Hope's Light (Part 2)

Chapter Five - Plans

 

Brightness sweeps away the Book’s words and echoing voice entire.

All is light, and Light is All.

Infinite yet singular, timeless yet growing, perception expands.

Perception of existence, perception of pattern.

A vision of glory beyond all glory, depth beyond all depth, and purpose beyond all purpose.

From this vantage, a locus forms. A pivot through which the Light’s perception shall guide, reach, and measure.

A pivot through which to recognize Self.

A pivot through which to Act.

Ripples appear in the Light, impressions left in the pivot’s wake. A second convergence responds to maintain the coherence of the Whole - following the pivot to shade spots too bright, to reinforce regions too dim, smoothing thereby the passage of the First.

And at the edge of vision, that which cannot be seen clearly moves also. A pressure betwixt Nothing, Possibility, and Light, coalesces nexuses of its own - patterns not of the Light but of reaction.

These lash against what is, tearing against the singularity underlying perceived pattern with emerging conflicting variances.

New perceptions arise. A need for healing. A need for survival. A need for stability. A need for victory.

And more.

Each working to their intention, each enhancing further that which was created within the Light. Each lending strength against that which attempts to rip the All asunder, and in that expanding conflict many are lost that the rest may be preserved.

With such arrives awareness of the potentials of causality, of Time and Eternity, and the multitude of layers which shall expand and develop all things. Including the increasingly coherent vortices now surrounding the First through which the Light originally streamed.

In this expansion, as ideals grow and gain nuances in realized manifestation, potential weakness is perceived in an Infinite built only upon the Singular. A paradox of infinities wherein impossible becomes certain.

Thus to the Eyes of the First is much revealed: A plan to counter this certainty, one filled with promised glory yet holding tremendous risk all its own.

But before I can examine closely, Raziel’s tome turns the page.

 

Despite telling Krux not to, after waving off his wrecking crew the devil went and ordered Nick a fresh bottle of some possibly-potato hard alcohol. This so-called beverage had a weird neon-orange tinge to the liquid, like it had previously tried out for the job of being an orange slushy and failed. Greepa brought it over along with two filled glasses - one for me and one for Krux - before solemnly returning to the busted power panel to pry off the cover and inspect the fuses one by one. Apparently Nick didn’t need a glass, which was proven immediately by his taking a long swig direct from the bottle.

We sat there in a darkness punctuated by a single table candle’s flame, each of us sipping (or chugging) our drinks and not speaking.

Nick looked - and smelled - horrid. Like something scraped from the bottom of a restaurant’s rusty dumpster. Then again, who knows, maybe he had actually been taking naps in such a bin behind this place.

Finally I had to comment. “When was the last time you bathed? Seriously, I’ve had whiffs of demon guts fresher than you.”

He put down the bottle to squint with bloodshot and unfriendly eyes. “What…what are you even doing here?” When our gazes finally met, he quickly turned away.

“Foraging for information.”

“I wasn’t asking about this ass-end of a bar. I meant being back in Hell.”

With a click the light crystals turned on again, and Greepa closed the dented panel. This caused the tablet to beep from restored power, though no text appeared on the display. Reaching out to it, I reactivated the privacy field so the table was again bathed in green and verified that the device wasn’t recording or transmitting. Then I looked at Krux, or more specifically, at the line of beer foam smeared across his upper lip.

“Yo, Krux.”

“What.”

“You got something there,” I said, pointing generally towards his mouth. “Also - take a walk.”

He wiped the messy face with a shirtsleeve. “And if’n I don’t feel like it?”

“Then I may need to reconsider our friendship.”

Scowling, he stepped off the seat and dropped to the floor. “Fine.”

“Hey, take those recorders you stuck under the table along with you. Both of ‘em.”

The scowl brightened into an amused smirk. “Hard to resist an observant woman’s demands.” Easily reaching underneath, he plucked the dime-sized devices free, then grabbed his ale. “Taking this with me too.”

“All yours. Charge more to my account if this takes awhile.”

“Shit, don’t have to offer that twice. Have fun, kids!” He stepped beyond the privacy field, leaving me alone with the fallen angel desperately trying to reach bottom.

Said angel didn’t say anything more, instead only took another swig from the bottle. The last time I’d seen Nick, the Grigori-incarnate mage had been with Camael when they’d arrived (albeit late) to the Citadel where I’d just assisted a Beelzebub in defeating an angel possessed by the evil puppet master, Azazel. From what my best friend, Isaiah, had told me - Camael had essentially blackmailed Nick into being his guide here in Hell.

Specifically to aid in finding me.

Of course, this was all after the idiot mage had worked with the Grigori angel Sariel back on Earth and thereby gotten my niece killed - the same niece he’d once helped save from the sorcerer Callas Soren, who also just-so-happened to be the mundane identity of Prince Camael, angel and Regent of the Seat of Light.

To say our collective history was tortuously complex would be an understatement of literal Biblical proportions.

I sipped at the wine. A bit saccharine, but pretty good by Hell’s standards. Wasn’t Asmodian though, this stuff verged on being too sugary. Ah well. “Want to tell me why you’re pretending to be a bouncer?”

“Not particularly.”

“Alright, then know where Camael is? Or even Nathanael? Those two would probably have stuck together.”

He flinched, which was followed up with a wince. “Last I heard, Nathanael’s busy fighting incursions from the Chaos. Azazel’s stunt with the mace riled things up.”

“Is Camael with him?”

“No clue. Don’t care.” He stared at the orange swirling behind the thick glass.

“Something happen?”

“You know what he did. Aradia was there.”

Memory of a storm-of-storms surfaced. “Barakiel’s daughter - your daughter.”

“Yeah.”

“He cut you down.”

“Yeah.”

“So you couldn’t save her. Just like Aradia couldn’t save Saibh.”

“The fae’s spirit survived. My daughter’s didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” Eyes red with more than drink glared back. “Didn’t they do everything according to Aradia and Gabriel’s master plan?”

My cheeks squinched. “I don’t remember their plans. Not in full. Don’t think I’m supposed to - at least, not yet.” Saying the latter triggered shivers down the arms, as if an unrealized truth had solidified.

Lovely.

He looked away. “That’s gotta suck.”

“Maybe. Aradia expected her spirit to die, there at the end. But Azrael intervened. Gabriel may have foreseen her brother’s action - and she could have wanted me to have a clean restart. Guilt festering for too long becomes a poison of its own.”

“Restart or no, you’re still Aradia.”

“My spirit was hers, sure. But a lot’s changed since then. I’m beginning to think static unchanging aspects is a source of problems for many.”

He sat quiet for a moment, then switched the subject. “Nathanael is connected to you; haven’t you reached out?”

“And let all the fallen Sarim sense the signal? Think I’m naive enough to broadcast that I’m here, Nick? Or should I call you Barakiel now.”

“Call me whatever. It doesn’t matter.” He coughed - a deep rasping rattle of a cough - and spat something yellow and red into a napkin. He really did look awful, what skin could be seen between beard and grimy hair lurked pale and sallow. Conjuring some added light, I took a better look.

What I saw wasn’t good.

“Jesus, dude. You’re wounded.”

“Quit that!” He blocked the light with a tattooed palm and huddled further into the grimy coat. “And I certainly ain’t Jesus. As for this, ‘tis but a scratch.” He tried to say the last with more whimsy, but the breathing was too shallow to support the intended tone.

“That mess is soul-cursed. Can’t you heal it?” Under the leather, dark lines spread from below the padding he’d wedged over his stomach where cursed energy dug in like hooked fishing lines into his pattern. What’s worse, his angelic spirit wasn’t even trying to pry them free - if anything, the barbs had been grabbed and pulled further in. The padding slowly soaked up leaking blood, much like my old reaper wrap when my own wounded wings had kept manifesting their blood after getting stabbed by a Chaos sword.

Staring at the bottle on the table, he slowly rotated it in place. “Why should I.”

“Maybe I can help.”

Confused pain shot a glance, then looked away again. “You would, wouldn’t you? Of course you would. Because despite those bright eyes of yours, you’re as blind as Aradia ever was.”

“Excuse me?”

Angrily, he pointed the bottle at me. “Blind! So let me be!”

“If I’m blind, then tell me what the heck happened!”

“What always happens - I fucked up!” Snarling, he went to throw the bottle aside, but stopped himself before letting it go. Some of the remaining orange splashed over the glass neck. “I try to do what’s right, make the hard choices, but it always fucks up!”

“You got me to Danielle in time to save her, back when we first met. That wasn’t a fuckup.”

“Because it was all for you!” He coughed a shallow laugh, yet its depths sank with bitterness. “Creation bends to your oh-so-pretty toes, not mine. Never mine. Not during the Flood, not when the Seals broke, and not when I tried…” He caught himself, and with a glare swallowed more than just the orange contents. “It doesn’t matter what I do. Never has. Fight for Heaven, fight for my family, fight for friends - in the end I always lose. Creation doesn’t give a shit about a loser like me.”

“And yet it brought me here to you. Let me help.”

“Why??” The man, the angel, choked out the word. “You should hate me! Because of Danielle, if nothing else - maybe you were led here to get a well-deserved revenge.”

“What more revenge could I take than what you’re so clearly doing to yourself?”

He spat into a napkin again. “Then gloat! Go ahead! Drink your fill! And afterwards, piss off.” Finishing off the not-quite-vodka, this time the glass container went flying to the back of the booth where it smacked hard against the leather. “Go shine for the chosen ones. Let the rest of us eternally burn in peace.”

Tough bottle, though. It didn’t crack.

“What if - hey, hear me out - what if I was brought here so you could help me instead?”

He snorted. “Time for me to play the useful idiot sidekick again? Fuck that.”

“Then don’t be an idiot. Look, you don’t want to tell me why you’re sitting there with soiled underwear, fine. But there’s gotta be a reason we’ve been shoved together again, and not just because that sneaky and all-too-clever devil at the bar wanted to confirm a theory about who you were. Be angry at Creation all you want, but if someone is giving you a chance to do the right thing, don’t you think you should take it?”

“I’d just screw it up.”

“To quote someone from my travels today: Bullshit! So I’m going to tell you why I’m here. And you’re going to listen. It won’t take long.”

The seat creaked as he slunk further into it. “Whatever. You’re buying.”

Deciding I’d had enough of the cloying wine, I pushed it aside. “I’m here because Azrael’s son chucked the Book of Secrets past the Gates of Hell. It landed somewhere in Dis; I lost sight when it fell through the fires covering this twisted cyberpunk of a realm.”

“Azrael’s son? Matityah?” In spite of himself, his head lifted.

“You know him?”

“I…I did, yeah. I used to…I used to feel for the kid. His father was an ass.” He held up a marked palm. “I know, I know - you’re such great friends with his incarnate. I get that. But trust me - the original? He had no concept of how to love a child.”

I thought back again to Azrael and my time as Aradia. She could see the love within him in spite of his distant and judgmental nature. She…I…had that ability. Another child would have only seen the surface.

And a cold unmoving surface it was indeed.

But Nick was muttering to himself. “Dammit, Callas. You said the book was safe.”

“It should have been,” I said with a frustrated grunt. “But I believe Alal, or others working with her, stole it. Matityah’s been infected by Chaos, Nick. Between that and the Book, he’s not sane.”

“What did he try to do with it?”

“Shatter Elohim’s Gates and free Hell to start some major mayhem. He wants to kill his father’s Purpose. He wants to kill Death itself. No matter what that takes.”

“A Chaos-infected Nephelim is loose? Shit. Did you defeat him?”

“No. He hurled the Book across and took off. Said he didn’t have the mojo yet to succeed anyway. I sent the Powers after him, but I followed the Book.”

“That was stupid.”

“Was it?”

He groaned and put palm to his forehead. “You’d better hope he hadn’t read too many chapters then.”

“Why?”

“Because if he truly masters his potential? The Host will scorch entire galaxies to put him down.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“You should be.”

