrowed, my hand tightening around the imagem. Sight-seeing was one thing, speaking with entrancing denizens of this place was another.
I raised my hand, preparing to crush the treasure-sphere.
“Wait, Leonidas,” the man on the bench said, his voice musical. “I have a proposition for you.”
I should have crushed the insta-wish. Gildquail had promised it would teleport a single soul to whatever their heart most desired. And one thing was certain: it wasn't this place. Sitting there, bleeding out on golden streets girded in opulence, the last thing I ought to have done was entertain conversation. Especially with this unearthly creature.
And I wasn't going to. But then the man said something that caught my attention.
“I know how to cure him,” he whispered. “Your brother Napoleon. I can free him of your father. Forever.” He watched me, his breathtaking expression earnest.
A slow chill crept up my spine. Not due to any air current. There was no breeze, no wind in this place. I pushed slowly to my feet, gripping my imagem like some sort of lifeline.
“Who are you?” I said faintly.
“I can help you with those injuries as well,” the man said conversationally, deftly avoiding my question.
He stood also, and I took a hasty step away. “Stay back!” I snapped, pointing, broken fingers jutting like bent twigs. I raised the imagem threateningly. “One step closer and I'm gone!”
He raised his hands, his palms facing towards me. Very smooth palms. Whoever had labored in building the structures around me, it wasn't this man.
“I felt it when you arrived,” the man said earnestly, pointing towards my clutched hand. “What is that thing?”
I shielded the imagem from view. “Who are you?” I repeated.
Again, he dodged. “Hope. I can sense it. Smell it. There's hope in your hand.” His eyes flashed, and I was surprised to see tears suddenly trickling down the curves of his cheeks. “It's been so very, very long... May I see it?” he asked. “Just a glimpse.” Tears continued to trace his cheeks. His hands, pressed to his thighs, were trembling like a child's on Christmas morning.
I felt an odd lightness, an emptiness standing in this place. My emotions numb, my thoughts slow. I wasn't fool enough to even consider this request, but my curiosity was piqued. I let out a faint hiss of frustration, my hand still wrapped around the imagem. Lingering here was a mistake. But what if he was telling the truth? What if he could vanish my father from Napoleon's mind?
“What proposition?” I said slowly.
He studied me for a moment, then smiled, nodding once. He gave a little flick of his hands as if tossing his long, silk sleeves back, or, perhaps, like a fisherman who'd just hooked his prize. He settled in his bench and behind him, I noticed a large, stained-glass window in an old, stone building.
The colored glass window depicted the horrors I'd been expecting when I'd first arrived in hell. But as yet, I spotted no pitchforks or boiling cauldrons.
Noticing my gaze, the handsome man turned back. “Imaginative, isn't it?” he asked, crossing his arms, pressing the loose fabric of his sleeves against his chest.
I frowned. “You said that before.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Well, it's true. That one is my favorite,” he said with a smirk, pointing towards a window that showed a large creature sitting on a pile of human corpses. “Fascinating what the human mind will conjure in order to externalize true depravity.”
I looked at the windows and back at the man. “I suspect you don't know much about humans.”
He snorted. “More than I'd like. Had mortals been truly honest, they might simply have adorned their cathedrals with mirrors. A truer picture of the substance of hell, hmm?”
I studied him coldly. “So how do I remove my father from Napoleon's head?”
“The answers come at a cost.”
“I'm not giving you my imagem,” I retorted.
“So that's what it's called. Imagem. Curious,” he murmured, his eyes flashing. Then, suddenly, fast as lightning, in a blur of shadow, he emerged just in front of me. His cold breath gusted across my cheeks. His eyes twinkled inches from my own. “It smells so... delectable,” he whispered.
I was already stumbling back with a horrible shout.
“No, no,” he said, “don't crush it. Not yet—you don't have my permission.”
