Hope's Light (Part 1)

Prologue - Bargain

“Are you certain this is the right path?”

Two figures crept down a narrow underground passageway, shoes slipping across shallow puddles lining the curved concrete floor. Their coats, one jet black and the other a lighter brown, flickered in the weak light offered only by a white crystal held forward by the taller and much darker-skinned man.

“They didn’t provide a map, Callas. I told you the same instructions they told me, and your memory is as perfect as mine. If you think we’ve misapplied the sequence, you should’ve spoken up.”

“Hmm.”

“There: twenty more paces and hang a left at that junction.”

A loud yet distant thud resonated through the tall pipe they walked down, vibrations disturbing dust from its walls. This was followed by another, and then a third.

Pausing to listen, the shorter man ran fingers through hair buzzed to equally short lengths. “They’ve started shelling again. Great.”

“You said this was neutral territory.”

“More like no-demon’s-land. None of the factions have been able to take permanent hold of this part of the city. Maybe one of them is trying again.”

“This is not reassuring, Nicolas.”

“Hey - you came to me, remember? It’s not like I wanted to be down here.”

“It could be a trap.”

“Of course it’s a trap! We’re poking around under the biggest city in Hell! And I bet the fighting pits are right outside these waterways.”

“And this contact of yours indeed has means to provide what I require?”

“Yeah, he’s got several patsies up top he can get messages to.”

“You are certain.”

“I’m sure. I used to be one of them. From what I understand, the jerk’s just holing up for now - likely waiting to see which way the fire-winds blow before declaring any allegiances. Let’s get a move on, or we’re gonna be late.”

The pair proceeded on, wading through the artificial streams and wending their way through the maze of concrete pipes and maintenance passages until reaching a wider juncture where multiple water sources converged below the metal grating currently upholding their feet.

From the absolute darkness ahead a rasping voice spoke.

“That’s far enough.”

“Pruflas, that you?”

The voice gave a sound like coughing, but both recognized it as laughter. “It is I, in the flesh just as you are, Nick Wright…or shall I call you Barakiel?”

“Whatever floats your boat.” Nick shrugged, a hand slipping into one of his coat’s many pockets.

“And your companion, is this truly he who the overlords of Hell so fear? The mighty Butcher of the Fallen who piled their corpses so high as to make even Michael and the Throne tremble?”

The small crystal held by dark-skinned fingers glowed brighter. “That is neither my name nor title. Yet I have been called such by the enemies of the Light.”

From the surrounding darkness pushing against that light a different voice slithered, as if coming from all the sides of the room. “The Light which has abandoned you, Prince Camael. Twice.”

It all happened within the smallest fraction of a second.

A sharpened shaft of gleaming marble launched at incredible speed from a corner, the shockwave of its hypersonic travel trailing behind as a tunnel through the air. Batting the missile aside with a palm, the one called Camael flared with fire as crimson wings stretched from his back while gold-lined obsidian armor including helm shimmered into existence in place of coat and trousers. Simultaneously, chains burst upward from the waters below his feet, tossing aside metal grates as they punched through, their links wrapping around the manifested angel’s forearms. Forearms that had remained bare - a gap in the otherwise complete armored ensemble.

And the links were coated with a blue ice now melting against the unprotected skin.

Numbness spread from that contact to swallow perception. Pain immediately flared from two sources: the first intensely ripping across a wing, and the second through an eye as a golden dagger darted between the slit of the helm to rip away vision already struggling to recover. As Camael’s knee fell to clank against a grate, a two-handed sword - billowing with the same fire as the wings - appeared in his hand.

A hand struggling to find the strength to rise.

“Asmodeus! Enough!” shouted Barakiel, for the features of Nicolas Wright had shifted to ones more tan and younger yet simultaneously much older.

And in his hands were held both a dark blade and a single fire-spewing wing the color of freshly spilled blood.

Like a translucent tarp sliced in twain, the air ripped to reveal the one holding the gold dagger: an angel whose white wings contained no feathers but solid leather as of a brightly painted bat. With hair a brilliant shade of silver held in check by a ribbon of gold, features of incredible beauty turned to focus on Barakiel - thereby revealing an eye socket scorched free of its orb by ancient flame and a trail of burnt and twisted flesh covering that side’s cheek.

“Enough?!” The snarl across a pale mouth flattened. “Yes, enough. Though artistic temptation does present itself, does it not?”

Moving between them, Barakiel held out the collection of long feathers whose flames slowly dimmed like incense charcoal about to go out. “We agreed on a single wing only, that’s all!”

Asmodeus went still, a marble statue forever holding forth offered dagger. “An eye taken, a debt owed one artiste to another. The wing…ahh the wing. That is but payment for this opportunity, a token which may provide for far more in the future. But here and now is your chance, Grigori. By the collective agreement am I bound against directly slaying another Bene-Elohim, but you…you’ve taken no such oath. Not yet! You may achieve your revenge in full - or have you forgotten what you too are owed?!”

Tossing the wing of fire-blooded feathers at Asmodeus’s feet, a sphere of lightning crackled with thunderous arrival within Barakiel’s palm. “I know well what the Butcher stole from me and my family! Now pick up what was agreed and fulfill your part of this bargain!”

“So be it. Though I will admit disappointment: this could have been your masterpiece, your DaVinci or Bach, but alas the inspiring muse rests not upon your shoulders. Pity.” The golden dagger shifted to point at the dimming crimson feathers, willing them to lift into eager fingers. Stepping back into shadows, Asmodeus barked his command. “Pruflas! Give the Grigori his oh-so-searched-for prize. A bargain made, a bargain kept.”

From behind, Camael pushed slowly upwards, chains clinking while blood flowed from below the helm and also across an armored back now carrying but one unmatched wing. With a groan he breathed, “What have you done?”

With attention locked towards the fallen angel slipping from view, the grey of Barakiel’s irises hardened unto steel. “I made a deal.”

Out of the darkness came the sound of choking, or more precisely the wet hacks and gurgles of a great beast vomiting a formerly consumed and rather large meal.

With skin resuming its former pallor, Nick moved forward, his glowing lance pushing against the dark. From the shadows at his feet emerged a figure curled wetly upon the metal grating. “Catherine!”

The young woman, blonde hair and green velvet robe slick with demonic gastric juices, gagged. “Fuck, the smell…”

“It’s okay, it’s all gonna be okay.” With features returned to his most recent incarnation, Nick shook the lance which collapsed to an electric orb instead and knelt beside her. “Cathy - do you remember me?”

Silver-blue irises blinked and stared up. “Nick?”

Relief flooded him. Letting go of the orb so it hovered in the air, he reached out to help her rise. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“You…you came for me.”

Nodding, he took her hand and lifted the woman to her feet. “C’mon, we need to get out of here - I’ll explain everything. But later. You’re safe now, you’re free.”

“Free? We’re in Hell.” She staggered, leaning a shoulder into his chest for support before crying, “How can that ever be free?!”

Concealed by her palm, a small soul-forged knife plunged between two of his ribs.

The blight-filled weapon ripped strength from his legs, and blinking astonishment he toppled more than collapsed.

Hateful satisfaction curled edges of darkly painted lips. “For more years than I can count have I cursed the day we met - and now, by this blade, I curse you direct!!”

From the ground he stared up in pain-filled confusion. “But…I came…to save you…”

She spat upon the wet redness pooling through his shirt and snorted - a quick and bitter sound. “Centuries late! And face it, you arrogant bastard, you’re not here to save me - you’re here to assuage a pathetic conscience! May you forever rot with it!!”

Lashing out, her boot caught his face. She then grimaced from an agony of her own as a demonic sigil re-carved itself across the side of her neck, just over the jugular. Once complete the burning faded into a smoldering glow, and resolute she marched back into the shadows to rejoin her demonic master.

The angelic lord to whom that demon himself bent knee laughed from the many shadows. “As agreed, Grigori. And such a soul, I applaud you! Vengeance, betrayal, what wondrous tapestries of color and verve do they weave! Marvelous!”

Groaning, Nick clutched at his side trying to staunch the outpouring of blood seeping past desperate and tattooed palms.

“Duke Pruflas!” Asmodeus called out again. “One last item before we depart: open these pipes to the pit. Me and mine may not be allowed to finish off this tragic pair - but the unbonded hordes outside labor under no such restriction. Let the starved demon-spawn offer our warrior brothers fresh canvas upon which to splatter the magnificence of vitae - be it their foes or their own!”

The thundering grind of metal-on-metal resounded across the chamber, coming from multiple directions even as the surrounding darkness lost its sense of malevolent presence, leaving the two wounded angels behind.

With a grunt, Camael’s wrist pulled taut a chain and sword’s fire cut across ice and metal to send both clattering to the ground. Maintaining hard-fought focus, he swung the sword about to free the other arm, and with one foot slowly after the other he came to stand over the prone form of the one who had guided him here.

“Nicolas.”

Nick blinked through the shredding pain and gaped at the half-blinded angel above him. “Those chains, the ice from Beliel’s Tears, how are you even upright?!”

“You forget. My strength lies not in rage-filled memories of what is done and gone, but solely in the glorious future found within her blessed Light.” From the various conduits and pipes came echoes of raw howling: primal and hungry. “Can you fight?”

“Ha, doubt I can even stand. Kill me or leave me behind - it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

Squatting first, the armored angel lifted the fallen, arm wrapped around to hold him by an armpit. “I will do neither.”

“After what I just did?!” Astonishment filled Nick’s voice yet again, even as awareness wavered. “Good grief, Callas. Why save me?! Just let me die!” The last was but a pained whisper as his face, pale with agony, fell slack as darkness finally covered all awareness.

Crimson flame flared across the slit of the battle angel’s helm, the heat cauterizing the slash which had cut through. With a broken angel held by one arm and burning sword gripped in the other, Camael prepared to face the onslaught to come.

But before the hordes of howling demons scampering down the passageway arrived, he spoke - though his companion no longer listened.

“Because should I not, the weight of her additional sorrow would be more than I could bear.”

Chapter 1 - Search

The book is heavier than it appears. Even accounting for the immaculately gilded leather and width of the golden-thread-lined spine, the weight is far more than gravity’s pull upon the elegantly bound manuscript.

For laying heaviest in my grasp is the blood shed by the countless souls and spirits who both had rallied to my war banner and also fought against it. Alongside precious pools spilled by those beloved through whose ultimate sacrifice I now held the collected wisdom of the Holy Angel Raziel - he who embodies the Secrets of the Most High. And in exhausted ears ring incessant bells of repeated warnings and witnessed folly on how such Secrets brought not peace but terrible madness.

I had flown past the locked Gate of Elohim, dove to the furthest depths of the Bounded Realms, all to recover these very pages. And here they lay: the answers to questions unfathomable - yet trembling fingers hesitate, unsure if they dare lift the imposing cover.

Except in tear-streaked remembrance of those recently lost, and for all those hoping to transcend such inevitable fates, there can be no other choice.

The spine creaks as it opens, swirling angelic script within immediately taking firm hold of all perception to spell out a burning message in letters of purest blue fire - a message written but also heard as if from echoes coming from near and far.

“That which is hidden, that which is profound, that which is sacred and held in mystery from the unready, therein encompasses my domain. Quester of secrets, you who stand between Order and Chaos, state that which you seek.”

