Devil Take Me
Author: Rhys Ford; Ginn Hale; Jordan L. Hawk; T. A. Moore; C. S. Poe; Jordan Castillo Price; Tricia Kristufek
Date: 2018-07-15 21:41:21+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Fantasy; Romance; Mystery; Paranormal; Anthologies
Description: Temptation lurks around every corner in worlds sometimes dark, sometimes lurid. Giving in is both dangerous and satisfying, though never in the ways one expects. While these enticements offer a vast range of benefits and boons, the cost is a soul and the devil expects his due. Sometimes suave and charming or calculating and cruel, these devils have schemes and desires of their own. They can be creatures to run away from… or toward. Join the most unique and celebrated authors of LGBT urban fantasy and paranormal fiction for a fast-paced and unpredictable ride, from a city on the other side of r
Publisher: DSP Publications

Table of Contents

Blurb

Infernal Affairs

Collared

Counterfeit Viscount

11:59

Wonderland City

Dark Favors

Visit DSP Publications

Copyright

Devil Take Me

Edited by Tricia Kristufek

Temptation lurks around every corner in worlds sometimes dark, sometimes lurid. Giving in is both dangerous and satisfying, though never in the ways one expects. While these enticements offer a vast range of benefits and boons, the cost is a soul and the devil expects his due. Sometimes suave and charming or calculating and cruel, these devils have schemes and desires of their own. They can be creatures to run away from… or toward.

Join the most unique and celebrated authors of LGBT urban fantasy and paranormal fiction for a fast-paced and unpredictable ride, from a city on the other side of reality, to a world suspended in dusk, to a twisted version of the 1960s and 70s.

Meet devils in top hats and waistcoats, a defrocked motorcycle-riding priest, and a genderfluid antihero—among many more. Full of humor, romance, horror, action, intrigue, and magic, these stories have one common element….

They’re one hell of a good time.

Infernal Affairs

By Jordan L. Hawk

Ralgath wants nothing more than to work as a crossroads demon. Too bad he botched his first assignment when a very sexy mortal turned the tables on him. Now he has one chance to get his job back: find two demons who vanished in the human realm. Unfortunately, doing so means teaming up with Chess—the very mortal who cost Ralgath his job in the first place.

Chess has spent the last three years using their infernally granted powers to do good. But now Ralgath has a new offer for them: help him find the missing demons, and he’ll return Chess’s soul.

After their last encounter, Chess is the last person Ralgath should be interested in. But the passion that initially drew them together still burns hotter than the flames of the Underworld. Chess claims they never meant to hurt Ralgath, but can Ralgath afford to trust them? Because while Ralgath may have Chess’s soul, he’s increasingly certain Chess owns his heart.

I.

RALGATH APPEARED in a perfectly timed flash of smoke and flame, accompanied by just a hint of brimstone. Not too much—the stink of sulfur would never come out of his hair otherwise. He’d learned that the hard way during his apprenticeship.

He manifested with his back to the mortal who’d called him to the crossroads—purely for dramatic effect, of course. Let the human see him framed by the sinister light of the moon as it rose over the swamp. It would establish the mood and give Ralgath a chance to take a deep breath or two.

His first day on the job as a crossroads demon. His first solo contract. It was going to be a memory he’d cherish forever.

“You have summoned me, mortal,” he said. He put a bit of infernal power into his voice, so it echoed ominously through the trees. Perfect. “I will give you whatever you seek… in return for your immortal soul.”

Ralgath spun on the last words, and his cape swirled around him. He intended to fix the mortal with a dangerous-yet-sexy look that would further establish his dominance. Getting the upper hand to begin with was critical to these sorts of negotiations.

Instead he found himself gaping.

The human looked as wildly out of place as possible on the dirt roads that bisected the swamp. Their car was all wrong, to start with. Ralgath didn’t know enough about human vehicles to guess any details, only that it certainly looked big and powerful. Convertible.

And screaming, shocking pink.

Not powder-puff, not even blush. It was a pink that grabbed you by the eyeballs and demanded you pay attention.

The vanity plate read NBINARY, beside a THEY/THEM bumper sticker.

As for the mortal themself….

Ralgath wasn’t certain where to rest his eyes. On the flowing hair twisted into a braid? The light brown skin? The spaghetti-strap top with a glitter rainbow on the front?

Definitely not on the tight, tight pants that didn’t leave much to the imagination.

A slow grin settled over the mortal’s firm lips. “Nice to meet you.” Their southern accent softened the edges of the words into a languid drawl: Nice ta meet ya. “Name’s Chesapeake Richards. But you can call me Chess, sugar.”