My eyes bulged and I stared at my hand. Though I could feel the imagem pressed to my fingers and palm, I couldn't move my hand. I grit my teeth, trying to extend my thoughts, but the Wit, in hell, like my soul, was also absent. I'd long guessed that the eter
It also confirmed my stupidity. I should've just shattered the skinting thing when I'd had the chance.
Now, my hand rigid, the imagem pressed motionless between my fingers, exuding a soft, white glow.
The man, who wasn't a man, chuckled faintly, standing before me. He said, “Once upon a time, I might have enjoyed your fear, human. But even I have lost my appetite for it.” He tisked his tongue, wagging a long finger. Then, instead of lunging at me, he turned, moving back towards the bench. Except it wasn't a bench anymore... but a throne of cold steel and immovable granite.
“Come,” he demanded.
My legs moved against my will, carrying me forward. He took two skipping, spry steps up the dais, and spun around, flopping onto the metal seat and peering down his nose at where I trembled and bled.
“Now, aren't we both a bit more comfortable?” he said. “I suppose I don't have to introduce myself.”
I glared up at him. I tried to move my lips and was grateful to realize I retained control of these. “You're Lord Hades.”
He frowned suddenly, jutting a petulant lip like a pouting child. His arms crossed again. “Is that what they're still calling me? Hells, that's probably my seventh least favorite moniker. Oh well. Leonidas Rex, I know you're just itching to leave, but before you do, I have an offer.”
“So you've said,” I snarled. “What are you doing to my hand?”
“Doing? Nothing you don't allow,” he replied with a shrug. He tapped his forehead. “I can only take what you give me, child.”
Even as he said it, it was as if a spell broke. It took me a second, but then I spotted it. A lingering thought in my mind. A thought that didn't belong to me. Now, I recognized it. A simple phrase. You can't move your hand.
I scowled, then thought even louder, Yes, I can!
Suddenly, my hand uncurled and I nearly dropped the imagem. With a painful grunt, I lurched, balancing it on my fingertips and catching it again before it fell to the carpeted ground.
“Ah, a quick study, I see,” Hades purred. “Marvelous. I'll need quick and clever for what I desire.”
“And what's that?” I demanded.
“Something you are very near to... Not here, but there.” He gave me a long look. “Your brother, Augustus, he discovered something on the bottom of the ocean floor.”
I watched him. “And?”
“The Adelgrief nursery, the genie treasure gardens. You know of what I speak?”
I didn't say anything.
“You do. Well, I need you to bring me something from the gardens.”
“What?”
“Nothing much. A small, humble chest.”
“Not human, I hope.”
He threw his head back and laughed, a clear, resonate, crystalline sound. He giggled some, steadying himself and pressing a hand over his heart. “Oh my, how droll. No, no, Leonidas Rex. Not human. A wooden chest. About yea big.” He spread his hands, indicating a space as wide as a book lengthwise. “It has a large letter N carved in the wood above a silver latch.”
I studied him. “And why should I bring that to you?”
He tapped a finger against his lips. “I could threaten you.”
“I met your brother, you know. Ares seemed a more reasonable sort.”
Hades snorted. “That old clod wouldn't know reasonable if it scarfed his children.” He shook his head. “Ares, though, did speak of you. Which is why you're here.”
“I'm here,” I said, “Because of your hounds.”
“Why you're still here. I know what that thing will do,” he replied, pointing at the imagem. “Shocking yes. Gasp. Spoiler alert. It works. It will take you out of here, for now. You'll return eventually. Most do. And I'm patient. In fact, some might say I have all the time in the world. Ah, there it is—I can see you thinking, Mr. Rex. I can see the wheels turning. Not moving your hand is only a small trick... perhaps I ought to try something bigger?”
I scowled at him. “Stay out of my head!”
“I'm not in your head. You're in mine,” he retorted. “All of this is my realm. We're free here. Truly liberated. No kings, no rulers, no demands.”
I glanced at the throne, my tone bristling with sarcasm. “No kings, huh?”
Hades giggled. “Perhaps I should clarify: no kings over me.”