So many questions swirl past, a cavalcade of mysteries external and internal, each enticing and deadly. Desires, however, too easily lead one astray. And so, taking the hint so kindly offered, I declare an alternate reply:

“Show not of what I wish to know, oh Sepher Raziel. Show only that which my spirit needs. Reveal the knowledge leading only to the fulfillment of my Name.”

Words of azure flame flicker and shift, and the voice reverberates in synchronicity as all becomes bright - indeed, brighter than anything even I have ever witnessed.

“Then, Archangel and Archon Amariel, we start at the Beginning.”

Dis, the largest city and realm in all of Hell. It had only been an hour since losing sight of the falling (and likely fireproof) book as it streaked through the surrounding sulfuric flames covering the vast city’s sky, and things were proceeding much as one would expect upon arrival to the banished realms of the damned. The specific landmark I had thought safest to approach first sat abandoned and ransacked, and its elevators weren’t working.

Of course.

Using a hand with skin glowing with only as much light as I dared, we crept our way down a black-walled staircase - running shoes somehow still managing to clank against metal steps while my companion’s four dark paws glided perfectly silent one after the other. He paused at a turn, sleek black tail flicking side to side as the panther’s nose scanned the next set of stairs and beyond for technomagical traps. We’d dealt with a few already on our way in.

As quiet as he was, within my mind his voice rang loud and clear.

“Are you sure this is wise, my Queen? The warding of this place thickens across the floors below.”

Grunting, I kept going while replying to Tsáyidiel out loud. “Yeah, I noticed that when I was here before. Some serious blockage to extrasensory perceptions. Which,” I said, dimming the light on the fingers as they reached for the push-bar across this floor’s door, “means there could be folks holed up somewhere.”

“And you believe they would be friendly?”

“Believe? Nah. Hope? Sure. If they’re medical staff then they could be honor bound to treat this as my follow-up visit. They certainly got paid enough for one. It’s worth a shot.”

The panther snorted, but offered no additional commentary. We slipped out to another dark-walled corridor, lit only by flickering and unreliable emergency lighting wherever wiring hadn’t been stripped free by looters. I was pretty sure he thought going in here was stupid, but honestly I didn’t have any other bright ideas. I’d only been to this realm briefly, and had visited all of two locations: this hospital where I’d woken after being blown up on a distant battlefield, and the over-armored military fortress which hung high above within a forcefield pushing aside the flames filling the sky.

Showing up at the latter would only cause political headaches if not an outright fight, so here we were.

The hospital though was a dusty mess, anything of value had been ripped clear - leaving station desks covered only by scattered folders and the inevitable sticky notes with various billing codes and instructions for countless forms all scribbled in hasty demonic script. The computers I remembered were gone, as were the phones.

When it came to looting, demons certainly followed the creed of “Waste not, want not”.

The floor we found ourselves on was comprised of administrator offices, at least as far as I could tell. Which was a nice break from having to creep past the wreckage of patient rooms filled with empty beds and triggered memories. Closed doors down the hall each were stenciled with appropriately bureaucratic overblown titles such as “Third Sector Manager Class II Of Radiological Safety Enforcement Oversight And Maintenance” or “Fifth Executive Assistant to the Director of Non-contaminated Bodily Waste Removal, Classification, and Distribution.”

There were a lot of offices.

After wandering the maze for the better part of an hour I groaned as we exited yet another useless corridor. “This is pointless! There’s no one here. We may as well go land on a random building - when the denizens naturally attack we could beat some intel out of them.”

Tsáyidiel paused as nose and long whiskers twitched. “Wait. A soul has been through here. Follow.” He then bounded down the hallway, raven-black coloring blending with the dark stone walls. Almost but not quite perfectly, as the walls did not share the lovely specular shine of the fur.

Hurrying after, senses stretched outward and yep, he was right. Several hallways over a spark glimmered through the suppression enchantments smothering everything.

The door at the back of a dead-end hallway was kicked in, the label on the cheap wood proudly displaying its purpose: “Office of Compartmentalization and Storage of Records Which Do Not Exist.”

Good grief. Seriously?

Pushing the door further open, I took a look inside. Row after row of metal filing cabinets from floor to chest height filled a shadowed space a good fifteen feet by twenty. Unfortunately the hinges squeaked in protest of being further disturbed (earning a disapproving glare from Tsáyidiel for my totally failing yet another stealth skill check), and a man’s voice called out from deeper behind the cabinets.

“Hello?! Kelly, is that you??”

“Uh, nope!” I said cheerily. “But hi there.”

There was a loud thump from large volumes of folders being dropped, and at the back of the room the flicker of a flashlight illuminated the ceiling for a brief moment. “Who are you?! Stay back! I’ve got a gun!”

The panther crouched, tail flicking with a prepared pounce, but I mentally waved him off. “Don’t attack anything without my say so first.”

A pair of emeralds peered upwards. “As you wish, my Queen.”

Stepping into the room, I started talking. “Hey now, we’re not looking for any trouble. If anything we’re looking for help!”

A head peeked up over a cabinet, scraggly mess of brown hair pulled into a ponytail. Dark wild eyes took in my casual running attire of blue shorts and loose white t-shirt, and blinked in confusion. “Are you security?” One hand aimed a small flashlight in my direction as he stood up more, while the other held an energy pistol - think of a medium-sized handgun but with the barrel being more like a bloated pickle, strange external contours included. Unlike my ‘I’m out for a morning jog’ apparel, he wore a grimy beige robe which had certainly seen better days: fraying ends of the sleeves and several rips across the chest cried out for some serious needlework repair.

“Me? Not hardly. Just a former patient. How about you?” Edging closer, it was clear the guy had pulled a ton of files from various cabinets, spilling them across the cheap uniform carpet. “Guessing you’re looking for something too.”

Hysteria filled his voice and face, and the flashlight lanced across the scattered papers. “The proof! It’s not here!”

“The proof? Of what?”

“Our coming redemption!” Dropping out of sight again, the light rolled as another drawer was hurriedly yanked open.

I froze in place, certain suspicions disturbing thoughts. Could he…? No, that was ridiculous.

Reaching his row and about to ask him another question, the static squawk of a radio from inside a satchel laying on the floor cut me off.

“Citadel forces! Pierre! Get out! Get-” A burst of static and it went quiet. The echo of a blaster shot followed behind, coming from somewhere else on this floor.

“Kelly!” The guy stared at the satchel and then at me, horror dawning. “Oh no.”

Tsáyidiel was instantly in the shadows and out the door. “Armored soldiers approaching. Demonic enchantments have them cloaked. Shall I-”

“Dammit, no! Not unless I signal!”

On knees, the man held the gun in his lap. With a shudder, he exhaled and a terrible resignation filled his eyes.

“Pierre!” I said, and not without a sense of urgency as I ducked beside him, muted senses finally registered the many unholy sparks converging on this room. “Maybe there’s another way out of here?”

Looking up, he had this sad, sad smile. But behind it lay something else.

“Your hair, it’s a sign,” he said, oddly calm while fondling the gun. “Such a brilliant crimson kissed by gold. Just like how he described hers to be. Worry not. For in the end - the star shines for us all.”

The weapon went off, painting cabinets with a different red entirely. With most of the chest abruptly missing, Pierre’s eyes went dull and what was left of him slumped forward.

When finally allowing myself to stand up, the soft bluish-white glow of the stone of Pierre’s soul pulsed wetly between my fingers.

Soldiers clad in the best body armor the blend of demonic science and magic could muster had already spread out along the walls. Their weapons hummed with barely constrained power, as the various lights mounted to shoulders (or other appendages) swiveled brightly about the room.

All points converged on my position.

At the doorway stood a much shorter figure than the others, one with two small bat-like wings protruding from the back and two skinny clawed feet sticking out from below the armored torso. The figure also carried something with a long nasty barrel, but in distinction from the others the devil wasn’t wearing a helmet.

“Freeze!” he shouted in a voice used to command. “Hold it right there!”

Turning to face him, I let out a long and tired sigh. “Hello, Krux. Fancy meeting you here.”

Recognition didn’t take long. “You!!”

Unlike when last he’d pointed a blaster at me - in this very hospital, no less - this time there was no hesitation.

He opened fire, and the entire squad immediately followed his example.

Chapter 2 - Paintings

Ever since that moment of radical transformation (or resurrection, if one prefers) back at the start of all the madness - when my name went from Justin to Jordan and personal pronouns flipped on their heads - I’ve had occasion to journey to a scattering of spiritual places. Planes of existence, dreams, realms - call them what you will - they all had a certain commonality. They were formed around an inner core, a nugget of desire or purpose which stabilized the whole and resonated throughout. Some were tied to entire stories sung forth in glorious splendor, others built on specific concrete principles or even emotional states. The more coherent the core, the more cohesive the realm - and all the souls and spirits resonating in sync with that pattern locked-in the solidity even further. Their presence and observations made things more ‘real’ within that domain.

I’ve tasted, touched, ripped, reinforced, and even created such places anew. The planes of Hell were no exception in their properties, and while I’d only visited two of the many available, for various (and desperate!) reasons I’d needed to delve deep into the structures of both to fight against a Chaos-corrupted agent attempting to shred them into incoherent pieces.

The realm the city of Dis sat upon had been forged from an archangel’s Purpose, one emphasizing strength as the underlying fundament to survival along with a need to crush all discovered weakness. That the said archangel had fallen from grace and rebelled against the Throne diminished not the potency of his realm.

Sheer willpower and the refusal to yield was its key, and I had no need to bypass the lock.

As the multicolored swirls of destructive energy slammed their way across the room, twin wings of crystalline brilliance flared from my back - and into the realm’s true inner physics they poured determination and intent.

When the short and armored devil finally shouted for his team of demons to cease fire, I stood within the fiery wreckage of cabinets blown to smithereens, contents exploded out in all directions and burning with flames of crimson, azure, and even this disturbingly dark green.

Whereas I remained at the center of the wreckage untouched, t-shirt intact just as gleaming white with its front picture of a grey stone doorway decorated with the Kabbalah’s Tree of Life, as used in an old favorite anime show. What can I say, my subconscious sometimes manifests amusing clothing. Oh, there were also these elegant bracelets gleaming as bright gold upon wrists.

Though those weren’t mine to manifest.

Lowering the blaster, Krux cursed under a breath. “Well, shit.”

Making a show of flicking nonexistent dust off a shoulder, I pulled the spread wings in - yet kept them manifest so their shine could continue illuminating the mess the soldiers had made. “You done?”

The devil’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah.”

The much taller and wider demon standing at Krux’s side raised a helmet’s visor, revealing shocked yellow eyes. “Sir, she’s an angel!”

“Way to state the obvious, Corporal Dumbass. Thank you ever so much.” Krux’s disgust dripped from every word. “Everyone clear the fuck out. And keep your mouths shut, this whole operation’s classification just hit top rung. Radio silence. Got it?” When no one responded, he had to shout again. “Move!”

Snapping salutes, the team backpedaled out the door.

While they went I studied their leader. As he fished a cigar from one of the many utility pockets adorning a badged vest, I noticed a difference from our last encounter and commented. “You’re sporting a Citadel emblem. There’s no mistaking that fortress logo. Thought you were with overall Realm Security?”

Bending over one of the small fires (he didn’t have far to bend), he lit the cigar then studied me in return. “And you should be dead.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Well actually, no. I’m not.”

“How?”

“How what?”