Ralgath realized he was staring. He swallowed against the sudden dryness in his mouth and tried to ignore the fact that his neatly pressed slacks were starting to feel tight. “Chess,” he repeated. Damn, he’d forgotten to use his ominous voice already. He cleared his throat and tried to sound more impressive. “Tell me what dark desire you have summoned me to fulfill.”

Oh, gods below. That sounded… not at all how he intended it.

Ralgath’s face burned, and he hoped his dark cheeks didn’t show enough of a blush for anyone without heat vision to notice.

The grin on Chess’s mouth widened, and they ran their gaze up and down Ralgath’s form far too deliberately to miss. Ralgath knew he looked good—style was part of what being a crossroads demon was all about. An old-fashioned suit of cream linen, expertly tailored to his body, and a red tie chosen to match the color of both his eyes and of the diminutive horns peeking out of his thick black hair. The cape was lined with the same red, just to make sure his silhouette stood out. He wasn’t the tallest crossroads demon, but his broad shoulders and trim hips had caught the eye of more than one Underworld denizen.

Still, he never expected to be so blatantly admired. He wasn’t an incubus, after all.

“Well,” Chess said. They leaned back against the trunk of their car, showing off those long legs as they did so. “I can think of several desires I’d like fulfilled, now that you mention it.”

This wasn’t going according to the training scenarios.

Training. Yes. He needed to fall back on his training, that was all. With a flash of fire, Ralgath produced a scroll and a quill. Absurdly out of date, but it would never do to ask a mortal to use their finger to sign a digital screen. Where would the blood go?

“I can offer you much,” he said. “Riches. Fame.” There was already a bit too much heat in the air between them, so he left out the usual offer of sex. “Whatever you want. All you have to do is ask.”

A sultry smile played over Chess’s lips. “Oh, I mean to ask,” they murmured. “But you were talking about the contract.” They cocked their head. “I want to hunt monsters—to track them, fight them, and kill them.”

Ralgath blinked. He’d expected Chess to ask to be a supermodel, or maybe a world-famous actor. “You… why?”

He shut his mouth with a snap. Why was one of the questions his trainers had cautioned him against asking. Infernal Affairs conducted its business with a strict nondiscrimination hiring policy. It didn’t matter why some mortal wanted to sign over their soul, only that they did.

Chess gave him a long, searching look. Lords of Hell, they had thick eyelashes. “I want to make a difference,” they said at last, all the flirtatiousness stripped from their voice. “Protect those who can’t protect themselves.”

Oh. Oh dear. Had there been some sort of mix-up? Ralgath looked around quickly, but no, this was definitely right—two roads stretching off into the lonely swamp, midnight, new moon, graveyard dirt, black candle, and a picture of Chess grinning while flashing the peace sign.

They had definitely meant to summon a crossroads demon.

“What?” Chess straightened. “Is something wrong?”

“Not… exactly.” Ralgath coughed. “Umm. It’s just that my department doesn’t usually handle this sort of request.” He shuffled his feet, feeling unaccountably embarrassed. “If you want to be a supermodel, I can do that.”

Chess looked at him for a long moment and then patted the trunk beside them. “Come over here, sugar.”

“I… umm… all right.” Even though part of Ralgath wasn’t sure it was a good idea at all, the rest of him didn’t want to pass up an opportunity to get closer to the gorgeous mortal.

He leaned against the trunk beside Chess in what he hoped was a nonchalant pose. So near, the scent of sandalwood and musk teased his senses as it rose from Chess’s warm skin.

Chess turned to face him, plump lips curved into a small pout. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting to be turned down. Are you sure you can’t help me out?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Ralgath said quickly. “It’s just that this sort of request is more the thing Celestial Affairs handles. They’re in charge of superheroes, Chosen Ones, that sort of thing.”

Of course, Celestial Affairs didn’t take requests. They did all the picking, and the ones they chose just had to live with it… which didn’t sound fair at all, now that Ralgath thought about it. At least Infernal Affairs offered mortals an option to say no.

Chess ran their hand up Ralgath’s arm. Even through the layers of his suit, the touch went right to Ralgath’s cock. A light sweat broke out over his brow.

“So it isn’t so much that you can’t…,” Chess prompted.

“Er, no. I mean, I could.” Ralgath swallowed heavily. “I just… I might get into trouble.”

Chess’s lips drew closer and closer to his own. “Maybe you ought to let trouble get into you.”

RALGATH SPRAWLED over the trunk of the car, his cheek pressed into the metal and his nails peeling strips out of the bright pink paint. His pants lay on the side of the road somewhere, and Chess pressed their fingers tightly into his hips.

“Oh gods,” Ralgath gasped. “Yes, yes, right there!”

“Uh. Yeah, baby,” Chess grunted into his ear. “How about superstrength?”