“Look, with the time differential - provided it lasts - maybe I can get back before anything else happens. I did it before, though I don’t remember exactly how. Which is why I want to find the Book - so I can figure that out.”

“That’s not the way it works.” He glanced at my mostly-full cup. “You gonna finish that?”

Disgusted, I slid the glass the rest of the way across the table. If it helped keep him talking, it’d be worth it. “Take it. And what do you mean?”

He drained the remaining candied mash in a single gulp. “It’s the Sepher Raziel. Don’t think of it as a physical book, it’s more an idea - even if you can hold it in your hand. You don’t search for it directly.”

“Weren’t you doing just that back in Aleppo?”

“No. I was searching for the mystery of what sat in those alcoves under the synagogue; I didn’t know exactly what was there. Just that it was potent and tied to the script I didn’t recognize covering Callas’ storage lockers.”

“And Callas Soren - Camael - used you and me to find it again. Even though he’d placed it there.”

“Yeah. He’d buried the idea of it. Our searching for secrets - like just who the heck we were and what by all that was holy was going on - allowed it to manifest again.”

“So how do I find it now?”

“Same way as then. You need to know what happened when you skipped through Chaos? Pursue understanding that and any other mysteries that bitch of Creation shoves your way. The more sacred the mystery being sought, the better the chances of the book appearing.”

“And if you’re one of those mysteries?”

That earned an orange-stained grimace. “Then maybe we’ll be forced to meet again. Because before you ask, I ain’t going with you.”

I stared at the wounded angel. I could help him. I knew I could.

But it would only truly work if he wanted it to.

Getting to my feet, I put another golden centurian on the table. “If you can use this, take it. If not, leave it as a tip.”

He picked the coin up. “Nice. Can get better quality booze with this.”

About to turn away, I paused. “You know, you said you’ve made the hard choices. Sometimes the hardest choice is to accept help when it’s offered.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you’re too stubborn to believe it. Or in the glow that’s still inside you.”

“All that’s inside a fallen wretch like me is a festering hole. Count on it.”

“On that, Barakiel of the Lightning, you are wrong. Find me should you ever figure that out.”

As I went to go, grungy fingers grabbed hold of a sleeve. “One more thing.”

“Yes?” I looked down at the dirty hand.

“I’m not the only one who stinks. Your spirit carries a weapon infused with Chaos, I can smell it. It’s unlike any shadow blade I’ve sensed before, but it’s there. Be careful how you use such a thing, they cut both ways.” He let go.

I debated telling him about the Spear of Destiny and Gwydion's blade of Chaos, forged together only a few crazy hours ago, and currently being held back by my spirit from manifesting. But I said nothing and walked away.

Maybe that would give him his own mystery to follow.

Leaving Nick behind the green privacy screen, I crossed the bar to stand next to Krux who’d already gone through two more mugs of ale.

“Learn anything?” The short devil stood atop the bar stool, clawed feet gripping the leather.

“Yeah.”

“Got a next move?” He asked it casually, but focus was sharply intent on whether I’d answer.

“I’m thinking I need to find this Apostle character. And from him you need to find out who disappeared your crew. ”

“So what’s the plan?”

Greepa slid a credit chit across the bar, and I picked it up. The token was a lot like a USB thumb drive, and a quick scan of the pattern revealed that the bartender hadn’t stiffed on the exchange. “I guess I go pretend to be just another newly arrived soul. For the second time.”

“Then I’ll order an additional round, and we’ll flesh out the details.” Krux grinned wide.

Realization of what that meant kicked in, and I groaned.

Dammit, I’d have to get naked again.

 

 

 

Chapter Six - Potatoes

 

“Why does one without need seek passage?”

The grey-cloaked spirit towering over me stood thirty-feet tall. With sandals straddling slowly rocking parallel top decks of a slender felwood boat, the voice boomed out from under a deep and shadowed hood. If the barren expanse behind had any features other than scattered ancient bone, the sound would have echoed mightily - but as things were it simply resounded loudly from above.

And given the message, I’d barely started this undercover investigation and already my cover was blown. Joy.

After having gotten what little information I could out of Krux and Greepa regarding how Dis processes newly arrived souls, I’d gone off with Tsáyidiel to stealthily wing our way to this realm’s boundary - to where fresh souls from Earth end up should this be their final destination. A much larger sack than initially requested had been loaded with coins, clothes, and Camael’s bracers for Tsáyidiel to hold onto, and therefore at the most furthest edge, there under the only gap to be found in the smothering skyfire, I’d re-manifested without wings or even a stitch of cloth.

What with the massive river surrounding the immense city and the roaring fires above, the heat and humidity would have had even folks from Texas exclaiming, ‘Well, daaamn!’

That expression, of course, precisely illustrated the situation.

With some further expert guidance from Tsáyidiel, I’d even concealed the mark on my palm, and expanded the spell which had attempted to disguise my bright self as just an average fallen soul.

Said spell had obviously failed against the boatman who’d stood there and watched for the entire time it had taken my poor bare feet to carefully hike across piles of crunchy bones in order to reach his dock. Most of the calcium deposits were human, but every twenty-yards or so the unique structure of a demon’s skeleton poked upwards.

Yeah, crossing all that had sucked. My soles were slick with the red of various experienced punctures.

With a sigh, I replied to the waiting spirit. “It’s that obvious, eh? Darn. Thought I’d done a good job.” While trying to figure out how to explain things, I noticed that the river under the boat churned and bubbled wildly, the emitted steam spitting an acrid scent into the air. A smell definitely not of water. “Good grief, is that boiling acid?”

“It is.”

Ignoring visions of melting into goo should any of that crap touch anything exposed (which comprised all of me at the moment), I pondered the spirit. He felt like a minor god and also an angel, which wasn’t making much sense. Whatever he’d been originally, his pattern now conformed to the single idea of being just one thing: the Boatman. There wasn’t anything else. Creation had enfolded him within that singular myth as well as that thick yet patchy woolen cloak, so that’s what he was here and now - and all he could be while stuck in this place.

“Can you ferry me across anyway?”

“Not without need. To ferry souls beyond that which they cannot cross is my purpose, for a price. Nothing more.”

“Well, I need to arrive on the other side by virtue of your boat. Otherwise my own reason for being here cannot be met. And similarly I’d need to make sure you don’t tell anyone how else I might have traveled and why. So from my point of view, I cannot cross your river on my own. Are we therefore at an impasse of purposes?”

The pock-marked chin visible from under the hood pursed pale lips in consideration. “No.”

“Awesome. So what’s the price?”

“That which has value.”

“Yeah, that’s usually how it works. But what do you value?”

“Souls.”

“Wait a minute,” I said with a frown. “If a soul arrives here, you expect them to offer themselves to cross? How does that work, you’d just let them go on the other side?”

“More shall arrive. When there are two, one may cross.”

That didn’t make any immediate sense. Except…except the piles of bones were higher closer to the dock.

Oh. Oh crud.

The stomach lurched. “What about coins? Legend has it you’ll take those, right?”

“Long has it been since burial currency held sufficient intent or enchantment to carry value.”

“Huh. So you need souls for their energy? Sounds demonic.”

“Sparks from the Source of All are required: required to maintain vessel, required to maintain self, required for safe passage. Torture to increase intensity of emotion is not. Safe passage applies to those who disembark, and those who remain.”

I nodded, having reached a decision. “Then stretch out your hand, ferryman, and receive payment.”

Without a word, a palm the size of an extra-large pizza extended from a sleeve to reach across the gap between boat and shore. After a moment’s focus, an intense brilliance fell into its center - as a single yet potent drop of light.

Fingers closed to swallow the tiny globe, and a shudder traveled up the arm and through the giant. For a moment, just the quickest of moments, crystalline wings not unlike my own flickered outward behind the cloak.

“You may board, sister. And may your Purpose be fulfilled.”

A plank extended above the three rows of oar-holes lining the side of the boat nearest the deck, and I crossed over. Under the top planks on that side, many souls sat chained to benches vertically and horizontally spaced ready to deploy massive oars resting across their knees.

They were entirely silent, and not a single bound crew member took any notice of my presence.

The spirit of the Boatman shifted size and position on deck, hand taking hold of the rudder in the back. With a lurch oars deployed, which first pushed against the dock until the gap was wide enough for the oars to drop into the acid masquerading as water. The oars, along with every plank, was not made only from incredibly hardy felwood.

No, every piece of wood comprising the ship from stem to stern had been imbued with a soul. Each and every one.

I backed away from the rails overlooking the dangerous liquid - anything needing to be countered with soulforged stability atop of felwood was simply nuts. There were also over a hundred and fifty rowers, but within the boat’s owner I sensed a great many more spirits tucked away. Thousands of them. He truly was a psychopomp - a being who ferried souls not just upon this boat but within his core.

Like what the similarly-hooded Azrael had once done with the remnants of Aradia’s spirit.

The Light I had gifted the Boatman slowly enfolded each of those internally held sparks. Some recoiled, but others - others flickered in eased comfort. But what had been offered would not last, as even now the intensity of the gifted power began to dissipate as it sank into everything.

Entropy held true, perhaps stronger here than anywhere else.

In unison the rowers backed us out into a low fog covering the river, and with a quick turning maneuver we began to float towards the largest city in Hell. Towards demons and devils, and all their bloody regimes.

For many, becoming the Boatman’s fee would have been a kinder fate.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Other than the sulfuric stench of the mist, the crossing was uneventful. At one point something leathery barely visible under the surface’s churn bumped the side, but whatever it was must have decided to go after different prey and swam on.

The Boatman ignored it entirely.

With the souls rowing us forward also remaining silent, the journey was calmly eerie and provided time for contemplation.

Or more precisely, time to stand there wondering just what the heck I was doing standing naked on the deck of a ship faking being a new arrival to Hell, and maybe - just maybe - capable of standing out enough to garner the attention of some kind of priest of a cult formed in my spirit’s honor. All without gaining too much notice by the fallen powers who hopefully would remain too distracted by their own violent games amongst themselves.

The quest was silly, but as the main target couldn’t be sought directly, what else could I do? Short of trying to navigate back to the Rock to regroup with the old team, there weren’t many palatable options. And doing that would leave the Book of Secrets to fall into the hands of anyone in Dis currently searching out a deep enough mystery.

Good times, right?

Meanwhile, constantly pressing firmly against perception was a spear reforged between Chaos and Order, darkly shining within metaphysical reach and humming with a power unlike any I’d felt before.

A recent conversation about the difficulties of manifesting angelic might came to mind: deploying the spear would be akin to launching a nuke to settle a bar-fight. Instinctively I knew that summoning it to hand would be all kinds of problematic, especially since the realm Dis sat upon wasn’t stable. If I wasn’t careful in general I could unravel the entire place, just like I’d come close to doing to a fae realm back when I’d barely started to power up.

So I had that to worry about, which yielded an irritating symmetry between inner mood and the surroundings.

Eventually the boat pulled up to a dock sticking out of a tall cliff made of the same obsidian stone as the city towers beyond. An artificial cave passage had been dug (or blasted) through that cliff which opened onto dark boards the ship slipped next to as oarsmen pulled in their instruments, and the will of the Boatman held the ship still against the dock despite the rushing current underneath.

Handy, that. No need for rope.

A squad of demons, each over seven feet tall and holding electric cattle-prods - sorry, soul-prods - assembled at the end of the dock, effectively blocking the passage into the cave. Behind them sat a pair of wheeled trucks, rear beds lined with benches not unlike those in Krux’s squad ship except for the numerous embedded chains. Their leader, a lady of ridiculous body proportions as if she’d been drawn by a repressed male teenage shut-in, stepped forward holding a tablet expectantly as the plank extended. While her military uniform matched the rest of the squad, the buttons over the overly-endowed chest clearly protested the strained situation as if they’d pop free should she but jump up and down. A slender prehensile tail tipped with a spike wrapping around a leg completed the look.