He added more smoke to the haze already billowing from the scattered fires. “Darn near everyone on the Rock witnessed someone looking a lot like you getting yanked into the Abyss. Those that weren’t too busy kissing their own butts goodbye, anyway.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that. No one survives that ooze - which means it wasn’t you that got pulled in. Unless…” Dark eyes narrowed.

“Unless what?”

“You joined the Chaos between and became an Archon.”

“Is that why you opened fire?”

The devil didn’t answer.

Light pulsed through the wings. “And just how do you think Lucifer managed to escape Hell?”

“He’s the First of you feathered lot. Maybe the prison’s seal doesn’t apply to his exalted ass and let him through.”

I shook my head. “Far as I know it does. But no, I took the same path out he did and got to Earth, though not exactly by choice. Remember my lineage - somehow it was possible.”

Krux grimaced. “So it really was you everyone saw over the Rock. Six wings and all, a full fucking Seraph.”

“I’d show you the other pairs, but I’d rather not shake the entire realm.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Dang. Probably smart; it’s too much a disaster all on its own.” He considered, and the pointed jaw tensed then released. Flicking the burning tip of the cigar at the corpse on the floor and then to the glowing stone in my hand, he asked, “Friend of yours?”

I held it tighter. “Never had the chance to be. He the target of your hunt?”

“Not him. His boss.”

“Well this guy took himself out rather than be captured.”

“They do that.”

“They?”

He puffed on the cigar and stayed silent.

Dammit. Alright, if he didn’t want to share I’d have to take a different tack. “You know, Krux, the way I figure it - you owe me. I saved your Citadel. Not to mention all the Sarim that were present.”

“A lot has happened since that incident.”

“Then fill me in.”

“You escaped this piss-hole of an oubliette. Why the fuck would you come back?”

“A bunch of reasons. I might even tell you if you’ll help me.”

The surprise was short lived, as natural suspicion quickly returned. “Help you with what?”

“Tasks which if not carefully handled could threaten the power balance you fretted about the last time we played ‘show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.’”

“Shit, girl. The city is already at war with itself. You saying it could be worse?”

“I haven’t sensed Bene-Elohim fighting directly. Just the occasional local adjustments.”

“They haven’t dared. Higher-ups forbid it, and they’re forsworn from full killing each other in any case.”

I couldn’t help it and chuckled. “As if that wasn’t forbidden in Heaven when they all rebelled?”

He didn’t laugh along with me, instead he just stared. “You serious about the power balance? If you’ve really gone full Seraph, your being here could seriously fuck it up.”

“I know. Hence the ‘carefully handled’ part.”

“And you running into me was what, coincidence?”

“Likely as random as our last meeting was.”

Ages of pain and sorrow wrinkled the skin besides the devil’s eyes, only to solidify with hard resolution. “We shouldn’t discuss details. Not here. As warded as it is, we haven’t secured this place ourselves.”

“That just means I trust it more than any place you’d lead me to.”

He grunted. “From a paranoid point of view, that’s a hard point to argue.”

“Yep. Hey, even without the angels going at it directly, how bad is the fighting in the city? I got a good view on the way in: entire towers have collapsed, but a lot of the demolition looks old.”

“Factions continually duke it out. None are strong enough to wipe out another and not end up too weak to fight off a third. So it’s a lot of limited strikes on tactical targets, or stronger pushes with temporary alliances - and the usual backstabbings after. Ground quakes did the rest.”

“Ground quakes?”

“Realm ain’t entirely stable. Hence you’d better be cautious-like.”

Erk. That didn’t sound good. “Wait, tactical targets? Like this hospital? That’s messed up.”

“Nah, that’s pragmatic. In Hell, punches don’t get pulled once the bell rings.”

I pointed to the patch on his reinforced vest. “And the Citadel? What side are you pulling for?”

“None. We’re sticking to neutrality.”

Okay, that fit. “You joined them to avoid the direct fighting.”

“I ain’t stupid. The generals of Realm Security all got recruited by different Sarim via their Dukes. The whole org fragmented into fuck all, each piece sucked into a different military. Became instant frontline troops.”

“So why would you care about some dude digging through hospital records?” I held up the soul.

He inhaled deeply from the cigar then blew out a perfect oval of smoke. “Risk assessment.”

“You’re shitting me. This underpowered little soul is a threat?”

“Him specifically? Pfft. But he may have intel we’re after.” He flicked ash to the side in disgust. “Not that we can retrieve it now.”

“Because he took himself out? Figured you’d just feed the stone to a demon and suck the memories out directly.”

“Don’t work on these assholes.”

“Huh. That’s actually impressive.”

“True fanaticism. Demon eats that, they get infected. Results ain’t pretty.”

Now that…that was interesting. I thought of Maddalena, the strega witch who had kept her mind intact for thousands of Hell-years while stuck inside the belly of a particularly nasty demon. While he’d used her abilities to heal himself, she’d given that willingly to try and hold to the strictures of her own faith. Maybe he’d decided a full absorption of her was too dangerous to attempt.

He hadn’t been stupid either. Well, except for agreeing to fight me - that decision proved to be simply suicidal.

The devil raised a bony eyebrow. “Feel like telling what you’re doing back here at this hospital? And how it may affect your feathered brethren? Hard for me to help out without information.”

I grinned. “Nope, we’ll need to dance a bit longer first. And even if you somehow don’t buy in on owing me for kicking the ass of Azazel’s puppet back at the Citadel, you’ve got a newer debt to pay.”

“How the fuck you figure that?” Dark skin crinkled a scowl.

“Seriously? You just tried to kill me. Unprovoked.” Spreading feathers, I let their burning intensity rise. “And so far I haven’t crushed you like a grape in return for such an insult.”

“Heh. I’d make a real sour vintage.” The little guy was brave, I’d give him that. He faced the blazing floodlights without showing an ounce of fear, even as the power pulled in by the wings reached levels enough to take out not just this room but the entire floor. “Fine, fuck it. What do you want?”

“The Lilim’s embassy in the city. Where is it?”

“That place?” He paused while beady eyes reflected fresh calculations along with the blazingly bright shine. “I heard its tower got hit awhile back.”

“Any of the people still there?”

“Unlikely. But sure, I’ll take you to it so we can both find out.”

My smile filled with not-entirely-sincere warmth as I let the brightness fade out. Not completely, mind you, but enough. “Great. Shall we?”

“Yeah, just gotta take care of something as we go. C’mon.”

Gesturing with the cigar towards the door, he then chomped down upon it at the side of his mouth and stepped through. Following behind, we marched down the corridor towards the ‘T’ at the end where his squad had formed up in defensive positions alongside the walls.

Tsáyidiel’s voice filled my mind. “My Queen, do you trust this devil?”

“About as far as I can toss him.”

“With his wings and diminutive stature, that could be fairly far.”

I barely suppressed an audible laugh at the conjured mental image, though mind-to-mind I chortled. “Ha! But seriously, we’ll probably take off in a flying vehicle. Stay close and keep hidden.”

“As my Queen wishes.”

Reaching his men, Krux stopped next to the guy kneeling at the rear having taken aim towards the passage’s entrance. “Corporal Dumbass.”

“Sir?” The demon turned attention away from the gun’s sight and found himself looking right into the metal pickle-sized barrel of Krux’s.

Krux pulled the trigger, and with a loud pulse the back of the corporal’s helmet exploded its contents across the wall.

Whereas I’d jumped back, flared wings, and had even summoned crimson flames from Camael’s bracers in sudden alarm, the rest of Krux’s crew hadn’t even flinched.

Jesus, they’d been expecting it.

“Halphas!” Krux called out. “Grab his stones. Everyone else, prep the path to the landing zone. We’re out.”

As one they shouted, “Sir, yes sir!” Pairs of soldiers shimmered into translucence and began moving in careful coordination around the corner.

Halphas, a demon whose helmet elongated to cover a head shaped like a stork, didn’t hesitate. Producing a dagger, he immediately began slicing off the corporal’s armor to get at the flesh underneath.

Dimming wings and dismissing their flames, I pointed to the corpse soaking the carpet. “There’s two in the chest besides the heart, one in the right thigh, and another hidden in the left heel.”

Krux extinguished the cigar by smothering it against the back of his armored glove, but still watched close my expression.

I asked the ‘obvious’ question. “Security risk?”

“Citadel politics.”

“You gonna take heat for it?”

“The dumbshit let the guy’s partner squawk on the radio. That’s enough cover for immediate purposes. Let’s move.”

We stepped past the body and left Halphas to the gruesome task. And despite the soul orb still held tightly in hand having been cleansed of blood in the fires I’d manifested, fingers still felt sticky.

Washing them clean was going to take a lot more than soap.

A little over a month. That’s how quick my time away from Hell had been. I should have counted myself lucky - most armed forces only give their soldiers a couple weeks of R&R between tours.

And so here I was, once again shoulder to shoulder with demons. At least these had bathed better than most.

Not that their stench could ever really be scrubbed off.

We’d loaded up in Krux’s Citadel drop ship - think glorified flying SWAT van, complete with official logo painted on the sides with lights and sirens. With how Tsáyidiel kept calling me his queen, due to my having forged an entire dream realm during that too-short time away, a certain drumbeat got stuck on repeat in my head. Another one rides the bus…Wait, that was the Weird Al parody version.

Yeah, okay, my mind does strange things.

Anyway, they’d wedged me in the middle of two bench rows of professional soul-swallowing killers, sitting across from Krux who didn’t look any happier than I felt about being in here. The guys flanking him were at least four times his size, though they were doing their best to give ample room out of respect for his authority. Most of the team I recognized from that last visit but not all, and it was clear from their forced stoic demeanors that my presence was weirding them out.

Good.

Keeping arms crossed as we all tried not to slide back and forth while the floating brick around us maneuvered through the sky, I broke the disciplined silence. “Hey, Krux. Where’s Major Quorg? Most here were from his team, right?”

Several glanced at each other then away.

Krux stood on the bench rather than sitting, and still was shorter than the lunks framing him. “Lost Quorg three firestorms ago.”

“I thought you said you joined the Citadel to stay out of the fighting. How’d that happen?”

“An idiot of a duke thought he could take the fortress and boost favor from his patron. The dumbshit.”

“Damn. I kinda liked Quorg.”

He shrugged.

Quiet descended again, but without windows to see out of it quickly got boring. “Where’s your ship? It gave a better view for passengers.”

“Blew up. A storm before Quorg.”

“Oh.” I thought for a moment. “Alright, I gotta ask: how long is it between storms?”

“You spent time on the Rock, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Firestorms usually hit every ten to twelve of their cycles.”

Huh. Cycles were measured by the precession of the Shroud half-covering the Spark which acted as that realm’s sun. Near as I could figure, a cycle was the equivalent of a few months. “And how many of those have hit since our interrupting the unexpected showers of the feathered folk at the Conclave?”

“Seven.”

I did the math. Approximately twenty years had passed for the folks condemned down here.

Yikes.

Leaning back against the metal wall (there was no padding on the seats in this thing), the implications of that much time for those I’d left behind sank in. Finding them could prove to be rather tricky, especially if wanting to do so without attracting too much attention from those very fallen angels I’d just mentioned. I could cheat and energetically power up to reach out to some of my friends directly no matter which realm they were on, but Tsáyidiel had warned that the more powerful princes would sense it. And they’d then be able to track both ends of the connection.

Not something I especially desired to risk at the moment, not for me and especially not for my friends.

We banked hard for what I hoped was a landing and not from evasive action. “We almost there?”