“Y-yes,” Ralgath gasped. His demonic quill obediently scratched the terms into the scroll on the trunk beside them. “I’m so close.”

“Same.” Chess pressed their lips into the back of his neck. “Fuck. Okay. Accelerated healing.”

“Yes, anything, please!”

The quill added another line. Ralgath writhed beneath Chess. “I can’t… I can’t….”

“I’ve got you, sugar,” Chess murmured. Their hand closed over Ralgath’s cock and barely had time to stroke it before their touch sent him over the edge. A moment later Chess tensed and let out a groan of their own.

“Mmm.” Chess sighed happily into Ralgath’s hair. Then they pulled free, flicked out a knife, and cut the tip of their index finger. Humming, they signed their name to the contract.

Ralgath’s mind began to piece itself back together from the mind-blowing orgasm he’d just had. He stood, though his legs weren’t entirely certain about the process. “Umm….”

Chess pressed the contract and quill into his hand and leaned in for a kiss. “Thanks, sweetie.”

A few seconds later, the pink car took off in a spray of dust. Ralgath stood alone in the crossroads, his pants in the bushes someplace, the contract in his hands, and a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “Mr. Gizrun is not going to be happy about this.”

II.

Three years later.

“HELLO, AND welcome to the Underworld,” Ralgath said tonelessly, for what was probably the five-thousandth time that day.

“About damned time!” The old man outside the ticket booth window glared furiously.

At first glance the Underworld’s reception area appeared to be an old-fashioned train station of truly cyclopean proportions, complete with ticket windows. As all of them except Ralgath’s were closed, the line of souls waiting to be sent to their appropriate place in the Underworld was several days long.

“The Underworld apologizes for the delay, sir,” Ralgath said automatically for the 5,001st time. He leaned forward and examined the heavy book in front of him.

In theory they could get in computers and streamline the process. No lack of IT guys down here, that was for sure. Most of them had wasted their time on earth as trolls, and no self-respecting demon wanted to work with them. Besides, Ralgath’s boss, Ezon, was adamant that the old ways were the best ways. Tradition was the watchword of the Underworld.

Ralgath eyed the line again. Sometimes tradition sucked.

Three years he’d been doing this job. Three years behind this desk, thanks to that stupid contract with Chess.

He’d been right about his former boss reacting badly to the contract. Mr. Gizrun called Ralgath into his office and yelled for a solid hour about the responsibilities of crossroads demons, about how Celestial Affairs had already filed a complaint, and that Ralgath had better hope Chess turned out to be easily corrupted by their new powers.

And then he booted Ralgath right out of Infernal Affairs and into Customer Service. Specifically, working the Intake desk for new souls.

Bad as Intake was, the worst part of his demotion had been Mom and Dad’s disappointment. Ralgath’s parents were legends—Mom for hunting down souls who thought they could escape their fate, and Dad for getting more contracts in a single year than any other demon since the thirteenth century. Everyone had expected Ralgath to live up to the family name.

Instead, he’d lost his job in record time, all thanks to tight pants and a pair of sultry lips.

He still thought about those lips sometimes. He shouldn’t—Chess had screwed him in more ways than one. But it hadn’t kept him from fantasizing about what he’d do if Chess ever came begging again.

The old man banged his cane against Ralgath’s window. “What’s taking so long, boy? I’ll have a word with your manager! Have him fire your shiftless, no-good ass.”

Ralgath pressed his lips together tightly. “It will just be a minute. Sir.”

The man glowered even more, if that were possible. “You don’t look right. Are you some kind of foreigner? That explains it.”

Never mind. The worst part of his disgrace wasn’t Mom and Dad’s disappointment after all. It was dealing with entitled pricks like the man in front of him.

Ralgath leaned further forward and forced a smile over his face. The grin was just a little too wide, though, and revealed the sharp tips of his canines. Inner light suffused his scarlet irises. “So impatient to receive your just reward, little man?” he asked in his most ominous voice.

The man blinked. “D-do you know who I am?” he demanded, but it was nothing but bluster.

“Oh, I know very well.” Ralgath caressed the book in front of him. The man’s name lit up, and the smell of scorching paper filled the air. “And I know what you did.”

All the color drained from the man’s already-pale face. “I didn’t do anything. I lived a good life. I went to church every week—”

“Ah, yes. I believe the pastor of that church lived in a ten-thousand-square-foot house with three swimming pools and was caught embezzling from several charities. Don’t worry. You’ll be seeing him soon.” Ralgath leaned over the counter and was pleased when the man drew back in alarm. “As for you, you climbed to wealth on the backs of others and then claimed to have earned it yourself so you could justify indulging your greed. You gave nothing, contributed nothing, only took and took and took some more. It’s the Hungry Place for you, shriveled soul. And you’d best hope you learn something before your next turn on the wheel.”

