ZARATHOS sailed the black voids between dimensions on muscular ebony wings, not thinking, only existing in the vast silence. Once, he’d seen only Mephisto, and destroyed him again and again, unleashing his rage and reveling in the demon lord’s destruction, but those dreams had been lost in the apocalypse of his torture, the fire and ice and pain. Finally deafened by his own screams, Zarathos had left Mephisto’s Hell and lived in the abyss, where there were no burning chains holding him down and no one shrieked in agony.
Zarathos.
Infinity spoke his name, her honeyed voice like strange music in the nothingness. The sound was a butterfly of light, a speck in her infinite, formless—
Zarathos! Hel-lo, you in there? Wake up!
Zarathos was reborn into agony, the void ripped away. His broken body still hung from shackles; his hands were dead lumps of meat, and the wounds from his last flaying were still fresh. He cracked one feverish eye; the other was swollen shut, or missing.
A beautiful demoness was in his cell, floating above the spiked floor. A succubus. He could smell her aura of attraction, and her garb was tight and revealing. Everything about her worked to inspire hunger.
“There he is!” the succubus said, smiling. “I was starting to think you were a lost cause.”
Zarathos could barely speak, his voice a choking whisper. “Who are you?”
“Satana Hellstrom. You want to get out of here?”
Zarathos closed his eye. It was another of Mephisto’s torments, to trick him into hope, to keep him from the lonely perfection of the void where he was free and—
“Wake up!” Satana shouted in his ear, and he opened his eye again, groaning.
“To portal us both out of here, I need you awake and willing,” she said, as if speaking to a child. “It was hard enough to get in.”
“Leave me be, temptress,” Zarathos choked out.
Satana snorted. “Zarathos, Corrupter of the Blood, the Locust-Breather, the Soul-Devourer. I gotta tell you, I was expecting a little more zip. We’re going to need you to actually give a crap about taking Mephisto down.”
Zarathos forced his eye wider. “Take Mephisto… down?”
“Steal the throne. Force him to your will. Set him up for eternal torture. It’s a whole thing. I’ll let Fenn tell it, but first we need to get out of here. That is, if you want to leave this cell and seek vengeance upon Mephisto. I’m sure the Triumvirate can find another third, if you’re not interested.”
Zarathos struggled to focus his thoughts. “If this is a trick—”
“You’ll do what? Keep hanging in this nasty little room, getting beaten?”
Zarathos sagged from his chains. Truly, he could do nothing. He was a shell of what he once was.
Satana stepped close and fixed him with a soft and shining gaze. “You will rule all of the Hell dimensions, Dark Lord, as is your right, if we can find an amulet of power hidden on Earth. You will lead the Triumvirate, dedicated to Mephisto’s destruction. But we have to go, now, before your tormentor’s break is over. Sound good?”
Zarathos didn’t understand Fenn or Triumvirate, but the rest of her words stirred him. He remembered his dreams of revenge, of Mephisto broken by Zarathos’s hand, pleading for death.
“It sounds good,” he whispered.
* * *
AFTER his talk with Caretaker, Blade had showered and then rested in his room. Not sleep, exactly, only a drifting, empty time, thoughtless, his senses on low. He slowly reconnected to consciousness, using the languid, liminal space to observe his tensions and release them. When he was ready, he brought his senses back up, breathing deeply and opening his eyes. He could see by the angle of the light through the small, high window that it was late morning. It was Saturday. The kids would be hoping for pancakes.
He rose from his cushioned floor mat and went to the dressing table, where he took a syringe out of the autoclave. He unlocked the heavily warded cabinet next to the table and took out one of a hundred small glass bottles, loaded the syringe, replaced the bottle, and then relocked the cabinet. Making a fist with his left hand, he injected into the vein that popped up, sighing as the miracle coursed through him, chasing away the memory of hunger, waking him up, keeping him alive. The serum wasn’t as satisfying as blood, but not having to kill to eat won over every other consideration. The injection site was already healed by the time he dropped the syringe back into its steam bath.
He got dressed: black tee and cotton pants, thin-soled workout shoes. Nico had made him promise to do weapons after breakfast. She was in the kitchen already—he could smell coffee, and the only other Sun who drank it was Robbie, who was still asleep across the hall and down two doors; Blade could hear the younger man’s slow, steady heartbeat and breathing.