“Nah, gotta refuel first at a depot. These buckets are always thirsty.”

“Ah.” Thinking for a moment, I asked Krux one more question. “You ever get to fire off those rear-mounted missiles?”

He flashed a sharp-toothed grin. “Oh yeah. They were fucking glorious!”

Well, okay then.

After the refueling (which required Krux to disembark and enjoy throwing his authority around again), we took off once more and soon spiraled around the tips of the many towers before landing upon one’s top. Walking down the exit ramp, the massive scale of the construction hit as strong as the heated air whipping across open cheeks from the fire-stirred winds.

Something I hadn’t appreciated during my last tour was the sheer size of the buildings in the city of Dis. The speed of Krux’s ship as we had darted through traffic before must’ve been faster than I’d realized, because the towers were huge. Really ridiculously huge.

As in they were at least ten times the size of what was found in most downtowns back on Earth.

The Lilim’s Embassy formed its own complex on the peak of one of those equally-spaced black monoliths, just under the curtain of flame swallowing the sky. Made of the same obsidian stone as if extruded upward by the regolith below, a singular immense dome large enough to house a pair of mighty zeppelins sat flanked by magnificent columns holding up multi-floor square offices. And yet there was still plenty of room for the wide landing zone serving as a gigantic parking lot - a space entirely abandoned except for our own flying brick.

There was also debris scattered about from what must have been a hard-fought battle.

Office space to the left of the dome had taken serious fire. That weird onyx lava stone had been pulverized by various calibers of both energy-directed and physical shells, leaving a ring of rubble around it like an inverted moat. The dome itself was intact - except for one section sporting an open jagged gap large enough for one of our SWAT ships. The many stairs leading up to it had also been shelled, and the immense main doors had been blown entirely off the hinges - the remains of the massive mounting brackets melted from the blasts.

“Guessin’ we won’t need to knock,” Krux remarked dryly. Pointing to Halphas, he gestured and half the squad was then jogging after the stork-headed demon who had taken the lead. The rest formed up around Krux and myself, weapons out and aimed in all directions to cover our butts as we too marched forward.

Being surrounded by such military focus, my hands itched to hold a weapon. And while I could easily summon into manifestation the spear constantly pulsing against my spirit, its nature would likely have caused Krux to panic and immediately call down air strikes. Possible even nukes, if he had them.

Somehow I didn’t think the little guy would listen to any explanations regarding the weapon’s balance of holy and chaotic energies, especially as I hadn’t had the chance to study it in any detail yet myself.

So yeah, empty fingers remained empty.

While weaving around chunks of pulverized steps, I asked Krux, “So who attacked here?”

To fit in the ship I’d put my own wings away, but Krux still had his and used them to skip entire sections of damage. “Rumors said forces loyal to Dagon. Who would normally not dare, leading credence to the chatter that the alliance between Asmodeus and Lilith is toast.”

The first squad executed a diligent entering-maneuver past the open doors, while the rest of us lurked alongside the wall outside. Once they had reported things as clear, we went in. It was indeed like walking into a tremendous and empty airline hanger - at least until I looked up.

At which point I realized it was more a monumental cathedral, one that would have caused Michaelangelo’s hands and back to cramp in agonized sympathy.

The entire ceiling was painted. And between the floor’s smooth reflectiveness and the hole in the ceiling, the burning yellowish-orange of the sky’s curtain leaking through lit every panel with perfect clarity.

I exhaled in awe. “Oh wow.”

Scene after scene leapt out to the eye in brilliant color and depth. All focused on a central character whose identity I knew without needing to be told:

Lilith.

I’d seen her directly once, in a half-dream before awakening in the very hospital we’d just left. Her depiction here was however different: long raven hair flowing as to dance between night and dawn, eyes of shimmering violet that took in the light of surroundings with calculation and amusement, lifted by wings changing shade depending on mood between verdant green of untouched forest primeval to deepest blue of mysterious ocean. Drawn in by it all, I went still and let the artwork perform its magic.

There she stands, proud and determined, amongst siblings at the Beginning: from within Helel’s aura flashing brilliantly as an eclipsed halo around Beliel, Samael and Raphael, and more - holding them all close and safe within his Light of Lights…

Here she swoops with wicked spear and sword, cleaving abomination after abomination oozing from the disturbed boundary of that which Is versus that which Is Not…

A tree more tree-like than nature could ever achieve: knotted root and burley trunk, twisting branch and veined leaf, bursting with fruit and life while offering shade for her and her companion, both unabashedly beautiful in their nakedness. Her relishing the raw femininity of a wingless form, and her companion with features simultaneously of both sexes and therefore neither, as if the sculptor had yet to apply finishing touches…

The smoking wreckage of a tall chair smolders beside her, while arms fold imperiously below elegant expression flashing with disgust and refusal as two brothers argue. One spins spirals of crimson black and the other radiates overwhelming white and gold, while all around them armored angel after armored angel fall unto blood-tarnished death and bottomless despair…

A night-winged angel watches on as a twin version of herself darts between realms with arms outstretched, hoping to catch a bleeding star as it falls towards a gate-framed vortex. Both Liliths have cheeks streaked by sorrow, leaking from orbs of soft twilight burning still with hardened Purpose…

An angel of astounding beauty with hair of unspun gold and face half-hidden by purest ivory silk, watches a bed of monumental size where Lilith’s voluptuous form takes a triple-horned demon to her bosom and more. The faces of countless children blending demonic and divine surround to gaze lovingly only at their mother - and not to the fathers kneeling behind the angel whose single eye glares impotent frustration, an expression ruining what grace otherwise would touch such a face of perfection…

“Impressive, ain’t it?”

Krux, standing oddly close within the expanse under the dome, broke the reverie.

More of Gabriel’s memories, including touches of shared times with Lilith, swirled at the periphery of vision. But none dominating the others, instead some flowed as if but additional moments which the painter of this glorious ceiling had simply run out of the needed room to include. “Yes, it is.”

He lit another cigar, and the air filled with the scent of roasting almost-tobacco. “Just how long have you been back in Hell?” The agent’s tone was casual, but his posture’s stillness betrayed the burning depths of the need to know more.

Allowing eyes to shift away from the glory above, they instead scanned the many doors leading off to the offices beyond. His split team had taken one side each, searching room to room - the many lights of their own spirits and the souls they’d captured flickering behind the walls.

I finally looked back at the short devil. “You want to know how much trouble I may have already caused.”

A deeper inhale, with a slow smoky return. “Crosses the mind.”

“The hospital was the first stop. Only place I knew in the city, other than the fortress employing you.”

“Your arrival as accidental as your exit?”

“Nope. Rather deliberate, albeit provoked. Flew right on through the Gates.”

“You’re nuts, girl. Got a plan?”

“Working on it. You mentioned Pierre had a leader - the target you’re really after. Who exactly?”

“Following up on rumors. Word is, something new is shaking up the Pits. Sent a team to investigate, they didn’t come back.”

“The Pits?”

“Caverns under the city. Where demonspawn with more brawn than brains end up.”

“I take it that team was competent?”

He scowled around the cigar. “They were pros.”

“And Pierre’s connection - you think his people have something to do with it?”

“No. But their cult could have intel we lack. Unlike my idiot commander, I don’t send teams in blind.” He was about to say more, but the squad leaders radioed their reports to his ear’s tiny receiver. With perceptions opened up I didn’t need to wait for him to repeat their findings, but I did so anyway.

Flicking ash onto the mirrored surface of the flooring, he grunted. “This place is abandoned. No one’s here, though monitoring spells were left behind. So what now?”

I smiled while sweeping a gaze about the vast emptiness of the hanger-like room. “Now? Well, I figure I ought remember that Lilim are a lot like the Nephelim.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that they too like to keep things hidden from regular old demonic or mortal eyes. Stay here - I’ll be back.”

Before he could respond, perceptions folded - and thereby shifted precisely where I was standing into a different space entirely - one which nevertheless shared the same room under the painted dome.

Blinking at what had changed, once again there were several guns aimed at my face.

Yep. It was one of those days.

Chapter 3 - Sin

Languages are magic.

Think about it. By making weird sounds or scribbling strange markings against a surface, we transmit ideas, conjure images the recipient has never seen, and organize the very way we think. And it’s not limited to only verbal or written mediums; there is language in music, in mathematics, in dance and motion, and yes, in the act of making love. They are the tools by which we interact with each other and the universe at large, coordinating our very perceptions into meaning.

Mostly we use language to manipulate the thoughts and ideas of others, but some…well, some use it to manipulate the world directly. And what lies behind it.

Quite literally, that’s magic. And from what I’ve seen, it’s part and parcel of reality, a set of waiting levers built-in to the layers of spirit and physicality.

Of course, the language utilized will guide and limit what can or can’t be done. Fae invoke wild-yet-constrained passion in their songs and runes to harness raw elemental power, witches channel bliss and fury to blend nature with desire, priests chant litanies and combine the names of chosen deities to open channels to the divine, and even the throat-scorched curses hurled by demons slam their hatred and greed directly upon their enemies - and themselves.

On Earth, words are translated between languages all the time, what with the numerous different tongues deployed across the planet. Nuances occasionally fail to transfer, subtleties lost in the shift of perceptual and cultural context, but still mostly come across intact - as they are all languages of souls based on the shared experience of being human.

In Hell, those souls have a single language spoken natively upon their arrival - while the patterns of their original remain within their conscious minds. It’s a strange thing, and the cross-linguistic pun wars are simply ridiculous but possible. Demons and devils also have their own singularly shared speech and writings, one not designed for throats formed in the patterns of mere mortal souls.

As for angels, I’ve heard it said we are the language of the Source of All made manifest. When we speak - or even act - Creation is rewritten directly. We are our sacred Words, and from our combinations is the fundament itself forged. Spreading wings and feathers wide, I have glimpsed this clear: tremendous beauty unfathomably complex and transcendently simple. And I have shouted my Name upon those threads, with consequences my usual consciousness has yet to properly comprehend.

Where it gets outright wiggy is for beings born of both angel and other. In caves outside El Paso and atop a rooftop in Boston, I’ve seen the twisted writings of a Nephelim. Hard to describe, but imagine the divine language scribbled in crayon, full of misspellings and errors yet meaning is - albeit barely - legible. Part angel and part human. As a former software dweeb, it’s like looking at a third generation computer language interspersed with raw assembly. But perhaps a better way to describe it is akin to reading words scrawled on a page, but with loops and whirls of the script reaching past the page into three - or four - dimensions - yet still not being complete, for the symbols attempting to be invoked are properly tenth-dimensional constructs.

Or higher. For at that level the words are themselves the abstract under description, enjoined directly.

The script of the Lilim, beings born of angelic mother and a multitude of demonic fathers, is weirder still. Like two opposing brushes dueling across a canvas, the conflicting strokes streak across the entire portrait in warps and folds, with colors screaming conflicted emotional expression. Yet when expertly deployed, the contrast can be used to gain the artist’s desired effect. Outcomes such as being invisible to souls and demons both, or splitting a space into different vibrational levels where each no longer interacts with the other.

But I could see such workings. And more, I could touch them.

Hence the business end of an energy pistol abruptly being held but a scant few inches from my nose, with two larger cousins similarly aimed from a few yards distant.