He snapped his fingers, and the old man’s shriek was cut off when he vanished in a puff of smoke.

With a sigh Ralgath dropped back into his chair. “Next.”

As a cowed-looking soul stepped up to the window, a hand settled on Ralgath’s shoulder. “Not bad, Ral.”

Ralgath gritted his teeth. He hated the nickname. “Your shift isn’t until tonight, Izzy.”

Izael reached past him and flipped the Open sign to Back in 5 Minutes. Groans and grumbles rose from the line, but Izzy ignored them. “They called me in early. Apparently Infernal Affairs wants to talk to you.”

Ralgath looked up quickly in surprise. Izzy was a tall demon with lovely blue wings and a short, curling tail. Handsome, but after the debacle with Chess, Ralgath had learned the hazards of sleeping with someone on the job and kept his interactions professional. “IA wants to talk to me? Why?”

“I’ll be damned if I know. Wait.” Izzy laughed at his own humor. “Nah, I don’t have any idea. Just that you’re to report to some guy named Gizrun ASAP.”

RALGATH KNOCKED hesitantly on Gizrun’s door. The director of the Mortal Employee Outreach Division—crossroads demons, in other words—hadn’t changed at all in the last three years. He was still enormous, covered in spikes, and stuck behind a ludicrously small desk.

Eyes yellow as moonrise fixed on Ralgath. “Well, come in,” Gizrun barked. “I don’t have all day.”

So there hadn’t been a mistake. Ralgath’s heart sank as he crossed the room to stand in front of the desk. The memory of Gizrun waving Chess’s contract and howling in the voices of the damned still stung. At least Ralgath didn’t have his pants on inside out this time.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked.

“Wanted is a strong word.” Gizrun’s chair groaned as he settled back into it. Bone chairs weren’t very ergonomic, but as always, tradition trumped comfort in the Underworld. “I’d just as soon have never laid a single one of my six eyes on you again. But I have a problem, and one of the higher-ups thought you might be able to fix it.” Gizrun snorted a cloud of steam. “I tried to talk them out of it, but your mother’s reputation preceded you.”

“Mother?” Ralgath repeated, even more confused than ever. “What does she have to do with it?”

“In her day she was the best Enforcer.” Gizrun’s eyes grew misty. “She and that hellhound could track an escaped soul to the four corners of the earth.” His eyes hardened again. “Unfortunately, she retired.”

“She and Bloodfang have a nice little cottage overlooking the River Styx,” Ralgath said, still wondering what any of that had to do with him. “But I’m not an Enforcer.” He’d followed his father’s footsteps to the crossroads. For all of one night, anyway.

“This isn’t work for an Enforcer. They track escaped souls. This… is something else.” Gizrun’s expression grew grim. “A few nights ago, a crossroads demon by the name of Zemael failed to come back from her assignment. She’s one of our best, been doing the job for years, so at first I didn’t worry. Sent a rookie up to take a peek, see what was keeping her. The rookie, Muzzaxin, didn’t come back either.”

Gizrun paused and fixed all of his eyes on Ralgath. “Someone up there is trapping crossroads demons. That’s bad enough as it is. What’s worse is that Zemael had her quill and parchment with her. I don’t think I need to tell you how bad it would be for something that powerful to fall into the hands of a mortal sorcerer.”

A mortal who could draw up whatever contract he wanted? No, that wouldn’t be good for either the Living Realm or the Underworld.

“So why do you want me? This is a matter for IA, and I’m in Intake now.”

Gizrun snorted out more steam. “Your name came up. Or rather, your mother’s name came up, but she wouldn’t leave retirement.” Gizrun waved a dismissive hand. “I asked them to bring in the Enforcers, but their expertise is with escaped souls, not living mortals.”

“So why not send some crossroads demons to handle it?” Ralgath asked, suspicion growing in his gut.

“The higher-ups want this to stay quiet until it’s done and over with. They don’t want demons quitting in a panic, or mortal sorcerers getting the wrong idea if rumor starts to spread. We want it under wraps until we can say, ‘See? Mess with us, get dragged screaming into Hell.’” Gizrun flapped a stubby pair of wings in agitation. “My bosses have agreed to let the Enforcers try, but not until I’ve exhausted all possible avenues.”

Ralgath’s shoulders sagged. “So if I disappear too, you can tell them you tried. They bring in the Enforcers, and you avoid losing a valuable employee.”

“Look, kid, you might be able to pull this off.” Gizrun tried an encouraging smile. “Your mother was a great tracker. Maybe that’s where your real talent lies, right?” He grabbed a sheet of parchment and scribbled something on it. “Here, take this permission slip to the hellhound kennels. Go upstairs with a dog and a pitchfork and give it a shot. If you can’t find who’s doing this in a week, come back and that’s the end of it. You can return to Intake, and I can tell the big bosses I did what they wanted, and can we please have some Enforcers.”