He grabbed his shades and hooked them on the collar of his shirt as he started for the kitchen, past the copper Shiva statue. The Abbey was littered with statues, mostly religious or magical, standing in corners, balancing on pedestals, set into alcoves and reflecting off the polished wood floors of the long, shadowy corridors. Caretaker and her sister, Lilith, had raised the structure in Transia back in the Iron Age to train fighters in the eternal war against the Elder God Chthon. It seemed like Caretaker had been collecting statues ever since.
Better than becoming the Mother of Demons. Lilith had thrown in with Chthon and caused a lot of trouble before her demise, after the Abbey was moved to the States back in the late 1600s. Caretaker could be set in her ways, but she’d always fought the good fight.
Blade hesitated at the entrance to the foyer, listening. Caretaker wasn’t in her rooms; he found her steady pulse northeast. She could only be in the war room or the library, and she’d warded the library closed after the accident. The library had been Agatha’s domain. Most of the Abbey’s documents and files were in the war room, but the histories and spell books were in the library.
Gonna have to talk to her about that. Agatha had been the Abbey’s researcher, looking for prophecies related to the Midnight Sun, and he knew Nico was itching to get back to the books. Caretaker’s mirror table showed its user what they wanted to look at, but without direction she would keep casting him out at random, hoping to hit on something important. She was at the table now, pushing herself to make up for Agatha’s absence. He mourned Agatha, too, they all did, but Caretaker’s grief was making the decisions, and he wasn’t comfortable with that.
On the other hand, he wasn’t comfortable trying to direct Caretaker, either. Caretaker had been slaying demons since before the Renaissance. She knew her own mind and had survived a thousand bloody battles. And just a month ago she had lost someone she’d been close to for actual centuries. The Midnight Sun was still six months away, and the Suns themselves were backup, anyway. There were plenty of powerful people monitoring the evolving dimensional shifts; another week or two for Caretaker to pull herself together wouldn’t kill anyone. Team dynamics weren’t his strong suit, either, but he’d keep doing what he could until she came around.
The kitchen was a modern remodel at the northwest corner of the barracks. Once upon a time there’d been a separate building housing the Abbey’s kitchen east of the common room, set up to feed a small army, but all that was left were a few foundation stones. A series of spells kept the Abbey’s pantries stocked, but Agatha had often cooked for the team. There was a table for eight, and regular kitchen appliances next to regular counters. Of all the Abbey’s features—the towering forge at the north end, the drop-ceiling common room, the elaborate training yard—the kitchen was the coziest.
Nico was cooing over Charlie; the beast’s spiny tail was tapping the tiled floor, a tiny echo in the hall. Blade turned through the wide-open archway, taking in the rich smell of coffee, the battered wood of the countertops, a glimpse of sunny trees through the small window. Nico was alone at the kitchen table, leaning out of her chair to rub Charlie’s taut red gut. The hellhound was on her back, right leg twitching.
“Belly scratchin’ and it feels so good,” Nico sang, and Charlie’s tail whapped. Physically, Charlie looked like several kinds of dog put together. Sort of a Doberman face and body shape, with cropped ears, but the heavily muscled chest and shoulders of a pit bull or Staffordshire. Her haunches and belly were lean, like a greyhound or a whippet. Past that, she was clearly not related to any of them; she was fleshy, hairless, and dark brick-red. Small, short horns were set over her glowing white eyes and her tail was a tapering cord with an arrow tip. Hellhounds were terrifying creatures, generally, even without being in attack mode, but Charlie melted for Nico. The only other pet at the Abbey—Ebony, Agatha’s cat—was also a fan of the young witch. The feline familiar occasionally deigned to sleep in Nico’s room, an honor not bestowed upon the other Suns.
“Pancakes?” Nico asked, looking up at him through her thick black ’do. She’d decided on an asymmetrical look and was growing out her mohawk, but the left side of her head was recently shaved.
“It’s Saturday, right?” Blade walked to the fridge for the eggs and milk. Agatha had taught him how to make a few things so he could contribute to the care and feeding of their team, and he liked doing it. Robbie and Nico stayed up late and slept late, as a rule. Like him, Magik didn’t exactly need to sleep-sleep, but they often rested on the same schedule. He expected the rest of the Suns would show by the time the first batch was done. Robbie would, anyway. Even without super senses, he always knew when pancakes were up.