A man, short but with an impressive quick draw from the shoulder holster, grunted with a finger hovering over the trigger. “You are not Lilim.” Pale wisps of blond poked out from under a beige cap, and suspenders over a white dress shirt clasped to business slacks lent an air of officiousness, even if the shirt’s sleeves had been rolled up. He was also clean-shaven, smooth skin testifying to the sharpness of whatever blade had been used.

I smiled, holding up hands to show being unarmed. “Nope! But neither are you three.”

A second man sporting military-cropped black hair, sleeveless black shirt showing off numerous scars across forearms, readjusted a grip on a larger weapon. “Then we should shoot her. Do it, Edgar.” He appeared younger, but I knew that in Hell such things could be deceiving. The comfort he had in wearing combat pants and boots, with a thick belt holding two knives, and a set of grenades, spoke to a violent past. There were also deep circles under eyes set over hollow and sunken features stretched tightly over the skull.

“Wait, don’t!” Off to the other side of the corporate pistol-bearer stood a woman taller than even me. A deep purple cloak kept her outfit from being visible, but the toes of a metal-tipped boot stuck out due to the braced stance as she lifted yet another blaster in my direction. Her eyes were an amazing river blue, but that beauty sat above the wreckage of her lower face. If I’d had to guess, someone once hit her with an acid-filled balloon - or worse. Skin the color of hummus looked to have melted from the jaw, and coffee-stained teeth sat visible through gaps stretching between strands barely managing to form cheeks.

It wasn’t a wound inflicted here in Hell either. Her soul had maintained the appearance she’d gained in life.

My heart winced at the realization.

Mr. Suspenders (okay, his name was obviously Edgar, but I liked Mr. Suspenders better) frowned as he looked me up and down, clearly not quite knowing what to make of what he saw. “Who are you? How did you get here?” The finger tensed but held steady.

Partially answering the (literally loaded) first question, I said, “I’m a friend of the Lilim. Specifically of Vance and the Twins, Ruyia and Yaria.”

Soldier guy behind him snorted. “Anyone could claim that. Got any proof?”

I gave a slight shrug. “Just stories. I saved his life, and they saved mine. Forms a bond.”

Mr. Suspenders fought back the edges of a tired smile and lost. “Quite calm for a soul who is held dead to rights.”

“You know, you may want to redo the math on that assumption. Despite the padlock the Lilim left on this place, I did just waltz on through.”

The hint of friendliness faded.

His companion wasn’t even close to smiling. “You threatening us, lady??”

I snorted. “Dude, if I were threatening, you wouldn’t need to ask the question. Look - awhile ago I was told that friends of mine were staying here along with my stuff; I came to find them - or at least get a clue as to where they went. But from the sight of it, the Lilim cleared out of here pronto-like.” I gestured to the rest of the large space around us - except unlike before the shift it now wasn’t empty.

It was just a mess.

At the center stood a pair of twenty feet tall rectangular stones, with a shorter one resting across to form a single henge. The slabs were decorated with some serious Lilim workings, though the power in them lay inert as the stonework had clearly been used for target practice by an array of energy-hurling weapons. Small circles of further sigils were also carved on the floor in front of the henge: one set on each side, and a third in front of it. Off to the side of all that a kid-you-not wading pool had been laid into the floor, circumscribed with stones inscribed with even more complex magic, holding back stinking and brackish water.

The purpose of the defunct spells on the henge seemed clear enough, but the pool’s were harder to fathom. Just looking into the not-so-clear water, which nevertheless glowed with reflected skyfire from above, kicked off a headache - one which would need at least a pair of wings to dispel. If not two pairs.

As for the rest of the space, the far side filled with rows of tall wooden scaffolds of large rackhouse storage - though all the slots were empty and good chunks of the wood had been chopped free, in fact one shelf entire had toppled over. Nearer the trio on this side of the henge, the stone floor had been busted up to form a cooking pit, one that hadn’t seen much recent use as far as I could tell despite the plentiful wood to feed a fire. A set of leather office chairs had been wheeled over to hover outside its circle, and beyond those lay a pile of mismatched coats long used as blankets and sleeping mats.

All three showed clear signs of hovering on the brink of starvation. Already the adrenalin rush of a sudden invader had begun to fade, the woman barely kept a grip on that blaster.

“Jesus,” I breathed as two and two came together into our three plus one. “They all escaped through the henge’s portal and left you behind.”

“Your friends,” demanded the woman. “Tell me their names.”

“Maddalena and Twitch.”

The ruin of her lips pursed, but were too suspicious of something to give it voice.

Mr. Suspenders (okay, okay, Edgar) however lifted the finger off the trigger and asked, “And what of yours?”

“I am known by many. But most call me Jordan.”

The woman nodded in internal confirmation. “Lower the guns.”

Edgar didn’t hesitate, but with stance stiffening Carlos growled, “Why?”

Following her own order, the woman’s shoulders relaxed and the tip of her weapon dropped to the floor. “She’s the one the priestess spoke about.”

Carlos risked a glance away from his target. “What the fuck you talkin’ ‘bout, Nadia?”

Weary eyes of crystal water, fluid yet hard, met mine.

“If she’s even half of what the priestess promised,” Nadia said, “then she’s going to save us.”

Geeze. No pressure, right?

After telling me not to go anywhere, Nadia walked off towards the empty racks - leaving me standing awkwardly with the two men busily exchanging confused glances.

Motioning towards the office chairs outside the rudimentary camp, Edgar said, “Sit.”

His companion slung the long blaster over a shoulder, but kept a hand close to the belt and its knives. “We ain’t gonna feed her, are we? Our supplies suck.”

Edgar glanced towards where Nadia had gone. “Perhaps.”

Moving as casual as possible, I took the offered chair. “Is Nadia in charge?”

Carlos spoke quickest. “Hell no.”

Edgar merely shrugged.

Noting the awkward dynamic, I then asked, “Are you guys stuck in here?”

“No,” Edgar said. “We can-”

“Shut it!” snarled Carlos, the scarred hand resting on a blade’s hilt. “Don’t tell her nuthin’!”

“You know,” I said quietly, “if you really want my help, I’ll probably need to know more.”

With a sigh, Edgar collapsed onto a second worn and leather chair. “Your help matters little. We are abandoned souls. When we go to forage, there is risk of being taken by any demon. Our marks are gone, unlike yours.” He nodded towards the golden star softly glowing across the palm of my hand.

Closing fingers over it, I felt the warmth from the skin. Since arriving it had been trying to reach out to reconnect properly to whomever still bore its likeness, but on the advice of Tsáyidiel I’d been suppressing it. Should any of my old crew of berserkers have been captured and held by an enemy, the sudden burst of power from their mark would make my return immediately obvious. Heck it could also ruin any undercover work they were trying to do right now. My Hunter had insisted on stealth in all ways first, at least until we had scouted what had happened to everyone - and therefore not put any at risk.

Hard to argue against. Though the skin itched like crazy.

Carlos remained standing. “That sigil. Who’s your master?”

“It’s not like that.”

“You saying it’s not a demon mark? Sure as shit looks like one.”

I looked at the two of them. “The mark is mine. The others who bear it - they’re bound to me.”

Alarm raced across Carlos’ face, and in a smooth motion pulled a knife and pointed it. That he reached for a knife before the gun slung over his back was interesting. “You’re a fucking demon?!”

“No.”

Edgar’s gun, still held in his lap, resumed its aim as well with forced focus returning to shoulders and face. “You appear as a soul. But none has ever owned a mark. What are you?”

I was about to reply, but someone else did for me.

“She is, or was, a Nephelim.” Nadia had crossed the reflective floor behind us, carrying a felwood box perhaps one foot by a half in size. “Like the Lilim, she’s half angel.”

“Bull.” Carlos shook his head. “She don’t seem like no-”

He fell silent for my eyes filled with power as tendrils of light stretched through and behind the chair, providing just the outline of wings.

Blinking at that brightness, Edgar began to stammer. “You…you are really…can you…” He fell silent, but behind his eyes much became clear in that light.

Steam trains belching exhaust speed down rails with boxcars packed full of supplies and people - women, men, children. All according to his carefully planned tables and ledgers, yet the provisions were not for passengers - as upon arrival they’d soon have no needs at all. Horrified he had learned of this… and yet had done nothing, said nothing. A burning shame to haunt the rest of his days…

I found myself speaking. “I am many things, Edgar Heinrich Becker. As to who I shall be for each of you, such depends on choices made here and now.” My gaze swept across Carlos who flinched and turned away, and so the illumination continued on to focus upon Nadia.

She met the light without the sorrows of her companion, for inside burned deep-seated rage - an anger tightly controlled wishing to lash outward, yet its fires aimed chiefly at targets within to dance besides a fierce and burning pride.

Using that pride as anchor, she bravely held out the box. “The priestess left this. Take it. She warned it was sealed by her faith, and that only you could open it.”

Taking the item, a finger ran across the carvings embedded in the dark wood: A sun extending its fiery halo to caress the sliver of a moon, surrounded by sigils hermetic in nature. But below those sat four symmetric points reaching outward from a shared center.

Placing my palm upon it, a star met its match and the black metal latch popped open.

Inside lay a tiny scroll which unfolded to reveal an elegant script written in old Italian, whose meanings equally unraveled in my mind:

My Queen,

Word of the rescue of Beliel’s world from the ancient Darkness by the brightest of lights has reached us, and we gather now past the Lilim’s gate above the plains of Epsilon. Forgive, for I intend to carry your sacred weapon, the bow of crystal power, to wield her strength in thy name. Your treasure shall also be safeguarded, but for the few tokens we leave here should you have immediate need. Where we shall go after this moot I cannot yet say, other than that I pray to continue walking the path the Goddess has set before us, in hopes to remain always within the shine of your blessed grace. In love and light, we await and prepare your holy return.

Your Faithful Servant,

Maddalena

Outpost Epsilon.

Emotions swirled at the thought of returning to the desolate wastes under a vacant sky of absolute darkness. Logically it had only been a subjective year or so since Twitch and I had returned from our reaper sweep to find the outpost which had been our refuge gutted and aflame.

Yet somehow it felt much longer.

Swallowing back pain still lurking behind my own glowing orbs, they dimmed and turned to the damaged henge dominating the center of the vast hanger-like room and the three circles before it. Somewhere, likely in the Spires near Epsilon, sat its twin. “They needed three souls to hold it open for their transit, didn’t they. And you were ordered to destroy it after.”

Carlos snorted. “They were probably going to from the other side anyway.”

“We had to,” Nadia added. “A gate without anchor on the other side could let other…things…through. Or so I was told.”

“Makes sense.” I thought for a moment, then asked, “If I can get you to the Lilim out on Beliel’s Rock, would they take you back?”

The three considered, but Edgar spoke first. “Nadia was their accountant. She is brilliant. And Carlos was…” He paused.

Still holding the knife, Carlos stared at the floor. “Useful. I was useful. As a soul I can sneak into that they could not.” He left unsaid what he’d been expected to do once in such places.

Upon my palm blue flames consumed the scroll and I looked to Edgar. “What about you?”

The man’s eyes kept flicking to the wings. “Warehouse supervisor and logistics coordinator. But they have no need for such anymore.” He gestured at the wreckage of shelves.

“I’m sure they could find something else for you to do,” Nadia said quietly.

“It is all I know.”

I tapped the top of the box. “There was another gate - a bigger one - from that realm to Dis, right? One to move agricultural goods to the city, in exchange for manufactured items. Any idea where that is?”