I'd never heard a sound I hated more than Hades' laughter. Through gritted teeth, I said, “You want a wooden chest, yes? And in return you'll tell me how to save Napoleon from my father's influence?”
He nodded, his eyes flickering with excitement.
My hand clenched tighter around the imagem. Taking a deal with the Lord of Hell hardly seemed advisable. I'd lingered too long. And he'd already confirmed what I needed to know: the imagem would work. My friends needed me.
His gaze narrowed.
“I see,” he whispered, his voice as cold as snow. “Well then... If you change your mind, here's my card.” Hades reached into his loose shirt, pulled out a small rectangular card and flung it at me. The thing shot like a bullet. I tried to dodge, but it struck me in the chest. I felt a flash of pain, like something hot pressing to my skin.
I yelped and instinctively yanked the edge of my burnt and stained shirt down. My eyes bugged. There, freshly branded into my already scarred skin, was a small, rectangular mark centered by a bright red thumb print. Above the picture, a single phrase read, “Business Inquires Only.”
My small, blue crown tattoo nestled just beneath my new skin-stain. I reached up, trying to wipe the thing free, but it didn't so much as smudge, though it prickled like a hundred jabbing needles. I hissed in pain.
“You're welcome,” Hades said before I could shout at him. “Now, you have an open line of communication with me, Leonidas. Any time you feel like speaking, just press your finger there.” He beamed, nodding magnanimously. “I'll come calling,” he said, “If you bring me that wooden chest.” His eyes narrowed. “Do not waste my time.”
Then Hades gave a flicking wave of his hand. The buildings around us began to crumble. Things... large things began to rise from deep craters that swallowed the empty structures. I heard hissing, growling, horrific yells.
Hex-luck and skint-oaths, I thought to myself. If the road to hell was paved in gold, I preferred cobblestone. Time to go. I squeezed the imagem tight. Felt it shatter in my palm.
Hades' expression flickered, but he just watched me. “Bring me that chest,” he murmured. “And I'll tell you anything you wish to know.” He smirked, his eyes blazing wildly. Fear seemed the point. Fear, I supposed, had always been the point.
A giant, bloody-knuckled hand shot out of the ground behind us longer than a telephone pole, with quills on each fingertip.
And then the white light in my palm exploded, spreading across my fingers, up my arms, covering me whole.
The imagem was meant to transport me to whatever my heart most desired... at least in theory. I blinked, my vision swimming rapidly.
My stomach twisted and I vanished from Hades' throne room before the monster could grab my leg.
Chapter 2
Wind whipped about me, and my heart lodged in my throat. I tumbled eyebrows over toes, as if falling from some great height. Pain still swaddled my body. Hades' ominous words and lonely city faded from thought, as if waking from a bad dream.
Briefly, speeding bodily through what seemed a dark tunnel, I spotted images and forms about me. Off to my left, as if watching a movie, I glimpsed the Gallows' farm. Napoleon and Sussanah were swinging on a tire roped to a large oak while other children waited their turn, munching on green apples—sour, given their expressions. Mr. Gallows, Preacher's father, sat on the porch, wearing a smile beneath his cotton-white, choir-boy hair.
My heart pulsed in longing as I stared at the bucolic farmstead. The hundred acres of trees and land, the two lakes connected by a wooden bridge, the old, red barn and the white farmhouse on the hill surrounded by the odor of blackberries and cherry trees...
The image enlarged as if filling the dark tunnel.
But then another image took its place.
Nimue. My heart leapt in my chest. I tried to call out, to wave, but my adopted sphinx mother didn't notice me. She was in her den, reclining on the floor and licking a baby squirrel clean where it nestled between her giant, silver-gold paws. She hummed to herself as she cleaned the critter. Other squirrels watched from the mantelpiece, perked, noses twitching. Glasses perched on Nimue's gray-streaked muzzle. She hesitated suddenly, then looked up. Her wonderful, hazel-golden eyes suddenly fixed on me, even as I continued in my plummet through space.