“I’ll get the plates and stuff,” Nico said, and Blade nodded, lining up his ingredients on the counter. When Nico Minoru had first come to the Abbey he’d been annoyed by her lack of boundaries and filters, her endless energy, but she’d grown on him. Her infinite curiosity wasn’t a front; she was genuinely interested in the people and things around her—an act of courage considering her childhood. Her parents had been murderous cultists, members of the Pride. Nico had gained her powers when the magical staff her own mother had tried to kill her with had bonded to her instead. The girl had used her new abilities to help other children of the cult run away, and she’d kept them safe. Her priorities were on straight.
Nico hummed to herself as she padded barefoot through the kitchen. She had been gutted by the dual loss of Agatha and Wanda, both of them her teachers and friends, but she had the right attitude to see her through, one she’d gained from lessons learned too young—nothing was solid, everything could change in a second, and somehow, you had to keep going.
We all know that tune.
“I was on the forums this morning, and Spidey posted an article about the alignment,” she said. “It was just about Venus and the moon and a dust cloud, but the scientists are saying it could cause some disturbances to radio waves and the tides and stuff.”
Blade smirked and dumped flour into a wooden bowl. “‘And stuff,’ huh?”
Nico grabbed silverware. “If they knew about the Midnight Sun, they’d poop their pants.”
“Who pooped their pants?” Robbie asked, shuffling in. “Oh cool, pancakes.”
The young Ghost Rider headed straight for the coffee. Charlie watched him hopefully, her tail ticking.
“Good morning, King,” Nico said. Robbie’s last name, Reyes, was king in Spanish, and Nico dropped it every now and again to needle him. “Tell me you’ll do class after breakfast. Blade said he would.”
“Can’t, I’ve got Gabe,” Robbie said. “Team Fortress for an hour, at least. We moved it to earlier. He’s got a basketball game tonight.”
“Oh, fun! I didn’t know he played basketball.”
Robbie nodded. “Wheelchair league. He’s hoping to ride the bench. He only joined the team because he’s got a crush on a cheerleader. My aunt’s filming, though, just in case he shoots.”
“Yeah, but what if he scores?”
“Gross,” Robbie said. “Leave my baby brother out of your deviant fantasies.”
He was smiling, but Blade could see a bit of tension around his disparate eyes. Robbie was devoted to Gabe and missed him terribly. They would video chat online but hadn’t been together in person since Robbie had come to the Abbey, more than a year ago now.
Magik came in without announcement, nodding at the others. She poured herself a glass of orange juice and reached down to scratch Charlie behind the ears. Nico suggested a midnight movie party, and she and Robbie batted titles back and forth. Magik didn’t offer anything but was relaxed, at ease, no tension in her slight frame as she watched them play-fight.
This is all good, Blade thought, as he poured batter and listened to the kids’ banter, and then Caretaker walked in. The conversation immediately dried up.
“Good morning,” she said. “Blade, I need to speak with you. In the war room.”
“About what?” Nico asked. “Anything we can help with?”
Caretaker turned her cool gaze to the young witch. “Nothing you need concern yourself with.”
Blade handed the spatula to Robbie, but it was too late. Nico had her chin in the air.
“It does concern me, though. It concerns all of us. We should all know what’s going on. And it’s not fair to Blade, to stick him with everything. The Midnight Sun is almost here, and—”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Caretaker snapped, and then visibly took control of herself, lips pressing into a tight line.
Nico kept going. “—and we all want to help. I know you know that, and I know that you’re hurting, we’re all hurting, but you can’t shut us out now. If we don’t—”
“You’re not ready,” Caretaker said.
Nico stopped talking, her expression wounded.
Caretaker’s tone softened, but not by much. “You’ve come so far, but we still have time to prepare. And I won’t send you into danger unnecessarily.”
Robbie piped up, flipping a pancake, “Isn’t that kind of the whole hero gig, though? Running toward danger?”