Ralgath turned the offer over in his mind. He could refuse, go back to his desk in Intake right now.

And spend day after day in Customer Service, dealing with the deceased public—and not the saintly ones either.

Compared to that, even a doomed-to-failure mission sounded good.

“Two conditions,” he said. “One is I want my old job back if I succeed.”

“You’ve got it,” Gizrun said immediately.

“As for the second… I’ll need the contract that got me fired.” Ralgath grimaced. “Chess’s contract.”

III.

RALGATH APPEARED in a flash of flame in the middle of a crossroads. A few hundred yards away lay an abandoned warehouse.

According to Infernal Affairs records, this was the crossroads Zemael had been summoned to before her disappearance. It was only a few miles from the crossroads where his disastrous encounter with Chess took place. Even if he didn’t find any clues here, with any luck he’d be able to locate Chess before whoever had made the other demons disappear did the same to him. Ralgath took a step forward—

—and almost had his arm jerked out of the socket as the hellhound on the other end of the leash flopped onto the ground and began to roll around.

“Get up,” Ralgath hissed. “Fluffpaw. Heel, girl. Sit!”

The beast gave him a doggy smile and lolled out her tongue. Ralgath had asked for the best tracking hellhound to be found in the Underworld, but he was beginning to suspect the kennel master hadn’t taken his request seriously.

“Come on,” Ralgath pleaded as he tugged ineffectually on the leash. “I’ve got treats.”

Fluffpaw sat up, but not because she seemed to understand the promise of treats. Still grinning happily, she stared in the direction of the warehouse, head cocked as though something about it deeply puzzled her. Maybe it was just the world in general.

Parked in the otherwise deserted lot in front of the warehouse was a very familiar pink convertible. And from inside the warehouse came the faint sound of fighting. With a gasp Ralgath tugged on Fluffpaw’s leash. When she refused to follow, he muttered a curse and secured her to a section of chain-link fence. Then he hurried across the cracked pavement toward the warehouse.

The setting sun cast long shadows over the property. The doors were ostentatiously padlocked, but a broken window offered an easy entrance. Ralgath squeezed through and tumbled onto the filthy concrete inside. He hopped to his feet, dusted off his trousers, and followed the shrieks and thumps deeper into the vast structure.

The smell crept up on him and grew stronger the farther he went from windows and from sunlight. The dust and mold of an abandoned building slowly gave way to old blood and decomposition mixed with copious amounts of perfume meant to hide the stink of unwashed bodies.

Vampires.

He found them in a clear space amid a tangle of girders and support beams. Three vampires circled, their gaping jaws revealing fangs like daggers. A mismatch of unwashed clothing, taken from their victims, covered their spindly forms. Their inhuman thinness belied their strength and speed, and three of them closed fast on the person in the center of the room.

Chess.

Ralgath had told himself firmly that he was not going to be dazzled by Chess this time around. Chess had tricked him, used him. As long as he kept that in mind, he wouldn’t be remotely attracted to them.

Unfortunately his body had other ideas.

Chess almost glowed in the darkness of the grimy warehouse. They wore a pair of tight pink pants, a cream turtleneck, and boots with chunky heels. Seeming unconcerned by the charging vampires, Chess tossed back their hair, pivoted effortlessly on one foot, and threw a wooden stake with tremendous force.

One vampire’s shriek ended as it exploded into dust. The second closed on Chess, who ducked beneath its swinging fist. They pulled a second stake from the belt slung low around their hips and stabbed upward. In a moment the second vampire was dust as well.

Without missing a beat, Chess tucked into a roll, only to come up with the stake they’d thrown earlier in their hand. The final vampire stared in fear—then spun and ran.

Straight at Ralgath.

“Going somewhere?” Ralgath asked.

He grabbed the vampire by its throat and heaved it off its feet. Like all demons, Ralgath was hellishly strong. The vampire tore at him with its dirty nails, but he ignored it to look at Chess, who was standing frozen and staring at Ralgath in shock.

It was nice to turn the tables on Chess for a change.

“I think this is yours?” Ralgath said, and he shook the vampire for emphasis.

“Oh… right.” Chess stepped forward and finished it off.

Ralgath made a show of dusting the vampire from his sleeve. He’d made certain he looked damned—pun intended—good for this second encounter. He wore his scarlet-lined cape, a suit fitted to show off the breadth of his chest and shoulders, and had his horns polished to a sheen. “Hello, Chess,” he purred.

Chess blinked and then strove for a cocky smile. “Miss me?”