“That too has been destroyed in the war between factions,” said Nadia. “Which made the fighting get a lot worse, as only so many towers support hydroponics.”

Edgar nodded. “Demons have appetites for plants only for so long before deciding enemies make a better meal.”

Well crud, there went that idea. Camael had carried me between the realms to transit from Dis to the Rock, but I’d been rather shutdown power-wise at the time. The nuances of that trip had been beyond my perceptions as a result, were I to try now who knows where I’d end up. And while Tsáyidiel likely had the skill to go map out the ways between everything, that could take too long.

Of course I had a more urgent mission right here on Dis.

Still flicking guitar-plucking fingernails against the box, I asked, “Is there anywhere else in this stupid city you three could go and be safe?”

No one spoke up, but the rise of tension across faces and postures indicated an ongoing disagreement.

“I take it this is a sore topic.”

Carlos rolled eyes in disgust. “Go ahead, Nadia. You’re gonna say it anyway.”

She crossed arms hidden within long purple sleeves. “There were rumors-”

“By idiots,” muttered Carlos under his breath.

Nadia ignored him. “-of a place souls could go to escape. They call it Sanctuary.”

Eyebrows raised. “What if they were already marked?”

Edgar answered. “There are claims that Sanctuary can erase them. And set souls free.”

I stopped drumming against the hard and carved felwood. “Huh. Know anything else about it?”

Nadia shook her head, causing deep brown strands to fall free from under the hood. “Only that the Pilgrim carries the message.”

“Pilgrim?”

“No one knows who he is. They say he is sworn to silence, yet provides aid - and points the way.”

Now that was interesting. Hmm.

Flipping the knife and catching it, Carlos pointed the tip at Nadia. “It’s gotta be a trap.”

She glared back at him. “What do we have to lose?”

“Much,” Edgar said, getting up from the chair. “I would prefer hunger to being swallowed by a demon.” He let the gun-holding hand drop to his side.

“Alright, hang on,” I said. “Maybe I can find out more, heck I may even have a lead or two. In the meantime - with your foraging around here, can you buy supplies if you had money?”

“Souls don’t have their own bank accounts,” Nadia said.

Edgar nodded. “With the continuing war, electronic debit chips may not work. Barter and trade will rule instead.”

“What if you had cash?” I asked. “Specifically, cash from another realm. Would that be fungible?”

All eyes went to the box. Carlos braved the question. “Is that what you got in there?” Fingers tightened on the knife.

Eyes glowed again, this time in warning. “Mistake not generosity for weakness.”

Edgar stepped between us. “There are those nearby who may take coins. They would sell food, provided they have spare. The pipes here work still, through luck or Lilim sorcery, thus water is plentiful. But…why not take us with you?”

I didn’t want to lie. “A couple reasons. I may need to travel in ways and to places you simply cannot. Also, in order to keep you safe even from those I travel with, you’d have to take on my mark. Something,” I said, looking past Edgar at Carlos who was again studying the floor, “which I think not everyone here would wish to do.”

They went silent at that, but then Nadia blurted, “I’ll do it. Then I can be the one to more safely buy supplies.”

“Nadia!” Edgar looked at her in surprise. “Bound by her mark, you could be forever trapped! An angel she may be, but she too has fallen to Hell!”

Under the hood the woman attempted a smile, and across those devastated cheeks the expression was more tragic than warm. Though the sentiment was genuine before hardening again as an inner fury spoke. “The god I worshiped in life allowed this,” she said, gesturing to the ruin of her face. “Yet the goddess whom the priestess follows sustained her while she lay trapped within a demon’s belly - and sent her only daughter to Hell to pull her free.” She looked again to me, nervous and angry, yet expectant as if she dared me to contradict, or worse - to fail. “I would choose to trust in such a deity.”

I stood, cradling the box against my chest with one hand. “You must understand, I do not serve my spirit’s mother. And Artemis did not send me to Hell.”

Shredded cheeks frowned. “Then whom do you serve?”

The question hit eardrums like an ocean crashing against a cliff. Unlike the angels above, I had taken no oath to Elohim. So I didn’t serve anyone, did I?

Except that wasn’t right.

I’d agreed to work with my greater spirit, to walk where she needed feet to tread and wings to fly. Even though they had led me back to Hell.

Which hadn’t been fought against or even debated. Because she and I, we both in truth did serve something.

Something we’d been willing to give everything for.

Light exploded across the space as wings slipped free once again. And many levels of consciousness spoke in a single voice to fill the wide chamber.

“I serve my heart of hearts, and the Light of Lights from which it shines. I serve all who would walk within that glory, be they able to see it true or no.”

Sinking to knees, and with a clear and brave voice she asked, “Even those whose own hearts remain burdened by sin?”

In silent answer, I reached below the covering fabric to rest a hand against the ruined face and saw then what lay behind her strength...and her pain:

A youth, the mayor’s son, rank with sweat-covered cloth as he forces himself upon her in an alleyway - because she had refused his numerous propositions, because that day her brother decided it was too hot to accompany her to market. When lust’s imperatives concludes, then does he spit and toss upon her face the contents of a flask - to burn and bubble skin and flesh so no other would ever again touch…

Recovering in hospital, agony ripping across jaw and spirit, mother and father curse the shame of having a daughter so bespoiled. And the trouble the wrath of the mayor will bring upon them should higher authorities dare arrest his son. While a brother only by birth laughs that he’d achieved a high score on a video game during her hour of pain and humiliation…

An older nurse, wrinkles too numerous to count folding alongside compassionate eyes, leans close to whisper the family’s plan, their intentions upon her release to rid themselves of further burden. A bundled coat presses into fingers, laden with cash…and a weapon meant to defend. But desire to flee burns not in her heart - for pain and panic cross unto rage, a rage of hardened ice unlike any she has ever known…

And I see a market, shelves and carts full of spices and produce, trinkets and tools, buyers and sellers scurrying to beat an incoming storm. From under thick cloth she waits, she watches, and there he is: flanked by his own brothers, flashy watch upon wrist, laughing and free. Head down she approaches, and only after the thunder that was not thunder does she let him view the results his cruelty has wrought. As he falls to the mud-strewn earth - and as brother aims deadly reply - only then does she see past to a woman behind. Carrying bolts of freshly purchased red-dyed cloth, the matron also collapses to the wet dirt as the light brown of her robe’s back flushes brighter to match the color clutched within her hands.

The tormented soul didn’t collapse, nor did she sob, as a new star burned free across her forehead. Only a single tear escaped those fierce eyes: a drop filled with the still-boiling rage fighting against terrible guilt, as it slipped past a flap in shredded cheeks to lose itself upon bare teeth underneath.

Lowering to one knee and with wings still spread wide, I spoke more softly.

“Especially them, Nadia. Especially them.”

A shudder passed through her, and her head bowed lower still. Behind, however, Carlos stood and stared.

Not in awe, but raw unbridled anger.

“That,” he snarled, “is so much bullshit!!”

Fuming, he turned and stalked off between damaged and empty shelves.

Chapter 4 - Enemies

When appearing again in front of Krux and all his gun-toting troopers, I’d changed clothes. Gone was the casual jogger garb, replaced with biker’s gear of white leather: boots, chaps over jeans, gloves, and an armored jacket - one with enough pockets to wedge in all the currency I’d just recovered. My bike, of course, was stuck in a galaxy far, far, away - but I knew the pattern of this outfit well enough to replicate it.

Being an angel had certain advantages.

This time only Krux’s team reacted to snap weapons in my direction. The winged devil himself merely grunted and took aim instead with the glowing end of his cigar. “Nice threads. Find ‘em in the side-space?”

I shrugged then gestured around us. “You figured it out?”

He grinned rows of sharp teeth. “This ain’t just a pretty face. Knowing it’s there, I can sense the working - but I ain’t stupid enough to pick the lock.”

“Are you implying that I was?”

Flicking ash onto the mirrored floor, it was his turn to shrug. “You didn’t explode. So guess not. You find anything else you were looking for?”

I stared at him for a long moment. I didn’t really trust the devil, but fate had brought us together again. The last time that happened it was thanks to him that I arrived where needed in order to prevent another chaos-infused disaster from taking place.

And here Krux was again.

With a sigh, I tugged free a glove and ran fingers through the red short spikiness of my current hairstyle. “This soul you were chasing, Pierre, that have anything to do with Sanctuary?” The motion caused some of the currency stashed around the new outfit to clink. Dangit, I should have thought of that and padded with handkerchiefs or something.

He chomped on the cigar and pretended not to have heard. “Thought you said you just got here.”

“I did.”

“Then how the fuck you know about that? The idiot say something?”

“Not directly.”

Smoke filled the air between us as he exhaled while considering. “How many souls are hiding in the side-space here?”

Crap. He really wasn’t stupid. “Not at liberty to say.”

He rolled bean-colored eyes. “You want to rescue them. Because of course you would.”

“So what if I do?”

“It’s a waste of effort. They’re souls - so they’re weak.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. You gonna babysit ‘em for eternity?”

“Is Sanctuary real?”

“Some morons believe it.”

“You trying to find it so your people can wipe them out?”

He snorted. “A bunch of souls hiding under rocks hardly qualifies as a threat to the realm.”

“Yet you’re chasing Pierre.”

“Yeah. Because like I said, his boss may know what happened to my team. It’s known the boss is lurking near that area of the Pits. Shit goin’ on down there, he’d need to be aware of it - or he’d already be crushed too.”

“What if this leader of his took your guys down?”

“Not my team. C’mon, be serious. You ever met a soul that could go toe-to-toe with a demonic heavy hitter? Let alone a professional platoon of ‘em?”

I thought about Twitch with his superspeed, or even Barry and his electric-spelled axe. Barry got crushed by the demon mercenaries I eventually conquered, and Twitch - as skilled as he was - would get smeared by properly utilized area-effect wizardry. Against the really powerful, they’d get squashed. I didn’t like it, but being in denial would simply be foolish.

Replaying what Pierre had said, a different idea occurred. “And what if they’re somehow connected to my old crew?”

Beady narrow eyes met mine. “Then that’s intel I need.”

“What about Pierre’s partner? Kelly, right?”

“Useless. One of my guys took a risk and munched her already. Nothing of value; Pierre simply hired her for lookout. That’s it.”

The impulse to go through Krux’s team one by one and rip free all the souls floating within their demon stomachs flared hot across the back of the neck, but I had to force it down. Just like I’d done each and every day with my old mercs.

Being away for a few months hadn’t made that any easier. If anything, the opposite was true. I’d come to care for that wrecking crew, whereas Krux’s team simply lurked in the periphery of perception as nothing more than flashes of controlled evil.

Swallowing more than I wanted to, I instead asked, “How’d you know that they’d be at the hospital?”

He hesitated and tapped more ash off the cigar already reduced to a short nub, though the leathery fingers didn’t seem to care about coming into contact with parts glowing with heat. “Figured out what the boss is desperate to find. We let it leak that it could be found there.”

“And could it?”

“Nah. Those records never had everything. They got scrubbed by order of the Citadel almost immediately. Properly. I made sure of that.”

“Dare I guess what he was hoping those records would contain?”

“I gotta spell it out?”

I put the glove back on. “Yeah. Guess you do.”

“Fine. Pierre and that boss of his are desperate for proof that one Commander Jordan, this reaper then soldier from the ass-end of the Rock, was a Nephelim - one rumored to be the martyred Savior of the Citadel and the Rock itself. “ He glowered. “You’re the reason for their entire cult. And with real evidence they’ll recruit boatloads of more followers.”