Nico was starting to look pissed. “Most of my life has been danger unnecessarily. I’m ready, and I’m the weakest link. I joined the Suns because you said the world would need us when the dark came, but the dark is on our doorstep, and we still don’t have a plan.”
Blade half expected an explosion, but Caretaker looked calmer. She’d had her snap, was back under control. When she spoke, her voice had reverted to normal, crisp and slightly patronizing.
“There is no plan. There never has been, as I’ve explained to you more than once. Many protections will fail as the dimensions in play creep toward their occultations and transits; energies will fluctuate wildly for better and worse. Chaos agents will seek to exploit the shifts, and it’s our job to watch and stand ready. You know this.”
“My original point stands,” Nico said. “We’re supposed to be a team, and you’re sending Blade out on secret missions without talking to us about it.”
“I’ve asked him to follow a few leads that have proved false or unconnected to our mission,” Caretaker said. “If sending the rest of you along would help and not hinder him, I would ask you to go.”
Nico took the insult in stride and promptly changed tack.
“Why speak to him privately? Can’t we at least know what kinds of dangers are starting to crop up? That’s not, like, unreasonable.”
Caretaker looked at Blade, who gazed back impassively. Caretaker wasn’t used to justifying her decisions, but without Agatha to smooth everything over, it was incumbent upon her to make a few adjustments. Robbie and Magik were more comfortable with chain of command than Nico ever would be, and the young witch had a point—the whole team deserved to know what was happening, whether the information was useful or not.
“All right,” Caretaker said. “Blade saw two soulless last night. They killed a man. I’ve just seen one of the killers meet with at least three other soulless, at a rest stop outside of White Plains, New York.”
“Why are there soulless running around New York on a Saturday morning?” Nico asked. “What are they doing?”
Caretaker kept her face and voice perfectly neutral. “I thought it wise to ask Blade to investigate.”
Blade nodded, and Magik stood up. Nico flopped into her chair with a scowl.
“You’ll all have roles to play in the coming days,” Caretaker added. “You will. And I promise, I won’t keep anything from you that might compromise your safety, or our mission.”
Nico’s expression settled to disappointment as Robbie slid the first stack of pancakes in front of her. Blade nodded at Magik.
“I’m going to change. I’ll meet you out there.”
He put his hand on Nico’s shoulder on his way past the table. “Class when I get back.”
He waited for her nod before he went to his room, the gloomy halls flashing by. He kicked off his trainers and started to dress, Caretaker’s qualifier repeating in his mind. He was glad that she’d at least tried to mollify Nico; it was the most interaction they’d had since Wanda had left the Abbey… But the old warrior hadn’t exactly promised to tell them everything, had she?
To be considered later. Blade armed himself and started for the east entrance off the foyer, slipping into his coat as he crossed the lawn, donning his shades as he stepped up to the dais. Shafts of tiny rainbows sparkled in the wind, mist from the thundering waves below refracting the overcast sun. Magik joined him a few seconds after he arrived, drawing her brilliant sword, a manifestation of her own life-force energy. Dark, glittering armor sprang up across her shoulders and down her arms, four slender silver bars sweeping up through her white-blond hair to protect her skull. Eldritch armor came with her role as Limbo’s ruler.
“There is cover south of the group,” she said. “Trees.”
Blade nodded, and watched Magik cut a portal in the air, admiring her precise form. Magik’s shining white blade didn’t wobble a millimeter. The portal spun open, revealed the rough stone bridge formation she liked for traveling, bathed in the orange-red light of Limbo’s ever-smoldering sky.
Time to find out what these bastards are up to. Together, he and Magik stepped out onto the bridge, the Abbey disappearing behind them.
* * *
ZARATHOS had slept for two whole days, sacked out like a big old slab of beef in the back bedroom of Fenn’s stupid ugly house. Everything was so plain and utilitarian, and there was always that ugly green light, emitted by a dozen boxy machines all over the place; Fenn said it shielded them from observation, but the color was just ugh. Satana hated it. Like fluorescent mold, or some kind of American soft drink. Fenn came and went; when he was around, he mostly muttered to himself and was in his workshop or making new drawings. He had stacks of them, all covered with tubes and lines and math; he said he was currently working on a machine that would make Mephisto’s skin burn off. To each his own, she supposed.