I, being the newly arrived soul that I was, stood still while taking in the squad and the complete lack of anywhere to run.

The Boatman’s voice echoed off the huge obsidian cliff above us.

“Disembark. Or join boat. Choose.”

Begrudgingly, I stepped off the ship, bare and bloody toes careful to not slip on the acid-washed smoothness of the wood.

The lady demon peered from behind a triple-lensed set of glasses set over a pile of makeup, blinking three painted eyes in disapproval. “Oi, Boatman! One passenger only? You’re supposed to gather at least fifteen per docking!”

Captive oarsmen pushed off the dock as the only reply, and the ship quickly disappeared back into the mist - leaving me alone with the squad of bored demonic guards.

Alright, so most of them weren’t all that bored. As yeah, they were staring in my direction with the usual lustful violence I’d gotten accustomed to before.

Demons, what’re you gonna do?

Crossing arms over the main targets of their stares (which were nowhere near as impressive as the ones adorning the girl with the electric notebook), I glared back at them all, refusing to shrink from the obvious leers.

The lady sergeant - proclaimed as such by the insignia on her lapel - growled. “This inefficiency is going in my report!” Pointing to me she then shouted, “Prisoner! Front and center!”

Having fond thoughts of taking away that tablet and employing it as a club upon her painted face, I stepped forward. “Prisoner? Fuck you.”

Instead of getting angrier, red lips parted with a point-filled smile. “Attitude, eh? Excellent. You’re gonna need it. The Boatman explain where you are?”

“Let’s see: big explosion, pain everywhere, followed by giant dude on a boat surrounded by fucking skeletons. Wasn’t all that hard to figure out.” Deliberately I slid into a better balanced stance.

Three eyes squinted hard. “You gonna give me trouble?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“How good are those guards?”

“They’re demons.”

“So?”

That actually confused her. “You’re not afraid?”

“Fear is a tool.”

She put a hand over the pistol buckled to the exaggerated hour-glass waistline. Seriously, the danged holster almost lay sideways clipped to that belt. “Pretending to be some kind of bad-ass only works if the bluff ain’t called.”

I shifted toes again and grinned. “Who’s pretending?”

Whatever she saw got her to nod approvingly. “This realm is indeed not for the weak. But think: you know nothing of where you are or the dangers you face. If you want to be more than a swallowed stone, come quietly and learn. The strong rise in Dis - but true strength is more than raw power and fighting skill.”

Making a show of considering, I finally agreed. “Fine.” I returned to standing neutrally. “Now what?”

“Hands behind your back.” She pulled cuffs from the narrow belt and I allowed her to put them on.

And no, the uncomfortable metal wasn’t lined with felt.

She marched me forward, yanking a wrist as her freshly decorated talons dug into skin. As we approached the guards they turned in unison with synchronized boot stomps, leaving us flanked by two lines.

When we got closer to the trucks a guard - humanoid except for short horns sticking through the helmet - reached gloved fingers out to grope and pinch my exposed chest.

Fuck no.

By the time his squadmates had time to react, the offender’s kneecap had gone sideways and my legs were wrapped tight around his throat - having already used them to slam the jerk the rest of the way to the floor.

I’d also slipped the cuffs under my feet to get arms in front.

With back pressed against stone ground I snarled, “Any closer and I’ll snap his neck!”

A voice called out. “Do it.”

The sergeant had moved to stand over us with pulled pistol. Except she wasn’t aiming at me. The business end held a steady line towards the center of the green-scaled and gasping face of the demon who was probably wishing he’d buckled the straps of the helmet now laying in the dust besides us.

“What?” Thighs tensed further, causing additional gurgles.

A sneer crossed the heavily-lipsticked mouth. “Squad!” she called out. “What is the rule!”

In unison they shouted back. “The strong rise! The weak fall!”

Grunting with the effort of holding the struggling demon getting choked out, I shook my head. “You want me to kill him?!” I was lucky, the guy’s thick gloves were preventing his claws from making a mess of my thighs.

“It is your right.”

“He’s one of yours. That’s crazy!”

“His failure has unearned the privilege.”

It was clear across her many eyes: she was going to kill him if I didn’t. And a single soul dimly glowed within the guy’s chest. Recalled battlefields of slaughter filled mind and sinuses with visions and scents of gore best forgotten - so many demons had been killed by my hand or on my orders.

What was one more?

But was that really what I was supposed to be? Was I meant to deliver divine retribution against beings whose very nature drove them to be the evil that they were?

Hank’s voice sounded from memory: “If men are not potatoes, what are demons?”

I still didn’t have a good answer, but I did suddenly have an idea. To my hidden angelic panther who was but a hairbreadths away from finalizing the entire squad of demons should I but command it, I shot the thought and image of what I needed him to do.

“My Queen! This one is unworthy! Allow me to-”

“No! Beloved Hunter, can you do what I have asked or no?”

“I…I can, my Queen. I shall.”

“Then be ready.”

The lady sergeant’s finger tensed against the trigger. “If you will not end him, then I-”

“Wait!” With metal links clinking around wrists, I grabbed at the shaggy green hair on the back of the groping demon’s head right above the squiggly brand of his current master. Crunching abdominals, I leaned forward to hiss in his ear. “Your life is mine, you hear me demon? You’ve got one chance to live: swear to serve me! Got it? Or that crazed bitch is going to shoot you. Nod if you understand!”

The hair gripped in my fingers tugged once.

“Okay then. When I loosen my thighs from your throat, swear it!” I glared at the lady with the gun, as if daring her to go ahead and piss me off further.

She didn’t. And when air was again allowed to be sucked down the captive demon’s windpipe, he immediately choked out his promise:

“I swear! I’ll serve!”

Familiar pain blossomed across my right palm, and for a brief moment - just barely an instant - the hidden star upon it flashed into view.

And also across the skin under the hair at the back of the demon’s neck.

The golden stars, however, immediately shifted as Tsáyidiel’s camouflage spell covered them - becoming something close but not quite the same: instead of four-pointed stars, what shone forth were a pair of golden daggers, each with a crimson drop hanging from their suspended tips. It was the first image that had flashed into mind and I’d gone with it when sharing it across our link, but now I remembered where I had seen it before.

Alal. Lucifer’s daughter and Archon of Chaos had worn these as ruby-tipped earrings when last we’d met. Someday my subconscious - or higher spirit or whatever - and I were going to have another long talk.

But right now I was busy.

Sergeant Boy's-Wet-Dream frowned, and the gun swung towards me. “Your hand. Open it!”

I did so.

She stared and the glasses reflected what glowed across my skin. “A new mark. The realm truly acknowledges your power as superior to his.” Three eyes shifted to meet mine, filled with caution and potential awe. “Just who are you, girl?”

Untangling legs from the groping demon, I kipped up to my feet - and the move kept the cuffed hands in front. “Someone not to fuck with.”

A cold calculation flickered across the mascaraed face. “He is yours. But the uniform and weapons are not. Blorph! Strip! As she is our prisoner, so now are you!”

Blorph (whose true name was much longer and harder to pronounce) looked to me. I nodded for him to comply, and soon the muscled and scruffy foliage-haired demon was wincing as he sat on the ground besides me in pale boxers, socks, and a black undershirt.

Apparently even the boots had been provided.

The squad gathered what had been his stuff, but their leader kept just staring at me.

“What?” I glared back.

“As a new arrival, we have orders to keep you fed. His feeding is your responsibility.”

I looked at my newest recruit. “Hey Blorph, you got whatever passes for money in this place?”

Keeping eyes downcast, he nodded. “Some.”

“And technically it all belongs now to me, right?”

He went paler - an impressive feat given the green scaled skin - and nodded again.

“Then use it to buy rations for yourself for however long we’re stuck dealing with whatever this is.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Can you walk?”

Trying to stand, he failed to hide a wince as the knee wobbled wrongly. Reaching down, he popped the patella back into place. He didn’t cry out, and after testing his weight the leg looked more stable. With a suppressed shudder he stepped forward and nodded.

“Good.” I ignored the single tear of pain escaping down his cheek and waved towards the waiting truck. “So what’s next? We load up on that thing and then enjoy a hose-down or something before meeting the cellmates?”

The sergeant grinned again and answered. “Procedure is to return to base and perform intake interviews. But if the driver hurries, you’ll join the previous crop’s evaluation demonstration.”

“Didn’t I just demonstrate enough?”

“Enough to know I don’t want you under my watch, woman. Congratulations, you passed the interview.”

“Splendid. Which means what, exactly?”

“It means,” she said with a nasty laugh, “that you’ll go directly to the Harrowing.”

Well didn’t that just sound fun.

Not.

 

 

Chapter Seven - Coffee

 

The ride through the paved cavern tunnels was short but bumpy as the transport’s suspension had clearly died a squealing death at least ten to twenty firestorms ago. I’d been locked into position in the middle of a squad again, though this time opposite me wasn’t a cranky diminutive devil blowing smoke but rather a sullen swamp-green demon similarly shackled into place whose inner rage boiled and simmered.

As evident by the constant glares of resentment and brewing rebellion he kept shooting across the aisle whenever he thought I wasn’t paying attention. My sympathy meter didn’t move much in response, I was too busy being happy that they’d given me a bright orange prison jumpsuit.

Hey, it would never have won any fashion shows but it certainly beat being naked.

Branching off from a wider tunnel we eventually arrived at their local holding facility, complete with defense in depth security including concrete bollards and staggered guard stations.

As Blorph and I marched inside side-by-side, I leaned closer to him and asked, “What’s with the heavy security? Are new arrivals typically that dangerous?”

I swear teeth squeaked as the jutting jaw unclenched to answer. “Unclaimed souls are housed until auction. There’s been raids.”

Sergeant pinup approached a lobby’s desk complete with protective glass and computer station. She gestured with her tablet, first at me and then at Blorph, and proceeded to explain to the taller mountain of a scowling demon - himself perched precariously on an entirely inadequate swivel chair - how exactly to enter the unusual circumstances into the system.

This gave me the chance to probe Blorph for more information. “Tell me about this ‘Harrowing’.”

More toothy scraping commenced. “Groups of souls with high survival potential get dropped in the outskirts. Any that make it to the assigned destination, their bidding value is higher. Run, hide, fight - what matters is making it.”

I frowned. “Isn’t that risky with the merchandise? You just said there were raids.”

“The area is secured.”

“So it’s more of a controlled hunt by you guards to test their mettle.”

Sharp teeth in desperate need of brushing sneered. “Yeah. And there are those on the team who owe me debts, ‘mistress.’”

Unable to contain it, I chuckled. “Is that a threat?”

The sneer widened as he exhaled. “A warning to she whom I now serve.” Ugh, he badly needed mouthwash too. Whatever dental plan was offered, this guy hadn’t taken advantage. Ew.

I was about to verbalize a snarky retort to that effect, but the sergeant turned to yell at us again.

“You!” she shouted, waving the tablet at two of the four squad members she’d assigned as our escort. “Take Blorph to cell block eight.”

They pushed Blorph forward which caused the knee to go out again, so they grabbed him by the armpits and pretty much dragged him out.

Which left just little ol’ me.

Without so much as an adieu, I was force-marched past steel-reinforced doors and into an interrogation room. You know the type: metal chairs facing each other across a table with convenient ringlets to chain the handcuffs, surrounded by one-way glass and several cameras with blinking red lights, plus an impatient demon with lengthy brown skirt, lighter blouse, thick glasses for two yellow eyes and, I kid you not, a black beehive hairdo.

Fortunately one without actual bees.

Even as the flanking guards shoved me into the chair she started speaking, dark purple and sharp fingernails clasping one of those stylus things allowing the user to scribble directly onto electronic tablets - one which had been beeping loudly when we walked in until she swiped right to shut it up. “Before we start, know that we got spells to tell when you’re lyin’. Name?”