Crud. I was afraid of that. “And who’s his boss?”

“Don’t fucking know. All I got is what folks call him: the Apostle.”

I frowned. Nadia had mentioned someone called the ‘Pilgrim’ but not an ‘Apostle’. “Huh, that title certainly doesn’t ring any bells.”

“Think any of your associates would take that moniker?”

“I led an army, Krux, not a religious movement. Otherwise my last supper wouldn’t have been such lousy hospital food entirely lacking any wine.”

“Ha.”

As implications of having a cult of damned souls formed in my honor sank further in, I moaned. “Great, just great. What other leads you got?”

“For finding the Apostle? Just the one hiding in those shirt pockets of yours next to all those coins clinking about.”

“Pierre’s soulstone? I thought you said he’d be poison to a demon.”

“Yeah. But you ain’t no demon.”

“Oh.”

The last remnants of the cigar dropped to the floor. Krux didn’t even bother to smother the embers with his foot. “So why don’t you swallow what’s left of that suicidal idiot, or do whatever it is you feathered jerks do to pull memories from ‘em. Things considered, I bet all you need do is reach inside and ask.”

Within the jacket’s pocket, the stone suddenly felt heavy. Unzipping - and careful not to spill out any hellish currency - I retrieved it, holding the orb loose upon a covered palm. No larger than a golf ball, all that was left of the man’s spirit pulsed coldly with tiny flares of barely visible bluish light.

Fingers folded into a fist and I braced for whatever would be found within.

Four portraits, towering images in perfect clarity, hung in a row within an otherwise empty space.

All of the same subject.

A toddler smiles in joy as adult male hands hold forth the precious stuffed puppy, the toy’s comfort so dreadfully missing mere moments prior.

A small boy lies in bed with wide eyes, staring at a dark room’s empty ceiling, after another no-story bedtime without the father who always did so much better at the voices.

A burgeoning teen with braces glares in sulking anger, despite birthday cake’s bright candles with friends and a mother’s attempt at cheer, as one more broken promise ruins another year’s desire.

A young man, long hair hiding an eye, stands emotionless over an occupied bed with rails. Across limbs bound inside plaster, plastic lines twist like thrown spaghetti reaching various liquid-filled bags and beeping monitors. The woman beside the youth spills tears freely, but the youth’s cheeks are dry under eyes empty and elsewhere.

A voice from behind startles yet was expected.

“My son. My greatest joy. My greatest regret.”

Perception turns, a man sits cross-legged and naked within the blankness, hair the color of burnt umber hanging to shoulders. His build is lean and scrawny, and he stares with somber guilt at the pictures arranged before him.

I find myself speaking. “Why is that, Pierre?”

“Because I was not there.” No anger, only deep sorrow - only deep pain. “Always the promises I’d intended to keep, always work calling me away. Thinking what mattered most was providing. Food, shelter, security. But look at him! Beautiful like his mother, and so wounded because I could not see the truths of time’s loss.”

“You love him. And I am sure you told him this. That’s more than many children receive.”

“Yet how good is being told you are loved if never do you feel its warmth, its touch? Is that not worse?”

The progression across the portraits lends silent testimony to the premise.

Inhaling, the man shakes his head. “I was a fool, and paid the price. I had to die and fall to Hell to understand. Not at first, no, not for hundreds of years - until the Apostle shared with me his treasure. Through him I glimpsed the truth.”

“The truth?”

“He was there, when the Darkness tried to shatter and swallow the Rock. He was there and knew horror as the Spark began to fail. When everyone’s soul twisted and frayed.”

Visions filled new portraits only within my thoughts: shattered ice, exploded stone, sword of fire and mace of steel - and a terror attempting to consume all.

“And,” Pierre continues, “he told how a brightness beyond all brightness reached out to touch them, granting strength to hold together, to resist the pull of absolute nothingness. A light, yes, but also love itself came for them! Through the Apostle’s devotion I too felt it, his faith and certainty touched something inside and I knew then as I know now - that this was a force no darkness, no sorrows, could ever conquer. And so I pledged to serve and spread the word of her Light.”

“So you joined with the Apostle.”

“How could I not? After centuries of despair, he spoke only of hope! That we had not been abandoned! Though he needed help, for he fled the Rock when the uprising faltered.”

“Uprising?”

“In that light the marks of ownership were wiped clean. Some souls resisted being reclaimed by demonic masters, but they could not hold out for long.”

A pause. “How were you able to help him?”

“Skills. My profession was in developing financial databases. Electronics function in the Devil’s personal realm, and while demons create nothing - we souls do. Which is how the Apostle first found me.”

“Oh?”

“The city is connected by networks of electricity and magic, currency and information is their domain. And I gained access. Carefully I spread word of what happened on the Rock to others, and through those systems the Apostle communicates to me - anonymously to keep himself safe. With my aid he shares with many the glory of the Light and the star she left behind. He preaches that the star is her sacred promise of return.”

“The star?”

Eagerly, he nods. “Yes, that which now sparkles across previously empty sky beyond the dome of the Rock. A symbol for us all!”

“And what would you wish for should she return?”

“More than anything, I would beg to be sent back!”

“Your life is done, Pierre Rene Blanc. Its course is run.”

“I know, I understand. I can never repair how terribly I wasted it. And my son will need to find his own way, though I fervently pray his forgiveness - his and my wife’s.” He slumps forward in lost sorrows yet inside a glow shimmers past layers of pain.“But I wish to start again! Let me love not at a distance, but present in full - give this wretched spirit a chance to get it right! Wipe away Pierre and let another grow in his place, one through which this foolish soul may finally shine!”

“You believe such possible?”

“I pray to the Light and Star, with all my heart and all I am, that it may be so!”

Resolution forms. “We shall see, brightening one. We shall see.”

Krux was staring expectantly. “So you gonna do it or what?”

I blinked as paintings shifted again to those of Lilith. “Already did.”

“Huh. Quick. Learn anything?”

Remaining silent for a moment’s thought, I finally answered. “Yes…and also no.”

“Cryptic much?”

“Hardly. For that you better have cake.” The weight of the soul in my hand felt lighter than before - and yet also a whole lot heavier. But that was something to struggle over later.

“Cake?”

I tucked it - Pierre - back into the pocket. “Nevermind. He doesn’t know who the Apostle is. Never directly met him, in fact.”

“Well shit.”

“Electronic communication only between the two, likely encrypted and obfuscated. Though you probably knew that already.” I gave the miniature devil a hard stare.

“We knew the net is how they’re coordinating, yeah. Was hoping to catch a bigger fish.”

“Sorry, minnows only today. So what now?”

Krux began to pace, bat-like wings twitching behind. “You get the minnow’s full name?”

“Pierre Blanc. Why?”

“Gimme a sec.” Activating the radio link, he ordered the operator on the other end (presumably Citadel HQ) to start a trace on the name, then cut the connection again. The encryption was thick and the radio did some serious frequency-hopping, but to properly focused attention it still easily unscrambled.

The air was thick with such transmissions too - both electronic and spellwork. I could probably spend hours picking through it all, but peeping further in on all the demonic porn being blasted about seriously did not appeal.

One horrid glimpse all by itself fell instantly into the category of ‘what has been seen cannot be unseen.’

Urk.

“Alright,” Krux said to himself as he looked around the not-as-empty-as-it-seemed and exquisitely painted blimp hanger. An obvious thought crossed his forehead, and he studied me again.

I caught the gist. “If you leave part of your team here, they’ll never come out. Just starve into stones. Unless you think you can break the Lilim’s spell to get across to them. Or more specifically, Lilith’s spell.”

He raised an eyebrow. “She did it herself?”

Making a show of scanning the area again, I shrugged. “It’s a blend. But she’ll know if it’s taken down. And probably knows that I slipped through.” Saying it, I felt the truth of it. If she minded, she’d have to show up to do something about it - in which case those inside could be saved directly.

Provided she even cared about them.

He made a decision and emitted a piercing whistle to his team - even though he could have just radioed them. “Load up! We’ve got another stop to make.” Before I could ask, he pointed a sharp finger. “And you’re coming.”

“I am?”

“Spend that fortune in your pockets properly, and you could learn something.”

“And therefore so could you.”

He grinned, and it wasn’t the sort that was kind. “Why waste my stupidly slim budget when I can mooch off yours? Think of it as a finders fee.”

“For finding what?”

“Answers. And maybe more.”

“Who’s the one being cryptic now? To be clear, I’m not buying you any cake.”

“I like pie. Preferably with meat in it. Let’s go.” He tilted his head towards the exit.

“Not until I know where we’re going.”

“A bar in neutral territory.”

“You do realize I was joking about the wine.”

“Ha, ha. Funny. Nah, it’s not booze we’re after. I worked Intelligence, remember? Trust me.”

“You’d be disappointed in me if I did.”

“Well ain’t that the fuckin’ truth. You coming anyway?”

“Yeah.”

We trooped back outside into the ridiculously oppressive heat, and as we strolled towards the waiting drop ship I had a thought.

“Hey, Krux?”

“Hmm?”

“You familiar with Sun Tzu?”

“Heard the name. Doubt he ended up here, but who the fuck knows. Why?”

“He had this line about keeping friends close and enemies closer. So which am I?”

He side-eyed me like I was an idiot. “You’re in Hell. Everyone’s an enemy.”

“Ah.”

He slipped past to board the ship first, but as he did he muttered under his breath. “Everyone. Especially yourself.”

I wasn’t sure he meant that for me to hear, but I didn’t ask nor did he clarify.

Another shuttle ride, and another mental instruction to Tsáyidiel to follow without being seen. Most entities would have gotten bored with such an assignment by now, but not Tsáyidiel. I had the impression my gryphon would gladly follow the order for the next thousand years without even a thought of complaint. He fulfilled his duty and Purpose as he saw it - nothing would interfere with the totality of focus towards its fulfillment.

Absolutely nothing.

There was something disturbing about that, particularly as there was a part of me which resonated strongly to the purity of resolution - causing the rest to worry about the dangers of fanaticism. Or just screwing up in general.

After all, I was only…well, crud. Nevermind.

Krux remained silent during our transit between yet more dark towers stretching towards the inferno above. He too was pensive, having pulled out another cigar and left it unlit to instead tap between fingers. As the craft landed on another side platform, he tucked the tube back into a vest pocket and pointed to two of his crew.

“Halphas! Urigtha! I’m taking our guest to Greepa’s. Halphas’ team stays with the ship; Urigtha, go stealth and roundabout to the bar. Post up nearby and be ready.”

A three-eyed and rather obviously female (despite the armored vest) demon popped a fresh power module into a blaster, a weapon longer yet skinnier than most of the others. “Expecting danger inside or out, sir?” She wasn’t muscle-bound like her comrades, and thin insect-like wings lined her back.

“Either. Both.”

“Roger that.”

From the landing pad we went inside to a maze of black-walled corridors and staircases, some of which opened to interior atrium areas where it was like being inside a huge shopping center with varied levels. Familiar crystal lanterns hung at intervals to spotlight storefronts and offices, with signs - written in sharply punctuated demonic script - indicating everything from financial outfits to butcher shops. There were even posted guides showing entire sections of the building as being reserved for manufacturing facilities. The layout was not conducive to quick travel - in fact the twists and turns were clearly designed to stall any attackers in regularly-spaced killing zones.