Satana stood in her dull room and admired her current body in the standing mirror, dressed in human casual—tight jeans, a snug, lacy pink cropped shirt that exposed her midriff and lower back, skin lightly tanned, crushed black leather boots with kicky heels. She’d glamoured her horns away, shrunk her chest a few sizes, and gone flat brunette, aiming for “approachable,” but she’d been on Earth less than a week and already had more servants than she knew what to do with. A soul could be had for a single hungry kiss; she’d gathered a dozen on her first night out, and that was with her being picky.
Fenn cautioned her against drawing attention, but didn’t turn down the help, sending the newly soulless out to “pave the Triumvirate’s path to glory,” whatever that meant. He never gave any details. Satana suspected he was settling old scores, but whatever. Gobbling fresh human souls again had boosted her power and charms a thousandfold and she was on fire; Fenn could do as he liked with the empty vessels, although she’d been thinking it might be fun to design some kind of matching uniform for them.
If the great Zarathos would just wake up, we could really get this party started.
She’d pressed Fenn for details about the Varkath Star—with Zarathos in a coma, it made sense that she should start looking on her own—but the mortal made a lot of noise about the power of three, and how only Zarathos could break the wards, anyway, and he was still fine-tuning the sensor they would need. Fenn’s deferrals were irritating, but also boosted her confidence in his abilities; he knew better than to trust her, which implied some level of intelligence. Too bad his taste in clothes was so much better than his decorating skills.
At least I’m not teamed with a fool, she thought, and gave herself a birthmark, a tiny imperfection above the corner of her mouth. Yes, that was just—
There was the faintest tap at her door.
The hot guy she’d picked up in front of the dance club spoke through the wood, his voice hushed. “Your Glory, the demon wakes.”
Speaking of fools.
Satana fluffed her hair and went to the door, looking at the mirror over her shoulder to watch her departure. Delicious.
Out in the hall, the stud’s gaze crawled over her shirt before he remembered to bow. Muscle memory, and she looked so good, she didn’t blame him. She’d kept him because he was easy on the eyes, and Fenn didn’t have any servants.
“If Fenn’s around, let him know,” she said, and walked down the hall to the upstairs back bedroom, her heels muffled by a carpet runner that was frayed along one edge. Fenn wasn’t a wealthy man, and he seemed to be always in his head, inventing things, too fixated on his mechanisms of vengeance to notice or care about his environment.
She opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit room, where Zarathos was a ragged shadow on the bed. The candles on the dumpy dresser across the room flickered. The smell was better, less infection-y than yesterday, and the demon shifted at the sound of the door’s hinges.
“How are you feeling?” Satana asked, mimicking someone who cared.
“The pain subsides,” Zarathos rumbled, and sat up. The plain sheet covering him pooled in his lap, thankfully; she’d seen enough of his hideous junk when he’d been hanging naked in his cell. “I gain strength from the misery that soaks this realm.”
No kidding, wow. Fenn had wanted her to feed the mangled demon souls, but Zarathos could recharge by simply existing on Earth, where humans exuded fathomless pain, despair, selfishness; arch-demons ate it right up. Like I wouldn’t know that.
She could see that he was physically in much better shape. The being she’d dragged from Mephisto’s prison had been a roughly humanoid mass of wounds and scars, broken bones and wasted muscle. In the last day his limbs had filled out, biceps and thighs going broad, and his chest had inflated to superhero size. The pits in Zarathos’s crimson skull-face were filling in. Likewise, the deep scars slashing his torso were fading. His eyes glowed sulfur-tinted white, and most of his many small, sharp teeth had grown back. He wasn’t dripping Hellfire yet—that had been kind of his “thing,” along with breathing locusts—but it wouldn’t be long.
No more wisecracks. From here in, she’d be singing go team Zarathos. At full strength, he could crush her like an insect.
“You will be rewarded for freeing me,” Zarathos said.
Satana bowed her head and was still trying to think of something suitably humble to say when Fenn stumbled in, all twitchy and excited.
“This is the guy I was telling you about, Fenn,” Satana said, and Fenn immediately started in on his pitch, the secret collection, the amulet, going over the thing about his mother losing her soul to Mephisto again. Sad story, lots of abuse and whatnot; soulless could get up to all kinds of craziness if they weren’t reined in. It was no wonder Fenn was so invested in Mephisto’s ruin.