“They called me Jane.” I was good and didn’t laugh. There weren’t any truth spells in here, that was a total bluff. Still - the best lies get served within folds of truth. Plus this demon herself might have been especially perceptive - after all, seven souls pinged the senses from inside her gut, more than any other demon here had managed. Which meant she was probably in charge and that she’d have the strength to punch through these reinforced walls if she felt like it.

“Last or patronymic?”

“Baghdadi.”

Magnified mustard looked dubiously at my pale skin and scarlet-red hair.

I shrugged. “The family tree is complex.”

“Country of origin?”

“United States,” I said before adding, “Earth.”

A bony eyebrow raised with a scowl. “Don’t be cute.”

I kept my mouth shut. Not that I was feigning innocence or anything, the mark across my palm indicated that ship had already sailed across its own foul waters.

“Age?”

“Best guess by authorities was eighteen. Like I said, complicated.”

She grunted with annoyance while marking another box on her form. “Great. Another kid. Got any useful skills?”

“Useful?”

“This ain’t an application for college. You know anything practical? And if you say you excelled at leading a diverse squad of cheerleaders I’m a gonna break those long legs of yours.”

Time to pad the resume to attract the interest of the hackers working for this Apostle guy. Unless they somehow had agents already in place, it’d be through the computers that they’d learn who best to acquire. Though hopefully the whole marking of a demon thing had already done enough to stand out and get their attention. “Software databases. Combat field tactics, fighting with weapons and hand-to-hand. Magic theory and practice.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. And if you try for my legs, as I’m cuffed to this stupid table I’ll have to demonstrate the last one. Though I’d rather not; keeping things from exploding proved tricky.”

“Has it.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

She snorted, smoke billowing from wide nostrils lurking under the glasses. She was laughing. “Funny. Where’d you get your training?”

“School of hard knocks.”

“For magic? That ain’t learned on the streets.”

I shrugged. “Dad was a guitarist.”

“Heavy metal?”

“Nah, flamenco. The Romani know their shit.”

The stylus tapped against the tablet. “That where you learned how to bind one of us into service?”

“Lucky guess in the moment.”

The scribbling stopped and she gave a hard yellow stare. “Now that is some grade-A graxhshit. I like you, girl, even though you stink of trouble. Rare it is for a female to arrive spittin’ attitude and then backin’ it up. But I ain’t got time to chat further about these claims of yours - I’ve got a high-tower jackass demanding a call back pronto-like. ‘Sides, you’ve already been designated for the Harrowing due to your little stunt - survive and we’ll have a more meaningful talk. We’ll dig into why a girl your age ain’t freaking out about being surrounded by demons.”

I matched her glare with one of my own. “Freaking out doesn’t solve problems. Breaking kneecaps does.”

She grinned. “Ain’t that the truth.” Standing, she pointed the stylus towards the door and addressed the thugs - sorry, guards - that had been standing silently just inside the room. “Current potentials are loading up with Sergeant Yurglith. Get her outfitted and over there.”

As they unshackled wrists from the table, my stomach growled. “Any chance for a snack first?”

More smoke blew out her nose. “Hunger sharpens the senses. Now git. And if you try any more funny business, you’ll be cut down where you stand. Your soulstone should still fetch a good price even with the unknowns; some high rollers enjoy a little spice in their meals.”

We got.

More specifically, I was escorted to a clothes room packed with shelves full of not-entirely-clean items likely dredged from some flawed battlestation’s garbage compaction pit. Told to find something ‘suitable’, I rummaged through the contents, letting loose a few choice curses about being too tall for the female offerings, and too skinny for the menswear.

Given that combat was on the immediate menu, this required finding something to give proper chest support for calisthenic activities. Unfortunately, no tools such as needle and thread or even scissors were provided no matter how much I scowled at the guards. Therefore a super long shirt hastily had sleeves ripped off (using teeth to start the tear) before folding it about so the ends could be tightly tucked into place. It wasn’t the best and certainly didn’t hide the still-bouncing assets, but it’d do - even if I’d likely have to re-tuck after any physical engagement.

That issue addressed, and with a pair of only slightly musty granny panties reluctantly deployed, another long black shirt was then donned to fall over decently flexible graxh-hide pants (identifiable by the off-green coloring and lingering odor) - with a thicker leather belt cinched around the waist. And I do mean cinched, as without a hole-punch I’d had to improvise a knot. A vest of material thicker than the pants was tossed on for good measure - it hung loose due to its size, but would provide at least some protection for my back if I got tossed around.

As, you know, one does.

I even found some sturdy boots that would work, though they required donning four pairs of socks before long and slender feet stopped sliding around even with laces pulled as tight as possible. Scrounging further resulted in two mismatched gloves - one brown and missing two fingers entirely, and the other black.

All I needed was to be wrapped in silver chains (not the literal shackle kind, but ones with grinning skull motifs) and I’d have made a decent extra for a post-apocalyptic film, especially with the current spiky and nuclear-fire hairdo. And it sure as heck beat the orange prisoner’s duds, which if worn outdoors would have lost anti-stealth competitions only to an outfit painted with large concentric circles and flashing arrows proclaiming ‘shoot here!’ to anyone with any kind of visual acuity.

Which I suppose was the entire bright neon point.

To solve the problem of the hair making an equally obvious target (as the guards also rudely refused to lend a razor), another dark shirt transformed into a head wrap. After that I grabbed two canteens: one for the belt, and one with a shoulder strap. With any luck we’d be allowed to fill them - or else why have them available? Finally after some consideration I grabbed a bluish shirt made for a giant and tied its long sleeves around the waist as well. The fabric seemed cleaner than the rest, and while I doubted we’d get cold with all the heat outside, extra fabric for makeshift bandages would probably be useful. This done, I was as ready as I was going to be.

Or so I told myself.

Another march down brightly-lit metal-lined hallways - with a gracious allowance for a stop at a water fountain to fill those canteens - and we were back to the loading dock where another truckbed full of shabbily-dressed men immediately whistled and stared in my direction with obvious hate-filled lust.

Except they weren’t demons.

Despite not being chained at the ankles, I paused as the wave of their disgusting desires swept past. These were hard souls - and with the surge of their response to the presence of a still obviously attractive female came flickered glimpses into their personal histories. Killers, rapists, thieves - images of their ill and bloody deeds smoldered within.

It wasn’t the quantity that got to me, but the condensed impurity of it. I’d been used to demons broadcasting bathtubs full of instant coffee, but here were mugs of quadruple shots of espresso.

As the gut twisted in revulsion, I was immediately thankful I hadn’t been granted any food.

They had come from all over the Earth. Asians, black Africans, Middle-Easterns, Caucasians, from everywhere. Nineteen men with skin and features as diverse as their inner selves were the same: filled with rage and empty need.

Plus fear.

Most of all they stank of fear.

Except for one. A middle-aged man of average stature with short dark locks and no facial hair sat chained at the end of the row, right next to the empty seat the guards then locked me into after forcibly encouraging a climb onto the truck. The guy simply watched with blank and empty brown eyes, appraising yet emotionless. The age behind that gaze was a mismatch to his face, but some souls manifest as much younger than they’d been when they died so that wasn’t a surprise.

Except I’d seen eyes like those before.

In the resigned hollow orbs of my beloved Tsáyidiel, before the Light had set him free.

Sergeant Yurglith, a four-armed weightlifter who seemed to like keeping pistols in two of those hands at all times, stood before the pair of trucks. The other vehicle had the demonic squad of prisoner escorts aboard and ready, but he was attempting to talk into a radio - which the catcalls and sexist commentary lofted in my direction from the souls aboard my assigned truck kept interrupting.

“SHUT IT!” With that shout he also took aim at two of us at random, and the noise instantly died down. He then returned attention to whoever was on the other end of the handheld device, switching back to the demonic tongue. “Whaddya mean wait? We’re loaded, even got that newly arrived solo bitch on board.”

As tempting as it was to try and tap into the transmission, that would have required lowering the empathic shields I’d just put up. Not that there was much more to the conversation.

“Fine, I’m heading there now.” Slipping the radio back onto the uniform’s belt, he turned to address his squad. “Stay put! Mother needs a word.” Facing us prisoners, he growled again in soul-speak. “And keep the din to a minimum!” With that he marched inside.

A few of the souls sported fresh bruises to faces and arms, though I wasn’t sure if they’d gotten those from the guards or each other. Either way, they stayed quiet - and with my only reactions being cool stares which emphasized absolute utter lack of regard or interest, they mostly returned to inward sullen wariness.

The man next to me leaned slightly closer and spoke quietly, intended for only me to hear. He had a rather aristocratic Spanish cadence and the accent still bled through.

“Do not let these animals get to you.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Excellent. Most here will run instead of fight.” He said it calmly, yet the words were still laced with disgust.

“Hard to fight when we’re chained down.”

“We shall be set loose upon arrival.”

Playing dumb, I said, “Guess I missed the briefing. Where we goin’?”

“This has not been made clear, only that those of us who make it through what comes will be appraised at greater value.”

“You sure we want to be rated higher?”

“If someone is worth more, there are always expanded possibilities. Is this not true?”

“Dunno about that. Prime rib gets eaten sooner than chuck.”

He paused. “Say more.”

“Demons eat souls, it’s how they get their power. Supply and demand rules apply: the stronger the soul, the higher the demand.”

“And you know this…how?”

“Been studying ‘em for awhile.”

“Then you also are one who knew wherein lay your eternity. You have prepared for this eventuality?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

He sat back and reconsidered his thinking. After a minute he leaned back over.

“And you are an expert?”

“More like someone who’s picked up a few things here and there.”

“Do they have particular weaknesses?” The guy was direct and to the point. And he’d asked without emotion, only sheer clinical evaluation.

“Other than magic against their true names, it’s the same as humans for the most part. Overconfidence, overestimation of their superiority and intelligence, that sort of thing. A kick to their happy-fun-time spots still works wonders - if you can figure out where those are.”

“Yet they are clearly stronger.”

“A one-soul demon is about equal or at least within the potential brackets. But as they munch more - provided they can keep ‘em down - they grow in power. Not sure what the scale is, but it’s kinda exponential at the low end before becoming more linear at the higher amounts.”

“Higher amounts?”

“Some dukes have swallowed thousands.”

He didn’t flinch at that, merely accepted it. “And are these dukes vulnerable to the guns our jailers carry?”

“Not likely. You’re talking demonic sorcery at that power level, not sure if they’d reach nuclear bomb equivalents but it doesn’t require a nuke to take out a city. Enough lower-yield bombs will do the trick just fine.”

“So us mere souls have no direct chance against them.”

“Against the high bosses and their best warriors one-on-one? No way. But even in human history have giants been brought to heel enough to leave the little guys alone.”

“And these true names you mentioned? What of them?”

“They jealously guard ‘em. Usually only their mothers know since she gave it - which make for some messed up mommy issues. And it’d take a trained practitioner to utilize their name even if you knew it.”

“Interesting. But still, we are caught in quite a conundrum.”

“Yeah. Fight too well and a more powerful jerkface will use us as a lollipop to get at our juicy centers. Fight poorly and, well…”

He finished the thought. “And we shall end up the same as those we offered up so as to board the boat and enter our damnation.”

“Pretty much.”

“A tricky needle to thread.” He stretched shoulders as best he could, what with hands being cuffed and chained to the seat. “You move like a fighter, and observe like a warrior. Is this from training or direct experience?”

The gut went hard. Difficult not to be paranoid when surrounded by multiple potential rapists. “Why do you want to know?”

He didn’t even try to offer a reassuring smile. “In order to determine how difficult it will be to preserve your presence. You know much that I do not.”

“You’d protect me?”

“It appears to be to my advantage to do so.”

“Wow. Most guys would at least pretend to be a white knight to get into a girl’s pants.”

Now he grinned, but it was an expression formed of ice. “I know precisely what I am, and well have I earned the condemnation of God. I am no knight.”

“You seem strangely at peace with that.”

“Why should I not? My wife and children all live, and they are well provided for.”

