Free The Descent by Alma Katsu Page A

couldn’t see very far in front of me. Every once in a while I would turn a corner and see part of a figure—the point of an elbow, the heel of a foot—disappear as it turned a corner and was, once again, beyond my reach. The dream teased me, letting me get close enough to see a snippet of Jonathan, then it pulled him far away until all I could hear was the echo of footsteps up ahead. All the time, my chest squeezed tighter and tighter as I feared that if I awoke before catching up to him, I’d never have the chance to see or speak to him again, in this life or the next.
    I spun around a corner in a headlong rush but somehow managed to have the presence of mind to realize that a shadow fell into the passage in front of me. Someone was coming for me, and I could tell by the gigantic form that it wasn’tJonathan. Sensing great danger, I quickly stepped back and slipped around the corner, pressing up against the cold stone blocks and holding my breath, praying not to be detected.
    I could tell by the sound of footsteps that whatever had been coming for me had paused in the passage directly ahead. I listened for breathing but heard nothing. What could it be? So far in my dreams, I’d seen only Jonathan and a woman’s hand, which I assumed belonged to the queen of the underworld. But by the size of my pursuer’s shadow, it seemed unlikely to be her. Still, who else could it be? As unnerving as the whole thing was, this was exactly what I’d hoped for, wasn’t it, to confront the queen and ask her to release Jonathan? Perhaps I didn’t need to ask Adair to send me to the underworld. Perhaps I could confront the queen in my dreams and find peace for Jonathan and for myself.
    I drew in a deep breath and stuck my head around the corner—but only for a split second, before drawing it back in complete horror. It wasn’t the queen of the underworld waiting for me in the passage. And it wasn’t Jonathan.
    It was a demon. It had to be a demon—what else would look like this? He stood seven feet if he stood an inch, so tall that he had to crouch in the tight passageway. He was so broad-shouldered and deep-chested that he might’ve been a bull standing on its hind legs. His face, too, was not unlike a bull’s, broad and snoutish and ugly beyond belief, and, to complete the bullish appearance, long horns protruded from the top of his head. The demon had a man’s arms, though massive as tree trunks; hands that were clawlike, with fingers ending in razor-sharp talons; and an animal’s legs, literally: thick, muscular hindquarters, huge sickle hocks of tendon and bone,fierce-looking cloven hooves. A long tail snaked behind him, twitching. He was all red flesh, as you’d imagine the devil to be, red flesh singed to blackness at the extremities, black legs up to his hocks like boots, black forearms as if gloved, black tail tufted at the tip. Red and black, except for his eyes, which were glittering topaz and had a vertical slit, like those of a reptile. His barrel chest heaved with every breath, as though he had been running or was sniffing the air to pick up a scent. My scent.
    I turned and ran down the hall the way I’d come, as silently as I could, though my head clamored with the sound of my ragged breath, the thumping of my heart, blood sluicing in my ears. Don’t look back, I told myself over and over, sure that something terrible would happen to me if I did, that I’d turn to stone or salt, or would be sentenced to remain in the labyrinth forever. It’s only a dream, I also tried to tell myself. Yet I ran hard, sprinting down the passage, my soles barely touching the packed dirt floor.
    When at last I thought I was a safe distance away, I stopped, panting heavily now, doubling over with my hands on my knees and nearly retching from the effort. In my dream state, I tried to recall what I’d seen exactly. The sight of the demon was already growing wispy. The residue of fear stayed with me, though. Dream or not, he was