Even balconies overlooking open spaces where fliers could zip between levels had battle considerations. Such as the balcony railings being more like reinforced pillboxes, lining only two adjacent sides of the rectangle so each faced even sturdier slabs of that weird obsidian stone of which everything was made.

In other words, shooters from those two sides could open up fully on anything trying to fly past without fear of friendly fire from the opposite wall.

And yes, those dark stones were heavily scarred.

More interesting were the denizens. Demons in business suits shared walkways with devils looking like they’d just come out of some post-apocalyptic movie set. There was an odd mix of medieval and futuristic weaponry carried about, though whenever groups of obviously different social orders crossed paths there was an instinctual assessment of power levels between them - and the clearly weaker would move out of the way, bowing heads in respect as their ‘betters’ moved on. What was worn didn’t correlate with those outcomes, either.

The number of souls trapped within plus the strength of internal mana reserves however did.

Then, of course, there was Krux and myself.

Krux, in his military-style gear and Citadel emblems, moved through the crowds as if they all were beneath his station. Even those radiating far greater raw power moved politely out of his way - including the tower’s own security forces who were clearly identifiable by their own insignia of three inscribed circles with an upside-down ‘V’ slashed across them.

As for me, most ignored my presence completely. Except for a couple of particularly potent entities who, after bowing to Krux and letting us past, did double takes in my direction before going pale and hurriedly scurrying off on however many legs they used to walk. While I had wrapped myself with a concealment spell taken from a friend’s gifted dog tags, occasionally flares must have leaked through.

Oh well.

The whole aura of the place, other than the demonic stench which no amount of cleaning could remove, was of a rigid order barely containing potential violence lurking behind every eye and in every hand. The need for all the strict politeness had been etched across scars and missing limbs, and the security forces saluting and ushering Krux past each checkpoint clearly meant business. The whole structure was also wired with cameras, microphones, and magic detectors - all of which communicated either wirelessly or via hardpoints to centralized monitoring stations.

While under our feet, within the walkways and the walls, were the embedded souls holding everything in place - dim but there. Without their presence anchoring the realm’s existence, the structure would twist, warp, and eventually collapse. Taking a deeper look from behind recreated motorcycle goggles, the fabric of the realm’s stability was weaker than when I’d last been here, the edges of the rules holding it coherent had started to splinter and fray.

This had been the Archangel Samael’s realm and, as I’d learned during that last visit, he’d abandoned it. The core was empty and the rest had begun to unravel.

Which likely was what occupied Krux’s fears.

Eventually we arrived at this bar of his, a muscle-bound guy with horns and blue skin at the door stepping reluctantly aside due to Krux’s imperious glare. The height differential was ridiculous, I mean blue dude there could have simply lifted a leg and stomped the Citadel agent in one go - but with a scowl the semi-giant bowed and let us in.

All of which had me wondering just what one had to do to earn the twin silver swords pinned to Krux’s lapels.

Just like the outside with its darkly graffitied black wall, so was the bar itself. Dimly lit with leather booths set in round alcoves and a main length of bar with the requisite bottles lining shelves behind, it reeked of smoke, sweaty demons, and this weird hint of sour despair.

Though that may have just been the guy passed out in one of the booths, arms folded under a long coat while stretched sideways along the red-dyed hide of the bench, sandaled feet barely touching the floor. The face was hidden, mostly by a length of stringy beard with tiny bits of uneaten food stuck to it, but also by a beige fedora pulled down over eyes and nose. Loud snores gave testament to the effects of the numerous green and blue empty bottles scattered haphazardly across the table. What stood out though was that at first he felt like another of Hell’s lost souls, but a disturbing tingle across the skin forced a second look.

Which, even after a flare behind the goggles, broke into shimmers that revealed nothing.

I’d never had that happen before.

Krux, however, impatiently pointed to a booth in a corner - and then promptly took the side that gave him the most visibility of the room. Dangit, I’d wanted that spot. But fine, I took the opposite bench and continued evaluating the other occupants.

There were only two: the bartender, a proper devil of moderate height in silk vest with dress shirt sleeves rolled up and tied with a thin ribbon, and one customer at another booth across the room. That demon had twin spine-covered heads - one of which was busy chugging straight from a bottle - and kept twitching in the seat. He’d given Krux a nasty sneer as we’d gone by, but then had become distracted by my posterior’s passing.

Results of quick analysis: five souls, all former soldiers blazing with confusion and rage. And the leering jerk who’d swallowed them was having difficulty keeping them all in line - quite literally he may have bitten off more than he could safely chew.

Lovely.

The bartender stepped out, revealing a navy waist apron which had been hidden behind the bar. “General,” he said when approaching our table, and to my surprise he’d directed that to Krux. “It’s been awhile.”

“Greepa.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Business. I need to talk to him.”

“Ale, then?”

“Fuck it, sure.”

The guy in the well-tailored silk with two small spikes poking through hair otherwise pulled into a tight ponytail then looked at me. “Miss?” He frowned as his usual-suspects evaluations failed.

I threw Krux a smirk. “Wine. Asmodian if you have it.”

The bartender didn’t bat an eye. “Cash or stick?”

Krux pointed at me. “Cash. She’s paying.”

Mr. Waistcoat’s attention slid back to me expectantly.

“What?” I asked. “I have to pay up front?”

Pulling out another cigar, Krux grunted. “Show him your currency.”

“Fine.” Unzipping a pocket, I pulled out a handful of platinum coins. “Satisfied?”

Those staring eyes widened. “Denarii. Do you have anything of a…smaller denomination?”

I frowned. “Uhm. No?”

Krux leaned forward. “Well shit. You really are rich.”

“This isn’t that much.”

The devilish general laughed. “Going rates. With Beliel’s Rock cut off, and with the collapse of many of the exchanges - cash like that is king.”

“Oh.”

The bartender cleared his throat. “Perhaps miss would like to purchase a cred-stick.”

Hmm. Could be useful, I suppose. I looked to Krux. “How much should I get?” From the pocket I pulled out some gold centurians.

As he’d just lit the cigar, the devil choked on the smoke. “By Samael’s short-hairs, how much do you have?”

Even Greepa looked disturbed. “We could exchange perhaps two of those at most. Our usual rates.”

That refocused Krux. “Five percent?”

“Ten.”

“Six. And on the Citadel Exchange.” Krux flicked ash onto the floor.

“Eight and it will be.”

“Done. Give him the coins.”

I held out a pair of golden circles to Greepa. “Throw in a money belt with secure clasps. And also tell me one more thing.”

He eyed the currency. “We can come up with something. What information is it that are you after?”

“Who’s the drunk in the booth by the door?”

Taking hold of the coins, Greepa grinned a set of continual and well-polished canines. “Our bouncer.”

Hesitating, I then let the cash go. I wasn’t curious enough to cause a scene.

At least not yet.

The bartender placed the money carefully in a vest pocket. Then from an apron pouch he produced a small tablet, a device not much bigger than the ridiculously large smart phones some back at the Academy had proudly lugged around. Placing it in front of Krux, he first reached under the table to pull out a cable with a USB-like connector and plugged it in. Pushing a button on the tablet’s side a shimmering field of green expanded to swallow us in a bubble big enough for the entire alcove.

“Privacy screen is on the house. He’ll text you in a moment.” With that Greepa bowed, and then stepped backwards out of the field.

Krux caught that I was busy studying the spell. “Good enough?”

“Passable, provided the tablet doesn’t have an active mic.”

“Does it?”

“Nope. So who’s this ‘he’ that’s going to text?”

“Hacker. We don’t have a name, just suspicions.”

“For a former intelligence operative that’s rather nebulous.”

The devil blew more smoke. “Assets generally prefer to be.”

“He that good?”

“For what you can afford? Yeah. He better be.”

The device beeped and the screen flashed as text the same color as the privacy field appeared across the display.

“Query?”

Krux waved the cigar at it, though was careful not to drop any ash.

Taking the touchscreen device, careful not to pull too hard on the attached cable, I began to type across the matching monochrome keyboard that had appeared below the text.

“How do I find Sanctuary?”

A pause, and then response. “Unknown.”

Yeah, rather expected that. “What is it?”

“Long-standing myth; dates to after the Gate sealed the realms. Safe haven for souls, hidden somewhere in Hell.”

“The Apostle. He talks about it?”

“Affirmative.”

“How do I find him? Can you trace his communications with Pierre Blanc?”

“Too risky. Citadel monitoring.”

I glared at Krux, who simply grinned. Sheesh. “Can you get a message to the Apostle?”

“Refuse.”

“I can pay.”

“Refuse.”

Well, this was quickly proving useless. Unless…

I typed quickly. “The Apostle cannot be operating alone. How does he recruit? Only through the networks?”

Another pause. “Report from incoming orientations indicate souls of specific potential go missing.”

To Krux I asked, “Incoming orientations?”

Coffee-bean eyes narrowed as he considered. “New souls arriving to Dis. If they get across the Styx, they’re shoved into orientation groups.”

I blinked. “So Dis has its own reapers? Like what I used to do on the Rock?”

“Sort of.”

On the tablet I typed, “What specific potentials are disappearing?”

The response was interesting. “Information and Technology. Military. Covert Ops.”

“Huh.” I looked again at Krux. “Are there that many who arrive here which fall into those categories?”

He shrugged, causing leathery wings to bob over narrow shoulders. “This is Dis. Tech crap is rare, but applied violence? Common.”

I sat back in thought, idly catching the bartender walking over to the twitchy demon’s table and placing a pouch upon it which the demon greedily immediately snatched. Even with the privacy screen active I could feel the contents of the pouch: a soul pulsed within. One of great power, but also flickering with tremendous variability - and horrible inner pain.

Dammit.

Trying to ignore it, I picked up the tablet and typed again. “What about the Pilgrim? Who is-”

I was still typing when a fireball slammed over the far side of the bar, shattering a wide swath of bottles as well as a power panel.

Many things happened at once.

The tablet and privacy screen both went dark as all electricity failed, plunging the bar into fire-touched darkness. Krux dove under the table, a pistol already in hand. I flared with energy and began to reach out to the soul which the idiot two-headed demon had swallowed. Despite having two brains the dumb-shit still lacked enough willpower to handle the soul, causing unleashed fragments of all the power of the souls he’d stuffed into his belly to burst free. Flames like rainbows surrounded him, and as his flesh boiled he screamed and thrashed about, unable to control the fires he’d inadvertently summoned.

Lastly, the grungy drunk appeared behind the shrieking immolation.

With hurricane filling irises piercing past dirty bangs, the bouncer waved a tattooed palm in the demon’s direction, and a tempest flashed with a crack of ear-deafening thunder to send wind and blinding water to swallow the multi-hued flames and demon whole.

In the stunned aftermath, the demon’s captured souls dropped free to the floor like cannonballs suddenly loose upon a ship’s deck. From clouds roiling against the ceiling rain began to pelt us all, and my glowing gaze now illuminating the bar caught the wild-eyed wielder of the storm.

“Holy crud,” I heard myself say. “Nick!”

Shutting eyes both against the light and their own inner tempest, the still-inebriated bouncer staggered, sinking to a sitting position on the floor. Even as the Citadel crew burst past the entrance with weapons instantly pointed at all occupants not named Krux, the mage ran a marked hand through thick untamed hair and muttered but one phrase:

“I need a drink.”

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

- Erisian