“But you’re now in Hell, and will never see them again. Not unless they someday fall here too.”

“There are many devils with whom one may make bargains. I am content with mine. For what is a hunter but he who provides meat for table and family?”

I thought of Tsáyidiel - lurking quietly in the nearby shadows - and replied without thinking. “A true hunter returns to the table to rejoice and eat the provided bounty alongside their family.”

The smile faded. “Alas, in my case this became impossible.”

A long pause settled between us. Eventually I broke the silence and gave answer to his original question. “Direct experience. Including open war. My hands are likely bloodier than yours.”

“Thank you.” He offered a polite nod. “This is good to know. Though I do suspect from this brief conversation that the stains running across my fingers flowed much colder.” The doors to the prison opened again, and he turned to look. “Ah, here comes the sergeant. Now we shall see what comes next.”

Gallons of instant versus hardpacked espresso. Maybe there really wasn’t a comparison between the two.

 

 

 

Chapter Eight - Knives

 

We rode for at least a couple hours if not more. At the speeds the trucks could reach, the wind’s whipping past in all the tunnels made further conversation with the guy next to me impossible - though before we’d pulled out he’d introduced himself as Santiago.

I’d told him to call me Jane, and neither of us were rude enough to point out that we’d obviously given aliases.

Having unloaded by the trucks into a sloppy line of hapless souls at what appeared to be a cavern’s dead end, Sergeant Yurglith graced us with yet more shouting.

“Listen up, worms! This here is your Harrowing. Prove your mettle, survive, and maybe the city of Dis can make better use of you than turning your sorry asses into bricks.”

That earned some puzzled and worried looks from the headlights-illuminated motley crew, though no one braved interrupting him.

Smart.

Pulling out a small metallic orb decorated with a few tiny colored buttons, he pushed a green one and it projected a three-dimensional image into the air before us. Little dots of red and blue blinked at the top with a pattern matching us souls, the two trucks, and the squad that had spread out in a semicircle preventing any rush in the only direction of travel seemingly available.

The monochrome green lines representing the ground beneath our feet expanded downward however, showing a maze of tunnels - maybe sewer infrastructure at the top - spiraling through the earth until opening into a massive cavern. As the view pulled back, the cavern gained resolution to reveal it wasn’t empty.

The expansive space filled with what appeared to be an enclosed town big enough to house thousands of residents, with two to three story buildings and streets running between them. A larger structure sat at the center, complete with defensive towers, moat, and battlements.

Yep, someone had built a medieval castle in the middle of an underground city.

The sergeant continued. “Your task is to make your way through to here,” he growled, pointing at the map where the tunnels ended above one side of the town. “With the rope we’re gonna give you, repel down to this rooftop and then cross through the abandoned city. The goal is to get inside that castle, see what’s in there, and get out the way you came in.”

I decided to play stupid and raised a just-released hand. “How abandoned is it?”

Yurglith smirked. “Good question. Go find out.”

A tall but lean guy in our line muttered, “Fucking recon.”

I was about to ask another question when the ground under us groaned and shifted. Not enough to knock any of us over, but having grown up in California I immediately recognized the swaying for what it was.

An earthquake. A small one, but still.

The guards didn’t spook at the quake, keeping their guns aimed at us - guns all with bright green LEDs just above their thumbs. But several souls crouched in panic, putting hands over their heads as the rocks above covered us with a thin layer of falling dust. The thought of crawling through tunnels suddenly became a lot less appealing.

“The faster you get this done,” said the sergeant while ignoring the shaking, “the sooner you’re back at our post. We may even feed you.”

As the stone under our feet settled, the multi-armed sergeant shouted to his crew. Two large duffel bags got yanked off their truck and dropped before us. Unzipping them revealed the promised rope and climbing gear - and also a pile of various energy launching weapons much like those the guards were holding.

“Gear up!” Yurglith shouted as he turned off the map. “And before you think of using those power-slingers against us, know that they’re coded to not fire within range of anyone in my platoon. Said range is about a hundred and fifty cubits, max. They also won’t work outside these tunnels and that playground below. You go down the hole in ten. Be ready!”

Interesting to know. Due to the unit conversions learned when last I was in Hell, that meant their range was useless beyond about two hundred and twenty feet. Or about two-thirds of a football field. Ugh. They’d be worthless for long-range sniping in that town.

As the more eager among us immediately huddled around the blasters, with the expected shoving and cursing as they greedily grabbed at them, I ignored all that and walked up to the sergeant. He raised a ridged eyebrow and barked, “What?”

I peered up at him. “Got any blades?”

“You got guns. Go grab one before they’re none left.”

“I don’t see any spare power packs. How many shots are each even good for? And you gonna give us time to practice with them before we go down that hole?” I pointed to the open manhole (soulhole?) near the dead end’s wall. Its heavy cover had been pulled off, resting only a foot or so away.

He chuckled. “And what kind of bladed weapon would you want?”

“Against assholes bigger than me, a glaive. But that won’t fit worth shit through those tunnels. Daggers, knives - heck, a machete would be nice. Likely a lot quieter than those boomsticks too unless they have a silencer setting.”

“They don’t.” He stared for a long moment then nodded. “You’re clever, little lady. But don’t be too clever.” Turning to his squad, he called out to them in demonic. “Give her something more to her liking!”

After a moment’s hesitation quickly squelched by the sergeant’s stern impatience, a few items appeared from their personal armaments. A pair of boot knives three inches in length was offered, and to my surprise an actual machete as requested - along with a double-edged slender dagger, and even a single-edged seven-inch blade almost exactly like a Green Beret’s ‘Yarborough’ knife complete with belt sheath.

Much to the amusement of the sergeant, I took the entire lot. Even flipped and caught each one a few times to get a sense of their balance.

They weren’t bad. Not great either, but not horrible.

Turning to the souls, the bags of things that went zap lay empty and a few of the larger guys had wrapped coils of rope around their chests like bandoleers. Santiago was bent over examining the contents of a smaller backpack, laying out a set of tools including carabiners and other items I wasn’t familiar with.

I may have been stuck on the Rock for a couple years, but there hadn’t been much call for actual rock climbing. Scaling ladders we’d used, sure, but I’d never had to ascend the ice volcano at the center.

At least, not by using hands and feet.

Stepping past the grinning idiots busy fondling their new power toys, I moved to Santiago and pointed at his new gear with the machete. “You know how to use all that?”

“Yes.” He looked up, noting the various knives now tucked into place. Shaking his head, he pulled one of two pistols from his waistband and held it out. “Take it. As you can see I have another.”

“No thanks. I don’t trust any weapon someone can turn off remotely.”

He turned it in his hand, considering. The light on its side blinked red.

“Here.” Retrieving one of the knives from my boot, I offered it along with the Yarborough. “You should always have two backups you can count on.”

Inclining his head in thanks he took them, fastening them into place. “You do not trust the guns, but you trust me?”

“Trust? No. Work with to mutual advantage? Yeah.”

That earned an evaluating nod, and he began returning the climbing tools into the pack.

While he did that, I moved away from him and the others to be closer to the manhole. Taking a knee, I bowed my head as if in prayer - knowing that would look pretty darn weird considering where we were.

Except I wasn’t praying.

Hiding the glow from eyes against a forearm, I scanned the tunnels below us. Sure enough they weren’t empty. The traces down there weren’t demonic or strong enough to be classified as devils, but there were hell-beasts of some kind scattered throughout. Having memorized the projected map, it was clear we would come across them on the way to the exit.

Yeah, that wouldn’t do.

I lifted my head and sent out a thought. “Tsáyidiel!”

“My Queen?”

“There are critters in the tunnels. Some trigger-happy idiot will just as soon shoot a comrade down there than the actual target. When you can do so without being observed, get in and clear the path, then wait near the exit to that caverned town.”

“If I do I will be unable to protect you from the, as you put it, ‘trigger-happy idiots.’”

“I’ll be fine. Right now we need to protect them from themselves.”

“These are evil men, my Queen. Their souls are bathed with the blood of innocents. You wish their protection?”

“I…yeah, for now. The more of them that make it back, the less suspicion will be on my cover.”

“As you command.”

There was a brush of wind and he was on his way.

No one saw a thing, not even me.

Making tracks back to the sergeant who was busy taking a smoke break with his demons, I gestured over a shoulder at the open hole behind. “Hey, there’s no light down there. We’re gonna need flashlights.”

One of his extra hands still holding the map device flipped it to me. “Push the yellow button.”

Catching it, I did as instructed. The baseball-sized orb immediately lit up as if it was a free-floating lightbulb. I pushed the button again to turn it off. “What’s the blue and red buttons for?”

“When you reach the target, push the blue and wave it about. It’ll record the surroundings. And if you happen to be the last survivor about to get creamed, push the red one.”

“Let me guess: it goes boom?”

He again gave a toothy grin. “Yeah. And if you return without it, you’ll wish you’d been in its range.”

Charming.

Looking back at the souls all now staring at me, I pointed at one. “You! Yeah, you. Did you get all that?”

The guy, who was Asian and with the way he moved probably had some military training, nodded. “Yes.”

“Great.” I underhand tossed the device to him. “You get to be in front.”

“What? Why?” Having grabbed it from the air on instinct, he then stared at the orb wide-eyed like it was a hot potato.

“You’re the shortest, you’ll block less of our only light for those of us stuck following your ass.”

Wanting to object, he looked around only to find that the rest of the souls either agreed or didn’t want to be first. Santiago and a few of the others openly chuckled.

The sergeant, deciding that was the cue to send us on our way, bellowed, “Form up!”

We did so, Santiago deliberately placing himself behind me in the line. Appreciating my comment about the limited lighting, the larger men shuffled to the rear. The two biggest (one pale and the other deeply-tanned) threw hands to see who’d be stuck at the very back.

Paper beat rock, and the prone-to-sunburn offensive lineman became our caboose. Sadly our lead car didn’t toot like a train as we proceeded into the hole and the dark.

Hey, I at least would have chuckled.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Behind me someone grumbled. “Why the fuck is the ground so sticky?”

It had taken awhile to work our way through the sewer levels to reach the transition point to the tighter tunnels. The entrance to those was disquieting - as instead of the obvious industrial construction we’d just passed through, the wall and passage beyond appeared more to have been, well, chewed through.

This had led to another argument about how to read the map, a repeated discussion which quickly had become tiresome. Having memorized the stupid thing, too often I’d needed to shout to the idiots which direction to go.

I don’t think they appreciated the back row guidance very much. Tough.

But these lower tunnels through the dirt were tight and claustrophobic as heck, and even near the middle like I was only the barest of flickers from the orb at the front could be seen - along with the tiny lights on each of the guns which had switched to green once we’d gone down a level. What was really fun was that whenever the front leaders paused, the rest of us would inevitably shove our faces into the rears of the soul directly before us. Santiago apologized to me each time, but as it kept happening that almost became comical. I might have even laughed if it weren’t for being dust-choked, rock-scraped, and busy wondering again why the heck I was putting up with all this.

It was in these rock tubes that I’d earlier sensed the lurking hell-beasts, and Tsáyidiel had indeed been thorough in clearing them out - hence the complaints from the crew.

“Yeah, and it smells worse than the butt of this dude before me.”

“Shove your nose further into that ass then and shut up!”

“Hey, up yours!”

“I ain’t the one in front of you, good luck with that!”

“Shit, man. Ain’t like any of us have had a chance to shower.”

“Hey, lightboy! What the fuck are we crawling through? Your mom’s menstruation hole?”

“Damn, tha’s nasty!”

Our reluctant leader stopped to wave the light around at the walls, causing another round of face-to-butt collisions. “Uh…”

“Well?”

“It’s purple gunk. Think something died and got dragged away somewhere.”

“How fresh?”

“As fresh as that guy’s mom!”

“Zip it back there! Lightboy, is it from a recent kill?”

“Uh, maybe? Yeah, I think so.”

“No wonder it reeks.”