Also explains his lack of social skills. She’d discovered in her brief time on Earth that Fenn was something of a crackpot. Clever, perhaps even a genius in his field, but not entirely sane. His energy was erratic, his gaze unfocused unless it was on his work.
“…which is why I approached Mistress Satana, to free you from your unjust imprisonment. As the Triumvirate, we will collect the Varkath Star and take Mephisto’s kingdom from him. I have designed a thousand tortures for Mephisto, and ask only that I’m given the opportunity to see them fulfilled, once he has fallen and you’ve taken your rightful place. With the amulet, the Hell dimensions will be yours to command.”
Satana watched Zarathos, curious if he’d have any qualms about turning his arch-enemy over to a mortal. Funny, Fenn hadn’t promised her a leading role in the aftermath of Mephisto’s fall.
Color me surprised. In patriarchal dimensions, men liked to do men things for other men. On the other hand, the hunting was always fantastic.
“I will destroy Mephisto,” Zarathos said. Firmly. “He will howl for mercy beneath my fists until the end of time.”
Fenn’s shoulders slumped, and Satana decided to test how much influence she had.
She nodded somberly at the half-naked, recovering demon. “All will obey your wishes, Dark Lord… and perhaps after you’ve had your fill of Mephisto’s humiliation, it would amuse you to resurrect him, powerless, and give him to Fenn. As a token of your greatness, to reward this man for his efforts on your behalf. You’ll be too busy ruling to oversee every detail of Mephisto’s eternal agony.”
Satana grinned and knew her eyes were sparkling. “Imagine the degradation. Crushed by his superior and tossed aside like an afterthought. Tortured by a mortal.”
Zarathos’s eyes flared with pleasure. “I will have much to do. I feel a great shift in the Balance. It is a time now for a single ruler who can expand the dark realms to encompass all. I will consider this token, and other expressions of my appreciation for your service.”
Zarathos addressed the last to both of them. Fenn looked relieved, and Satana bowed her head again, fighting the urge to chuckle. Like shooting fish in a barrel, as the saying went.
“I am honored, Dark Lord,” Fenn said.
“Where is this collection you speak of?” Zarathos asked.
“In a small vault, in Transia, buried in the eastern foothills of the Carpathians,” Fenn said. “I haven’t been able to identify its exact location, but I’m certain of the area. The collection was heavily warded to stay hidden and locked, but the dimensional alignment—the shifting balance, as you say—will weaken its protections, and I’ve created a machine that can help us find it. A kind of detector, keyed to measure magic-directed particles. My research shows that the collection may have been placed there by members of the Blood, which is why I thought you’d be best suited to unwind its locks.”
“I corrupted many Blood,” Zarathos agreed. “Turned them against their purpose to feed my energies. The fallen Blood were my soldiers in the war for Hell.”
That’s why Fenn picked him?! What an inanely stupid reason. The Blood were a long-lived line of realm defenders, usually overseers of more powerful beings, but having associated with some of them once didn’t make Zarathos any more qualified for anything. Satana’s sorcery skills were top-notch, she could snap most wards without breaking a sweat, and she wasn’t an underqualified egomaniac. Now that big Z was conscious, they’d be bowing and scraping for the duration of the search, and all because Fenn had dug up the very loosest of connections and leapt to conclusions.
“I must rest and feed longer,” Zarathos continued. “When I am restored, the Triumvirate will go to this place, and I will destroy the shields that keep the amulet from our grasp. Succubus, you will hunt souls to speed my recovery. Two score will suffice.”
Fenn cleared his throat. “We mustn’t attract notice, Your Majesty. I’ve been able to hide those soulless we already have, but too many will alert Earth’s protectors and—”
“Let them come,” Zarathos said. “No one can defeat me.”
“Yes, but you’re not—that is, you have not recovered your full strength, Dark Lord.” Fenn was blinking double-time. “Better that the Triumvirate does not waste its time defending against attack until we can find the vault, at least, so that you can focus all of your formidable power on breaking the seal. I’m working on several devices to bolster our defense, but they’re untested and—”
“Two score,” Zarathos repeated, and lay down. “Now leave me.”