“Only because I wasn’t trying to hit you,” Ralgath replied coolly. Was it his imagination, or did Chess deflate slightly at the chill in his voice? “What are you doing here?” Finding Chess so close to the crossroads where Zemael had disappeared seemed an unlikely coincidence.

“Following up on a rumor, actually.” Chess crossed their arms over their chest. “Some people in the area have dropped out of sight recently. All of them were involved in underground fighting rings, so they were big, tough, and mean enough to handle just about anything human. I came to find out if their disappearance involved the supernatural. The vamps might have been responsible, but I’m not sure. They tend to pick on easier targets. What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to make you an offer.”

Chess eyed him warily. “I’m satisfied with our previous arrangement, sugar. No need to renegotiate.”

“I find myself in need of a favor.” Ralgath produced Chess’s contract from inside his coat. “Help me… and I’ll return your soul.”

“YOU DIDN’T seem too concerned about the vampires,” Chess said as they made their way out of the warehouse.

Ralgath shrugged. “Vampires aren’t the jurisdiction of the Underworld. Their souls have already departed.”

“Oh. I assumed… puppy!”

Fluffpaw bounded to greet them in the parking lot, dragging approximately twenty feet of chain-link fence after her.

Chess let out a squeal of delight and dropped to their knees for a hug.

“Don’t,” Ralgath exclaimed. “That’s a hellhound!” As though anyone could mistake a solid black dog with glowing orange eyes who slobbered green slime all over the landscape for anything else. “She’ll tear you to pieces!”

Fluffpaw flung herself into Chess’s arms, butt wriggling and stubby tail wagging.

“Aww. She’s just a sweetheart, aren’t you?” Chess asked as they scratched her ears. “Who’s a good omen of doom? Is it you? Is it?”

Fluffpaw barked happily to indicate it was indeed her.

Ralgath pinched the bridge of his nose. In Gizrun’s office this had seemed like such a good plan—make the instrument of his downfall into his salvation. He’d somehow forgotten how overwhelming Chess was, and how quickly good sense went out the window around them.

“If you can stop playing with my dog for a moment,” Ralgath grated out, “we have things to discuss.”

“Right. Your offer.” Chess gave Fluffpaw a final pat and rose to their feet. “Sorry, but no take-backsies.”

Of all the developments Ralgath had envisioned, that hadn’t been one of them. “Wait. I’m offering you the chance to escape the Underworld after your death, and you’re… turning me down?”

Chess hopped onto the trunk of their car and patted the space beside them.

Ralgath folded his arms over his chest. “Oh no. I’m not falling for that a second time.”

To his surprise a light blush darkened Chess’s brown skin. “Not what I had in mind… though I’ve got to say, I’ve thought a lot about that night in the last three years.”

“So have I,” Ralgath said icily. “Especially as it cost me my job in Infernal Affairs.”

Chess’s eyes widened in dismay. “It did? Oh hell. I’m sorry. I didn’t think….”

“That there wouldn’t be serious repercussions?” Ralgath shook his head angrily. “Maybe for you there weren’t. But this is my chance to put things right, to get my old job back. I’m not letting you ruin it for me a second time.”

Chess winced. “Please, just sit while we talk. I promise to keep my hands and everything else to myself.”

Telling himself he wasn’t disappointed, Ralgath perched on the trunk beside Chess, so close, he could smell traces of night-blooming gardenia and myrrh rising from Chess’s skin. It wasn’t anything a human could have perceived, but every mortal bound to the Underworld—and every Chosen One granted Celestial gifts—gave off a scent that marked them to other demons and angels. Mixed with Chess’s natural musk, it was strangely heady, and Ralgath had to resist the temptation to lean closer.

Fluffpaw flopped on the ground and began to chew on the steel fencing. The setting sun limned Chess’s profile in gold, and the light seemed almost to cling to their long lashes. They leaned forward, planted their elbows on their knees, and stared at the warehouse.

“Thing is, I’ve done a lot of good over the last few years,” Chess said. “And I know that’s not really your department. But no Celestial beings popped by, handing out prophecies, and I sure as hell wasn’t anyone’s Chosen One.”

“Celestial Affairs does tend to have a stick up their ass about that sort of thing,” Ralgath agreed. “But that’s beside the point.”

“It isn’t, though. This is the only way I can do what I want to do, what I need to do.” Chess lowered their gaze to their clasped hands. “I’m not giving that up.”

Ralgath quashed the urge to ask Chess why they were so Hell-bent on their quest to fight evil. He didn’t want to feel sympathy for the mortal who had cost him his job, and he definitely didn’t want Chess to talk him into letting them off the hook. “Let me paint a picture for you, Chess. Do you know what we do with those souls we collect?”

Chess cast him a nervous glance. “I’ve heard the stories.”