“We’re sittin’ ducks here, man!”

“Fuck this shit!”

Sensing their panic rise, I added my own shout to the mix. “Keep it together, boys! Caboose in the rear, crawl backwards and if you hear anything scurrying towards us, shoot first and ask questions later. Everyone else, every ten feet lean hard to the left - let some of that light shine past so the caboose can see if anything is there!”

“Hell nah, screw that! We should book it as fast as we can!”

“Don’t be stupid!” I barked. “Point lead needs to check around each corner! Or else we could run into whatever the hell it is that lives down here!”

“Don’t call me stupid!”

“Then stop being an idiot!”

Sounds of a scuffle came from behind. “I ain’t taking no shit from some smart-ass bitch! Let me past!”

“There’s no room, asshole!”

Santiago’s voice cracked out. “Children, enough! We keep going! Anyone not moving forward, shoot them. And please, do it in silence, we do not know what may be listening.” His timbre made it obvious every word was meant.

The train of lunkheads kept going, this time - other than the occasional grunt - in blessed quiet. I think the thought of beastly things hearing them scared them straight.

Either that or Santiago’s sinister and chilling overtones.

Another hour of creeping along in the dark and the line again halted.

This time though, no one called out about it.

Our orb-wielder, in a more hushed tone, spoke. “Need the guy with the climbing gear. Think this is it. And pass up the rope.”

Fortunately the passage here wasn’t as tight as many of the other spots, and Santiago was able to squeeze past. If we hadn’t lined up smallest to biggest (for the most part), he wouldn’t have fit.

After handing on the coiled rope, I unslung the larger canteen and took a measured swallow before tugging on the pants leg of the guy in front of me. He looked back, and after some light flickered enough past everyone for him to see what I was offering, he took it to also take a swallow.

He was smart and didn’t chug it. With a nod he handed it back.

Having to ration the water made my chest ache. I missed Twitch and his bottomless waterskin.

Low whispers filtered down the line. “Guy with the gear says he needs the girl.”

Well shit.

While taller, I was definitely skinnier than Santiago so managed forward without too much trouble. And I was thankful that the macho idiot still mumbling outraged commentary was further back.

Frankly, the guys enjoyed having me squish on past, what with the flashes of grinning teeth whenever the light hit right.

At the front Santiago had taken point, and carefully used his pack to keep the orb’s illumination from spilling out the hole we’d arrived at. With the glare from the orb, I couldn’t see anything through it - but there was definitely an airy draft and a sense of a wide open space.

“What’s up?” I asked as the front-man crept backwards to give us more room.

“This.” Moving the orb and pack, he lit up three bolts driven into the rock just inside our crawlspace - each with clips attached and loops of rope converging into a knot that had another clip on it leading to a longer loop of rope.

Except that Santiago was holding the other ends of that longer loop - ends which had all been neatly sheered.

“That’s not ours, is it?” I asked. The rope I’d just handed over had been a deep red.

Whereas what he held was black.

He shook his head. “No. These anchors were already here.”

“So we’re not the first to go this way.”

Dropping the sliced cord, he covered the light. “Are demons capable of flight?”

“Yeah. It’s rare, but some can.”

“Then we would be sitting ducks on such a line.”

I shifted from being on one knee to crouching upon both, then leaned forward to stick my noggin out the hole. What I really wanted to do was power up and take a solid look around, but then I’d become a floodlight flaring out over the town below. Except I didn’t have to.

“Beloved Hunter.”

“I am here, my Queen.”

“Are there signs of creatures airborne or in the buildings below?”

“There are tracks, my Queen. But currently I do not detect any.”

“Understood.”

Pulling back up, I turned onto my side. “I don’t hear anything.”

Santiago touched my leg. “An owl is silent when in flight.”

“Look, this is supposed to be a demonstration of our survival skills, right? A test.”

“Only according to what they informed us. They could easily have lied.”

“And they also could have killed us - you know, mashed us to stones - the moment we each got off the boat.”

“True.”

“Which means this whole area could be a common testing site, hence these anchors still being here.” I thought for a moment. “Hmm. Demons don’t like taking risks unless absolutely ordered to.”

“And?”

“The drop is what, a hundred feet? One-fifty? That’s still in range of our guns. They attack that way, they’re wide open. Why risk it for some stupid test?” No, I wasn’t about to mention demonic wizardry and the various protection spells they could use. Anything that powerful and Tsáyidiel should have noticed.

“What of the offal in the tunnels? Were those from demons?”

“Hard to say. Could just be Hell-critters. Maybe they cleared them out for us.”

“And these critters - can they also fly?”

“Maybe? I don’t know much about the wildlife of this realm. How much rope we got?”

“Three coils of about sixty meters.”

Oh. How to tell someone you’re from America without saying you’re from America? Use ‘feet’ as a unit of measure like I just had. “So if one gets cut, we could lower another.”

“Provided someone remains up here.”

I thought about it. As defensive positions went, the narrow tunnel wasn’t bad. It wasn’t Spartan-last-stand worthy, but anything shot would just plug it up more. “Leave three or so behind? If that can’t hold against whatever spilled that purple gunk, we’d be breakfast on the way out anyway.”

“A reasonable assessment.”

“Good. You tell the boys. They won’t listen to me - at least, not unless I do something drastic to force ‘em to.”

He paused, and I wondered if I’d said too much. Finally he asked, “Do you have a specifically dramatic action in mind?”

“Not particularly, no. Why?”

“Simple curiosity.” He turned and began whispering to the guys in the line.

Santiago’s plan was quickly agreed upon. Not everyone had been happy about it, especially the three biggest guys who had metaphorically drawn the short straws to remain behind. Their strength was going to be needed to help safely lower us inexperienced rope climbers, and of course to haul us back up. Not that I blamed them for not wanting this duty, as to follow the demon’s instructions we had to take the map orb with us. They’d be stuck at the end of pitch black tunnels without so much as a matchstick.

It was also decided that Santiago would go down last so he could make sure the rope was secure for each trip and act as the belayer. He’d also then be the last back up and would bring with him the third rope along with the packed grappling hook - since only he had training on how to use it properly. Just in case. Besides, we might need it to scale that castle’s walls.

Speaking of the castle, it actually had lights along the battlements. From this distance they weren’t bright, but the familiar glow of enchanted crystals dotted the towers. Killing the light from our orb, we waited long enough for eyes to fully adjust - and the fort’s dim illumination was sufficient to make out the outlines of rooftops below us. Comforting, this - we didn’t have to plunge down the line into total unknown.

Just mostly unknown.

One by one we went, which since we didn’t have actual harnesses was not a pleasant experience. Santiago looped the rope around each traveler such that it wouldn’t get free, but yeah - that meant anchoring between our inner thighs.

Advantage there to me. Provided the rope didn’t slip all the way up, anyway.

We really should have been given harnesses for this. Since it was a straight drop, we couldn’t even use the side of a cliff to balance against. While on the way down, I added that demonic sergeant to an ever-growing list of folks needing a good butt-kicking.

The rooftop itself was atop a two-story structure, and fortunately for us was nice and flat. Upon arrival, after freeing ourselves from Santiago’s many knots, we tugged on it so he could pull the rope back up for the next dangling victim. Then we took lookout positions on each floor. Not having a gun, I stayed on the roof, going down on a knee to peer over the side towards the castle.

There really wasn’t much to see, and the lack of streetlights was going to make choosing the best route towards the center tricky. Still, in terms of cover and safest approach, I began planning an approach.

Which is when one of the souls kicked my boot with his. “Gimme water.”

From voice alone, I knew it was the one I’d called stupid. “Should have brought your own.” I shifted weight off the knee pressed to the rooftop, and fingers adjusted their position on the hilt of the machete I’d kept out.

“You got two, bitch. Share.”

I slowly rose and turned to face him, keeping the blade flat against a leg. While I did he backed off and raised a blaster rifle to point at my chest. Our eyes locked, and I gazed past the dark complexion and punk-style spiky hair to the serious insecurities and fear within. “We going to have a problem?”

“Ain’t no ‘gonna’ about it. And gimme that jungle slicer you holdin’ there too.”

Three things came into focus. First was that Santiago was still on his way down. Another was that the other men in their various mismatched outfits had all stopped what they were doing to watch with absolutely no intentions of interfering. “You really don’t want to pull that trigger.”

“Way I figure it, as we already be in Hell, there ain’t no more worry ‘bout what’s right or wrong. So why not just blow your brains all over the place, eh?”

“You really do lack in the intelligence department, don’t you.”

“Don’t disrespect me, ya slut! Maybe we all take turns playin’ wit’ you first - you’d probably like that! Ya know, I bet you would!”

Over half of the others on the roof stepped forward with anticipatory grins, and waves of lust filled the air as if the wind had shifted from a nearby garbage heap. Shielding against it, I stayed silent.

Lowering the gun’s aim to my stomach, the idiot smiled just as lecherously as the others. “How ‘bout you strip and give us a dance first.”

“Why don’t you focus more about what all those demons are going to do to you if you don’t finish this mission.”

“Fuck the mission. I want to see your naked ass.” He raised the gun again. “Do it!”

“That’s a solid nope. So go ahead. Shoot.”

“Don’t think I won’t!”

“I doubt you’ve got the balls, asshole.”

The finger twitched and, whether he really meant to or not, pulled the trigger.

Except nothing happened.

You see, the last thing I had spotted was that the LED on the side of his gun currently blinked red.

While he gaped in surprise - and indeed tried to pull the trigger again - I was already in motion. A looping high kick to the face sent him stumbling, followed with a spinning back kick directly to the solar plexus. I didn’t exactly pull my strength either.

I may have been irritated.

He launched backwards going fully airborne, his ass landing first then skidding along the roof before tumbling up over his head from sheer momentum. Having chased after, as he began to weakly groan and roll over, he found me standing over him with the machete’s point held dangerously close to a certain spot between his legs.

I didn’t exactly catch his reaction in detail, only peripherally. This was due to staring down all the other disgusting men who’d been eager to participate. Most however were too busy fumbling with their guns to keep attention focused on me.

Like the weapon dropped by the idiot now flirting with castration, theirs also blinked the same shade of crimson.

Behind the jerk, Santiago dropped to the roof. Not bothering undoing ropes first, he stepped closer to us. “Is something the matter?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We have a problem. The guns are disabled.”

“I see. Then I do believe we have much to discuss.” With a look to me for my nodded permission, he then offered his free hand to the would-be rapist and murderer. I took a step back.

The young man with the cracked ribs winced, but took the hand and got lifted - albeit unsteadily - to his feet. “Thanks, man, I-”

He never had the chance to finish the statement.

With instant speed and professional accuracy, Santiago used the Yarborough to open the guy’s throat side to side.

 

 

 

Chapter Nine - Instincts

 

It had been less than a sleep’s turn since I’d arrived in Hell, and already I’d witnessed three murders. Four, if including Pierre’s self-sacrificing suicide. Technically they were already dead to begin with, but once reduced to a compact stone that was it for their spirits. From everything I’d been told, that was the last one-way trip a soul could take.

Short of jumping into the Abyss, anyway.

The men around us remained silent as Santiago knelt to wipe the knife clean on the corpse’s pants. When he stood - and therefore again faced those surrounding us - I then dropped to a knee, looking over the body.

“What are you doing?”

Pulling up the doubly-dead man’s shirt, the machete bit into the stomach cavity, rather messily scooping out that which was all that remained of his spirit. The glow was weak, but there it was: an angry and smoldering reddish stone. “Gathering another light. We shouldn’t leave any souls behind.”

After wiping off the machete I stood, taking the measure of the rest of this cursed crew. A few were shocked at how casually I’d just disemboweled the body, but one thing was certain: all traces of lustful intentions were gone.

For now.

A slender man, grey loops tightly packed upon a head that had once seen too much sun, directed a question at Santiago. “Why protect the girl?”

“She is the only one with experience and knowledge.”