Satana followed Fenn out into the hall. The demon was out cold again before she closed the door—she sensed him go under. He was stronger; she could feel his essence drawing psychic pain from every direction. What had been a trickle was now a stream.
Also, what a butthead. He hadn’t even remembered her name. She’d make him say it, once she had the Varkath Star. And she was definitely going to drop Fenn into a hole somewhere, for creating such trying circumstances.
She looked at Fenn. “Who will be after us, if we’re detected?”
Fenn’s jaw went tight. “There are many. Witches and sorcerers, demonic half-breeds, scientists, mutants. They are already watching for disruptions, changes.”
“And they’ll know Zarathos is on Earth, when he leaves your house.” Satana could mask her own presence, but Zarathos was too full of himself to consider hiding.
“No, I have a portable shield generator,” Fenn said. “It’s not as effective as the larger prototypes, but it should obfuscate our presence in Transia.”
“Uh-huh,” Satana said. “And when big Z blows the seal apart with his almighty power, it’s going to cover that up, too?”
Fenn smiled, a small, creepy smile. “Once the Triumvirate get into that vault, it won’t matter. We’ll have all we need to accomplish our aim.”
“The Varkath Star controls demons,” Satana said. “What use will that be against Earth-born enemies?”
“You never asked what else was in the collection,” Fenn said. “A shield that deflects Hellfire… and a spell that summons Mephisto.”
Satana got it. Mephisto could be called up and turned against whoever the amulet wearer wished. The collection was a regular do-it-yourself take-over-the-universe kit; why it had been gathered and hidden was anybody’s guess, but who cared? As long as they were the only ones who knew about it, it was theirs for the taking. There were more realms controlled by demons than not, and some of their dimensions were vast, filled with resources and rowdy Hellspawn populations. The great Balance between light and dark could be history, a bedtime story for cowering slaves to tell in the new chaos.
No rules, no limits.
“We can use the spell to command an audience with Mephisto, and force him to destroy our enemies,” Fenn said. “He will be at our mercy.”
Satana let surprised delight dawn across her face. “Oh, I see! That’s brilliant, Fenn!”
Fenn beamed. “I will not let you down, Your Majesty. I have planned everything.”
“About feeding Zarathos, though, all those soulless…”
“Perhaps you should kill your victims from now on,” Fenn said. “We could hide the bodies, you wouldn’t need to use magic to get rid of them. I have keys to a place I used to work, a shop that’s been shut down for years. No one would find them there.”
Satana pouted. Extracting souls was like poetry: it was breathing in a whole life, a delicate, powerful bloom of light and power transferring to her essence. Murdering vessels without magic to tidy things up was just messy. “I thought the Triumvirate needed soldiers. I wanted to make uniforms.”
“The Triumvirate needs to keep a target off our backs a little longer,” Fenn said. “Until we find the vault, just for another day or so. And then you can make a million soldiers and dress them however you’d like. Such an army would be a sight to behold, a triumph of flawless design. Better than any of us deserve to gaze upon.”
Well, that’s true. Fenn was a flatterer and mentally unsound, but he really did have a clear eye.
Fenn lowered his voice and leaned in as close as he dared. “My only desire is to see Mephisto suffer, my queen. I have no interest in who holds the Varkath Star once it’s found, or what happens to me or this universe, so long as he suffers for his crimes. I would gladly kneel before Satana Hellstrom’s throne, if she chose to rule.”
Satana leaned in, too, enjoying the sudden panic that flashed behind his eyes. “I could make you kneel now, if you like.”
“I have work to do,” Fenn said, backing away. “I’ll, uh, get you the keys to that building. Perhaps your servant can take you there? I’ll assist in any way, of course. You only have to ask!”
He turned tail when he hit the stairs and ran for his workroom. The door downstairs slammed a second later.
Okay, fun again. Kissing Zarathos’s gristly butt was going to be a chore for sure, but Fenn was a laugh and getting forty souls without setting the vessels loose would be a logistical challenge, like a puzzle. She liked puzzles.
“Hey, hot guy,” she called, and the dance-club man appeared at once at the end of the hall. She couldn’t remember his name, but he had a stellar profile. “Let’s you and me go for a ride. I’ve got some collecting to do.”