“You think you have some idea of the horrors awaiting. You don’t.” Ralgath leaned forward and fixed Chess with his red gaze. “Infernal Affairs is the Underworld’s HR department. Once you die, you work wherever they assign you. I’ve spent the last three years in Intake. Have you ever worked with the public, Chess?”

Chess swallowed. “I… I cashiered at a gas station in college.”

“Think of your worst customers—not the shoplifters or the kids who dropped their giant soda onto the stack of newspapers. I’m talking the ones you prayed wouldn’t get into your line. The ones screeching for the manager because they miscounted their change and are sure you’re the one at fault. The ones with the racist T-shirts, talking shit at the top of their lungs about how the overworked mom in front of them is taking too long.” Ralgath leaned in farther, so close that he could have kissed Chess if he wanted, which he sort of did. “Now imagine dealing with a thousand of them a day. Every day. For eternity.”

Chess’s face went three shades paler. “Oh. So… what was that favor you needed?”

IV.

RALGATH CLUNG to the door handle for dear life as they screamed down the interstate. Chess had put the top down on the convertible, and the night wind howled around the car, making conversation impossible. Fluffpaw sat in the back seat behind Ralgath and hung her head out to the side. Her tongue flapped in the breeze.

Chess switched lanes, sliding through a space between tractor trailers that Ralgath would have sworn wasn’t big enough for the car. The demon shut his eyes and silently prayed to the Lords of Hell they didn’t end up smeared across five lanes of interstate.

“Don’t look so worried,” Chess yelled over the wind. “You can heal from just about anything, right?”

“That doesn’t mean I’m immortal,” Ralgath shouted back. “And they say regrowing limbs hurts.”

Chess laughed, wild and carefree. “You need to let go and live a little.”

“That’s going to be hard to do when you’re trying to kill us.”

A sudden swerve jolted his eyes back open. Chess crossed three lanes, dove down an exit ramp, and turned onto a two-lane road without slowing the car at all. A few minutes later, they screeched to a halt in front of a roadside bar.

“See?” Chess asked. “We made it just fine.”

Ralgath peeled his fingers from the door handle one at a time. “Zemael is being held here?”

The sign over the door proclaimed in red neon that they’d arrived at JJ’S Place. Cheap plastic siding clad the exterior, painted a dull gray where it wasn’t stained with the green of algae. Beer signs glowed in the barred windows, and the lot was full of oversized trucks. The one they’d parked beside sported a confederate flag, a vanity plate reading GETSUM, and a pair of fake testicles dangling from the hitch in a trifecta of awful.

“What?” Chess asked, confused. “No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

Ralgath ground his teeth. “I came to you because one of the things you negotiated for was the ability to track Otherworldly beings.”

“Mmm, yeah.” Chess smirked. “I asked for that just as I was getting ready to shove—”

“I’m sure I don’t remember,” Ralgath lied frantically. “My point is, I need you to help me find Zemael and Muzzaxin, not… whatever this is.”

Chess checked their wind-blown hair in the mirror. “Maybe I thought I’d buy you dinner first this time.”

“There isn’t going to be a ‘this time.’ There shouldn’t have even been a first time.” Ralgath’s eyes widened in dawning horror. “This isn’t—isn’t some sort of date, is it?”

Chess howled with laughter. “Relax, sugar. I’m just yanking your chain. You think I’d bring you to a dump like this? Thing is, I can’t just track your missing demons by thinking about it. I need something of theirs.”

“And you expect to find something here?” Ralgath looked around. He didn’t know Zemael very well, but he had a hard time imagining any self-respecting crossroads demon hanging out there—maybe a succubus, looking for a quick snack to tide her over.

“Don’t let the exterior fool you,” Chess said. Then they paused. “Well… no, it’s pretty much what it looks like, actually. But there’s someone here who might know where to start looking. She deals in information—if she doesn’t know who took the demons, she’ll at least be able to point us in the right direction.”

“Do you think your missing humans have anything to do with my missing demons?” Ralgath asked. “They vanished in roughly the same area.”

Chess shrugged. “If they do, then finding your demons ought to lead us to the missing humans. If not… I know a couple of Chosen Ones. I’ll put them on the trail of the human disappearances if need be.”

“Should I glamour myself?” Ralgath asked as he climbed out of the car. “You know, hide my demonic nature?”

“And cover up those cute little horns?” Chess winked as they joined him on the sidewalk. “Now that would be a shame. Fortunately these folks are used to strange.”

Realizing she was about to be abandoned, Fluffpaw whined from the back seat of the convertible.

“Sorry.” Chess ran back to the car and scratched her behind the ears. “You’ve got to stay out here, girl.”

“Are you sure?” Ralgath examined the convertible’s immaculate interior. “She’ll probably eat your seats by the time we get back.”