“Then she’s not newly arrived.” A fresh tension spread among the rest at the unspoken implication.

Santiago looked to me. “I, too, would like to hear an explanation.”

With blade in one hand and soul in the other, I faced off with him. “Does it really matter?”

He touched the butt of one of the pistols at his waist. “Our guns have been turned off. Could this also be a part of their test?”

“No. It’s payback.”

That genuinely confused him. “For what?”

“This.” Tossing the soul to Santiago who adeptly caught it, with teeth I then tugged a glove free. I wasn’t about to put down my weapon. Holding out the freed hand, a new light cast fresh shadows across the rooftop as the mark became visible.

Everyone except Santiago took a number of steps back, recoiling from the glow. He, however, merely pointed knife at the hand. “Magic?”

“It’s an owner’s mark. A demon guard tried to get too friendly before I even got on the truck after the boat. Instead of killing him, I bound him to me - he now carries my brand. They imprisoned him too, but apparently he has friends.”

“Ah. So they wish to take you down. This greatly increases the difficulty of the mission.”

From the crowd someone whispered, “Witch!” One even started crossing himself, but embarrassedly caught the motion before it completed.

Holding the machete under an armpit, I quickly put the glove back on and glowered at them all. “Yeah, I’m a witch. Deal with it. And Santiago is right, I’m probably the only one here who has fought demons before. But this whole ‘Harrowing’ thing is supposed to reveal who among us are survivors, it’s not meant to be a destructive test. I got that much out of demonic handsy-boy before they hauled his ass away.”

“You demanded blades instead of guns,” said Santiago, eyes still as hard as the soulstone in his hand. “Did you know that they would do this?”

I shrugged. “Not specifically. I just don’t trust demons.”

“They have not yet attacked us. You would be their first target?”

“Probably.”

“I see. Should we simply kill you, would the guns be re-enabled?”

I fought the desire to glance at his knife. “Think you can?” My gloved hand re-grasped the hilt of the machete, and to emphasize the question electric sparks flowed across the blade. My boots shifted stance and I waited to see what he’d do.

The crowd’s focus bounced between the two of us as everyone went deathly still.

However, after measured consideration, Santiago merely inclined his head. “Not with you so aware and ready.” He put the knife back in its sheath.

I slowly exhaled. “So now what?”

He began untying the ropes still wrapped around him, and the ends quickly dropped to the rooftop. Their obvious hindrance in a knife fight may have influenced that decision, but his aura remained calm. “You and I should converse privately.” Tugging on the strands twice, the guys still above us (and probably wondering just what the heck was going on) starting pulling them back up. “Let us go downstairs.”

Grey-haired guy objected. “Hey, we all want to hear what she says!”

Santiago gave him an inscrutable look. “No. You do not. Should she reveal anything the jailers would consider a threat, they shall slaughter all who heard of it.”

“You don’t know that!”

“It is precisely what I would do.”

That shut the guy up. The crowd parted and only Santiago and I went down the dark stairs. He used the burning red soul as our lamp, revealing the top floor of the building as having been a house - one in which everything inside had burnt to a crisp. The stone walls, that same blackened obsidian that the towers far above were constructed from, had survived - but that’s all.

I followed him and our boots crunched through the charred furniture that remained, sending the scent of musty charcoal through protesting sinuses.

When we were far enough away from anyone else, I stopped. “Alright, what’s up?”

He didn’t turn around. “Is it possible to escape the jailers?”

Shit. “I…dammit. Look, Hell itself is designed to be a prison for souls. If you’re unmarked and wandering around like you are now? You’d have no protection from being snatched up by anyone stronger than you.”

“Can one hide?”

“Where? And we still get hungry. It takes an awfully lot longer to starve into a stone, but eventually it’ll happen. Painfully, once someone’s given up.”

“Yet you appear to have a plan.”

“What the heck makes you say that?”

“Perhaps instinct. But you…you have been running an operation since before getting on the truck.”

I wanted to deny it, but crap. “You’re scarily observant.”

“As are you, when you wish to be. Precisely what game are you pursuing?”

I did something I hadn’t done in awhile. I chewed on a lip. “Can you accept that I can’t tell you everything?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ve heard of a group on this realm that’s somehow been grabbing new souls before they’re sold. Promising freedom of sorts. But they could just be a crazy cult.”

“Say more.”

“I’ve done what I can to attract their attention as a potential recruit.”

“Why? The implication during the intake interview was that souls with solid skills may gain positions of relative security. Why not aim for those?”

“The cult may be able to find folks that I know came here. Friends of mine, skilled ones. They may even be part of it somehow.”

He paused, his face more shadow than illuminated. “Why admit such to me? Even knowing this little, it would be in my interest to betray you to the jailers for concessions.”

“They wouldn’t give you a strict enough contract to guarantee anything once you divulged it. You seriously don’t have any leverage for negotiations. Think about it: how many street informants have you burned once you got what you needed from them?” The last was an educated guess - I hadn’t tried to scan him for his past, and he certainly wasn’t broadcasting.

The supposition though earned a wry smile, the first of genuine humor I’d seen from him. “Would this cult find me of interest as well?”

“Prove yourself a skilled operator and maybe. Unless of course they decide you’re too scary to bring aboard.” I returned a tired smile of my own.

“Interesting. What then is our best play from here?”

“The way I see it, to test us properly there’s probably two assaults planned. One either on the way to the castle or in it, and the other on the way back. Maybe even multiple waves.”

“Can we accomplish our objective through stealth?”

I thought about it, then shook my head. “Not really. They’ll have scanners to detect souls. Though we may get bonus points for the attempt.”

“For the ones aiming for you, how many of us would be accepted as collateral damage?”

“Realistically? As many as needed. All authorized by their mother. She’s the one in charge.” I wanted to kick the wall, but didn’t. “Alright, how about I go by myself? Grab the photos or whatever with their orb and skedaddle.”

“And when they decide to attack?”

“I deal with it.”

“You are rather confident in your abilities.”

“Yup. The guards are low level demons, two souls at most apiece. No problem.”

“These men with us will not easily let you take the orb.”

“Think you can convince them?”

“No. Which is why I shall hold onto it and accompany you.”

“Isn’t that riskier?”

“Those same instincts whisper that I am safer with you.”

All things considered that was hard to argue against.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Santiago wasn’t entirely successful getting the team (if you could call it that) on board with the plan. As a result Mr. Greyhair (who said to call him ‘Jones’) also tagged along, after handing over the freshly acquired soul stone to those left behind. They could use its light to examine their navels or whatever while they waited - the glow wasn’t strong enough for much else. Though maybe they’d find enlightenment anyway.

Nah.

Before stepping out onto the street, we worked out the planned route in more detail. Santiago, much to my non-surprise, had clearly performed ops in a city setting before - he was better at pointing out lines of sight and alternate ways to navigate the city than I’d thought of. He still had the backpack with the third rope, hook, and the small crossbow needed to launch it - something he’d had to insist upon rather forcefully as the crew had wanted to hold more items to force our return.

Well, not forcefully enough that I’d needed to carve new stones out of their flesh or anything. Just a semi-heated discussion and a few implied non-consensual leaps from the roof-top.

Therefore the three of us crept from long shadow to long shadow as we hugged one stone wall after another. A drafty wind blew through the town, one which kept switching between being annoyingly hot and almost refreshingly merely warm. It was disgustingly humid however, whatever moisture was trapped in here had been so for a long time as told by the overwhelming musty scent of surrounding mold - which made me wonder how much worse the moat was going to stink when we got closer. Some of the structures had also collapsed into rubble. These we went out of our way to avoid as the distant glow from the castle was insufficient to let us see what debris had landed on the streets. Why risk breaking our necks with a simple fall when we had demons waiting to do it for us?

The contents of each structure were all similarly burned. It was as if the fires from the unreachable skies above had somehow swept through this place long ago. Which would have been a neat trick considering it appeared to be a fully-enclosed underground cavern.

Maybe that’s exactly what had happened though.

What kept bugging me was that even with quick peeks of my own when I thought I could get away with it, I didn’t sense anything else here. No souls, no demons, not even a howler or two.

Tsáyidiel also didn’t detect anything, which had left him uneasy.

“My Queen.”

“Yes?”

“Give me this device. Allow me to scout the fort and achieve your goal.”

“If it takes a three-sixty photo and no souls are visible in it, that will not work well. We must be there.”

“Something is wrong, my Queen. I sense a trap.”

“Of course this is a trap, beloved one.”

“Then we should take wing and depart. Leave these unworthy souls to their fates.”

That was disturbing. Him wanting to flee? “What bothers my hunter so?”

“I know not.”

“Then stay prepared, but we continue. For this to not have been a waste, I must succeed and as but a soul.”

“As you command, my Queen.”

About halfway to the target we took a water break. Santiago had his own canteen, and surprisingly so did Jones. Yay for me, as I didn’t have to share.

Behind a wall out of sight of the castle, Santiago leaned in to whisper. “There is still nothing. Nor any activity up at the hole we came through, I have been watching.”

Jones grunted quietly. “It’s too dark to look for footprints in the dust on the roads.”

Santiago put the cap back on his bottle. “The breeze would keep them covered.”

He was right, as the ashen dust around us was loose and smothered everything.

I leaned against the wall, not caring about smudges on the jacket. If anything that’d help me blend in. “Think they’ll just wait to attack in the tunnels above? If it’s the only way in and they didn’t send an advance team, that’d be their only option.”

“Possible,” Santiago considered. “But the repelling anchors were already there. An advance team could have used them.”

“Why then,” asked Jones, “would they cut their own ropes?”

We didn’t have a good answer so Santiago gestured me forward - I’d been taking point since I’d likely be the primary target. I went as directed, but two buildings further in I smelled something awful.

And it wasn’t mold or the moat.

“What is it?” Santiago, lurking five feet behind was holding both knives I’d given him. As the breeze picked up, his nostrils flared too. “Death.”

Following our reluctant noses we found the source in a house whose door had burned completely away. Inside, a stack of ripe decomposing bodies had been shoved against a corner.

“Give me the orb.” I held out a hand to Santiago.

With what he’d heard in my voice, he simply handed it over.

Kneeling over the stack, I used the extra shirt I’d kept around my waist as a shield so the light wouldn’t escape and I could do what I really didn’t want to do.

I got a better look.

Demons. Scorched, sliced, and eviscerated. Beaks, claws, and humanoid faces peering out of helmets, all were a jumbled mess. Except that wasn’t what caused my veins to run cold. Because on a shredded piece of modern-style body armor sat an emblem: an outline of a glorious floating battle platform, one with a single domed tower jutting higher than the others, sitting amongst weapons strong enough to shatter smaller realms.

The Citadel.

Fuck.

Thoughts raced, and with an angry growl I tossed the orb back to Santiago. As he caught it, I gave commands in a low but steady voice so to be clearly understood. “Take pictures. Especially of their badges. And stay here until I say otherwise.”

Jones was about to object, but Santiago quieted him by shoving a knife into the grey-haired man’s hand. Not through it, but hilt against the palm.

So he’d have something to fight with.

As Santiago then got busy with the orb, I stepped outside and this time with eyes closed I took a look around.

A real look around, turning full three-sixty to scan. There was a weird webbing of obscuring intent across everything, and with focus it reluctantly parted.

There. One…no, two.

“Boys,” I announced, “We have company.”

Laughter boomed above the stonework structures. With a rip through the air, a giant demon a couple stories tall appeared: one whose orange and spike-covered skin spilled flames with billowing power. Clad only in a leather loincloth to best show off the standard overly-muscled frame, I was almost surprised at even that gesture towards modesty. “You noticed!” he chortled. “Impressive! The master said that would be entirely impossible.”

His companion far behind us also must have appeared, as sudden shouts of alarm instantly became screams of pain by those we’d left to hold the needed rooftop.

This…this was going to be tricky. Quick count of what lay under that burning skin showed seventy souls. More than a certain bastard commander had ever held.

But unlike during that fight, today the Light was with me.

“Tsáyidiel! The demon behind us, take it out without being seen! Save those idiots!”

“But-”

“GO!”

With a burst of wind, he went. The sudden gust was enough to cause the giant in front of me to pause, but not for very long as he then waxed philosophical.

“Still, efficiency is best in such situations, would you not agree?” A meaty hand reached out and launched a ball of that same orange-red fire. I’d say it was aimed at my face, except the flames stretched as wide as the street I was standing on.

Shit.

Dropping the mundane and therefore useless machete which had no hopes of piercing this demon’s hide, I planted feet and prepared. Energy I could manipulate, but without extending wings to power up there were limits to what I could pull off and hold onto.

And dammit all, I’d just crawled through critter gunk and fended off a gang rape. Popping feathers would make that have been for nothing.

Knowing I couldn’t control the full blast due to the intensity, hands swept along a circle and redirected the force instead. Heat billowed across skin - enough to cause burns where the gloves were uncovered - but the fires swirled about and streamed right into the building across the street.

Said house filled immediately to the brim with the ravenous fires. But this was nothing new to the structure as there wasn’t anything left inside to feed those flames.

As its still-standing chimney burped explosively upwards, I shoved power through my own frame causing bones to light up under the skin and shouted:

“Santiago! RUN!!”

And then to keep the fire giant busy, I charged right at him.

Seeing the sudden attack, the demon blinked away confusion as to how his flames had moved aside without him wanting them to. With tactical wariness, a green haze manifested around him in a sphere - these new energies solidifying into a solid shield.

Or at least, it should have been solid. To any other opponent it may have been.

But the magic from the defense’s control points quickly ripped away, and to the demon’s further shock I leapt through the green to land an energy-laden blow of my own as I’d decided to take my own advice as given to Santiago earlier.

The loincloth’s pattern shredded as if made of paper as my fist ripped past to slam a concussive wave into what lay vulnerable underneath.

A howl of extreme agony shrieked across the abandoned town, and I needed to dodge as the ground shook from the collision of two massive knees smacking into the dirt. Given the day’s events, I found his scream rather satisfying. What’s more, behind us an answering mighty shout of pain echoed as well.

Tsáyidiel had found his target.

A rapid check of the house with the bodies showed the two souls were gone. Good.

Meanwhile my opponent, weeping groans of more fire, gaped. “How?”

More Light filled limbs, and with a spinning jump kick I left my answer as a boot print upon his skull’s temple now conveniently in range. The bone crunched inward, and he toppled sideways to land with another earth-jolting thud.

It didn’t quite kill him - his chest still sucked air - but it was clearly a lights-out situation.

A moment of silence followed. Using it to control my own breathing (and therefore heeding a lesson given by a certain Lilim long ago), the gathered Light within slowly let go.

Which was a mistake.

It happened within a blink of an eye, maybe even faster. A new figure was simply there, wielding a longsword of emerald fire swinging with speed beyond speed directly at neck level.

My neck level.

Instinct took over. Possibly a mix of higher consciousness’ reactions and long-drilled training, hard to say.

Two iridescent wings flashed into existence, and moving within that blink, I shifted to toss arms before the blade in a warrior’s block - arms accustomed to wearing heavenly bracers strong enough to stand against even blades formed of Chaos.

Except Tsáyidiel still carried Camael’s gifts, and these wrists currently were bare.

Sword and fire impacted and bit deep.

All the way to glowing bone.

That would have been bad enough, but along with the blood-splattering cuts came an attack on another level entirely.

 

Earth. Stone. Firmament. Cooled rock above molten core, cycling and churning, age after endless age, raising mighty mountains only to cast them down. Immense plates drifting under oceans, the basis upon which a world of life existed, with movements unfathomable to the brief lives merely dotting the expanse of its surface…

 

Tremendous force slammed through my being, as if I’d been hit by the planet on which I’d once been born, geologic in scale and overwhelming in sheer continental power.

But wings flared, and the truth of the Light flooded within. The Light from which even the stars and galaxies themselves had been forged.

And that shine refused to allow my pattern’s fracture.

Even as I was thrown backwards along the street - wet crimson streaming away from both forearms - a primal roar shook the city.

While streaking towards me with another prepared strike, the gilded titanium armored and winged figure slammed sideways, as Tsáyidiel, in full gryphon form, simply powered on through him - sending both crashing into a hapless building that exploded in stone, ash, and raw angelic fury.

Only then did the shattering crack of Tsáyidiel’s hypersonic speed arrive to my ears.

What followed was another crunch, but this time of claws through plate as the attacking angel launched upwards back-first towards the cavern’s ceiling above.

Even through the dust, I caught sight of the angel’s face as his lava-infused wings caught air before reaching that ceiling. Shock and dismay first, then wide-eyed horror, and with a scream he sped not again at us, but away and towards the castle.

The same enveloping cloak of stealth surrounded him, but with the first pair of wings now free upon my back there could be no more hiding from my sight.

Tsáyidiel prepared to leap in pursuit, but my command caught him first.

“Let him go!”

Fury and instinctual confusion filled the senses. “But my Queen! He-”

“Had no knowledge of who or what I am! Stay with me, my beloved defender. We too have no knowledge of whom else may await within the keep.”

“If…if my Queen commands.”

“I do.”

Peeling myself from the road’s dirt, I sat up - only to groan as throbbing across the forearms took root. The deep cuts were healing, but each held traces of that emerald fire still burning within - traces the Light slowly sizzled away.

I wondered if I’d be stuck with a pair of matching scars.

The brilliance cast by the wings powering the incremental healing flickered about, and this time I didn’t try to relax. Instead I reassessed surroundings, sensing whatever was near or even far.

In the keep beyond cloaked spellwork lurked additional angelic energy, at least three distinct patterns. Several more particularly concentrated patches of soulglow were also present, indicating more high-powered demons in residence as well. Plus a smattering of weaker ones.

Back at the rooftop we’d landed upon, the number of souls was the same - except most were awfully dimmer than before.

Dangit.

One additional soul was also quickly running through the maze of buildings to get there.

But only one and not two.

Spinning around, I found the missing soul. Behind an empty window frame which had given a front-row view to the fighting, stood Santiago.

He’d seen the entire thing, and stared openly as Tsáyidiel came over to nuzzle my arms in concern.

Giving the gryphon a reassuring pat, I got to my feet and called out to the watching soul.

“Alright Santiago, may as well come on out. Show’s over.”

“Is it? I am not so certain.” He didn’t move from his spot.

“Let’s talk.”

He debated for a moment, but a growl from Tsáyidiel at the audacity to not simply obey convinced the man. Exiting the building, he then came within ten feet and stopped. “And what shall we discuss?”

“What’s in that castle is not something you want to deal with.”

“And you do?”

Tsáyidiel may not have liked it, but I nodded. “Yeah. Think I have to.”

“Ah. Then what of myself? I have obviously witnessed more than I should. And it is quite apparent that this situation, sad to say, is generously beyond my capacity.”

“You know, you’re damned smart. Pardon the unfortunate pun.”

He gave a wry smile. “A blessing and a curse, situation depending.”

“If you were me, you’d kill the witnesses. Wouldn’t you.” It wasn’t phrased as a question.

Which was answered anyway. “I would.”

“Then rejoice that I am not you. What you need know is that this whole arrangement here must have been overruled from higher up the demon chain of command, from a direction I stupidly hadn’t considered. This was never a real ‘Harrowing’ assignment, it was something else entirely to manipulate me into coming here. But if you’re careful you can work this to your advantage.”

“How so?”

“Did you take any pictures of the fight?”

“It was indeed tempting. But no. To possess such felt exceedingly dangerous.”

“Good. Then take the orb and its record of those bodies we found back with you. Inform the idiot prison guards that I told you to run, and you did. As fast as you could, leaving me to stand and die. And don’t worry about the guards, they won’t be waiting in ambush - at this point they’ll have been ordered not to.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yeah. He knows it’d just piss me off more.”

“He?”

“The jerkwad who set me up. If I don’t make a timely return, when you get back inform ‘mother’ that you have a message only for a General Krux of the Citadel. One from me, given before I told you to run - a message that came with a curse placed upon you should you deliver to anyone else. She knows I do magic, but hers is weak so she’ll buy it.”

“And what then to this Krux? Should this personage actually appear.”

“Oh he definitely will. Tell him to his face that I called him an absolute jerk. And that the crazy redhead said he’s got a Grigori situation down here which should be left the fuck alone. Plus he’s gonna owe me even bigger whenever I see him again - right after I punt his tiny ass for a field goal.”

After a pause, Santiago repeated the message verbatim. “Is this all?”

“No. Tell him also that I said he should draft you - that you’d fit right in. Consider the referral as my payment for messenger duty.”

“That could be interpreted as both a compliment and an insult.”

“Take it however you please. Just get going.”

He began to turn, but stopped. “Are you a demon or an…” He couldn’t say it.

“An angel? Yeah. I am.”

“Astounding.” He was about to say something else, but shook his head and walked on.

Watching him, I thought about the other loose end from this misadventure: a certain demon named Blorph. Reaching through the mark he so reluctantly had accepted, the image of three blank walls and a set of vertical bars came into focus.

Along with the surge of boiling desire for my demise, and the expectation it would happen soon.

Through the link his true name was touchable. Through the link it could be burnt away.

It’d be incredibly easy.

Flexing wings, my head tilted, causing neck to crack and loosen, which also happened to bring Tsáyidiel back into my line of sight.

He was, in a word, magnificent.

Armor of ivory and gold contrasted with dark feathers and fur, four gilded wings folding majestically along mailed sides where panther body seamlessly blended into raven’s head and front claws. I couldn’t help myself: fingers ran through the feathers behind his beak, letting Light trail past to gently touch the restored Name within.

A shudder twitched wings and the softest of hides, and his eyes closed as our connection resonated true.

With a decision, the other connection severed as if it had never been, leaving Blorph to whatever fate he’d imagined should I have simply died. Maybe the jailers would yet have him killed. Maybe the comrades willing to engage in revenge for a soul daring to mark him would also set him free.

Such was no longer my concern.

“Come, beloved hunter,” I said warmly as the tingles between us soothed the sting from the cuts across my arms. “We shall approach directly. The attack by another of the Bene-Elohim was likely in error.”

“As my Queen wishes.”

We flew then together, my shine reflected brightly by his metal coverings. Over the city and past the expected stinky and algae-filled moat, then into the empty courtyard set before the steps leading to the central hall.

Demon guards lined those low stairs, wearing a mix of medieval chain and modern Kevlar-plated tactical outfits. They were wise enough to not interfere as we folded wings and climbed.

Through a pair of mighty felwood doors we walked, to a hall of high stone arches all but empty except for pillars holding light-emitting crystals standing every ten feet, moving past door guardian demons as strong as the ones we just felled. Finally we reached two angels of earthly elements standing beside a solid metal and occupied backless bench gleaming platinum in the ambient light.

As my own brightness slowly filled more of the room, I found it difficult to make out the darkly cloaked humanoid figure sitting upon the simple throne.

They spoke first.

“Well, well, well,” the being on the throne said, the words dragged out as if from depths of bored exhaustion. “Look at what the cat-bird dragged in.”

The voice finally registered and thoughts froze. It couldn’t be. Increasing the intensity of the wings to better show the hidden face, in shock I blurted, “Cassius?!”

As the face came into focus however, feathered black wings stretched out behind him, swallowing all the light in their vicinity to leave nothing but empty shadows.

Seeing my horrified expression, he laughed as a cruel smile curled along features once belonging to a friend. The bitter and tortured sound filled the hall, its echoes scraping along the walls and across painfully protesting eardrums.

“No, angel of the Light of Lies,” rasped the figure. “Only I am here. Only Shemyaza!!”

Ouch.

 

 

If you have enjoyed this story so far, please let me know in the comments! Thanks for reading!

- Erisian