“She’d never do that,” Chess said as they gave Fluffpaw one last pat. “Now, come on.”

Inside, the place was exactly what Ralgath imagined a roadside bar would look like, if it had been specifically designed with some dive-bar archetype in mind. Even though it was likely no one had lit a cigarette indoors for years, decades of prior smoke had soaked into the walls, ceiling, and vinyl seats and left behind an unmistakable reek. A few people shot pool off to one side of the room, while others huddled around tables or at the bar.

The bartender looked up as they approached. Even at a distance, Ralgath could smell the mark of another crossroads demon on her. Her eyes went straight to Ralgath’s horns, and she sniffed. “Sorry, demon, but one of your kind already took my soul.” She gazed around at the bar. “And this is what I got out of the bargain.”

Obviously that demon had been much better at negotiation than Ralgath. “That isn’t why we’re here.”

The bartender—presumably the JJ of the bar’s name—lifted a brow in Chess’s direction. “She’s in the back, as usual.”

“Thanks.” Chess led the way through a door marked Private and down a dingy hall. The scent of incense spilled out of an open door at the end, and Ralgath took a deep, instinctive breath.

“Dragon’s blood,” he said in surprise. “From a real dragon, I mean. Not the fake stuff.”

“Be polite,” Chess advised. Though the door was partially open, they knocked anyway.

“Come in,” murmured a low, smoky voice.

Power slithered over Ralgath’s skin as they stepped in the door and the wards reacted to his demonic presence. Magic wrapped around him like snakes on his shoulders and looped across his throat. It wasn’t constricting—not yet. But that could change in an instant.

A haze of smoke filled the room, which was lit only by the cold light of a television set. Blankets hung on the walls, depicting images of kittens, dragons, and dogs. An old recliner sat in the corner, and on it was a presence glamoured to appear human, even though it never had been. She looked like an old woman, her hair up in curlers, a bottle of scotch on the table beside her. Slippers hid her feet, and a bathrobe concealed most of her bulk.

“Mama Lea,” Chess said respectfully, inclining their head. “How are you doing this fine night?”

The wards tightened just a bit around Ralgath’s throat.

“Not doing so well now that you’ve brought a demon to me,” Mama Lea said. “That ain’t polite, little hunter.”

“I’m not here to bother you,” Ralgath said.

“Too late for that.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Some crossroads demons have gone missing. I’ve been sent to find them.”

“An Enforcer?” Mama Lea’s eyes gleamed in the dimness, glamour giving way just enough to reveal slitted pupils. Maybe the dragon’s blood Ralgath had scented belonged to her. “Where’s your hellhound?”

“I’m not an Enforcer, and she’s waiting in the car.” Or eating it.

“The missing demons’ names are Zemael and Muzzaxin,” Chess said. “We need to know who might have taken them. Failing that, I need something of theirs to track. Can you help us?”

“I might could.” A hiss, as of coils slithering over one another. “What will you give me in return?”

Curse it. Ralgath hadn’t thought to ask Gizrun for an expense account.

Chess didn’t seem worried. They pointed to the TV. “Warlocks and Angels, huh? What’d you think of the season three ending?”

Mama Lea’s whole demeanor shifted. “You mean the Magnificent and Galen kiss?”

“What else? So good. Am I right?” At Ralgath’s blank look, Chess added, “Magnificent is an angel, and Galen is a warlock. Total forbidden love.”

“I had no idea you were a fan.” Mama Lea fluttered her hands in excitement.

Chess laughed. “I’m responsible for at least 20 percent of the Malen fanfic on AO4.”

“You’re chess4malen?”

Ralgath looked blankly from one of them to the other. “Umm… you both seem to be speaking English, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No streaming video in the Underworld?” Chess shook their head. “Damn. You really are in hell.” They turned back to Mama Lea. “I’m almost finished with the next chapter. The quicker I get this job done, the sooner I’ll be able to update.”

“Say no more.” Mama Lea beamed at them. “I can’t tell you who might have your demons, but I might know where you can get something of theirs to track. The Bluesman.”

“The Bluesman?” Ralgath asked.

She shrugged one shoulder. “That’s what he calls himself. Awful pretentious if you ask me, ’specially as I don’t think he can play a lick. He’s got a thing for crossroads demons. Collects everything he can lay hands on that has anything to do with them—stories, pictures of places they’ve appeared, anything one might have touched or dropped.”

“A real fanboy, huh?” Chess nodded slowly. “Thanks, Mama Lea. We’ll be on our way so I can get back to that fic soon.”

“I’m snapdragon27 online,” she called after them. “I’ll be sure to comment as soon as it’s posted.”

Once they were back in the hall, Ralgath shook his head. “How did you know what to offer her?”

Chess grinned. “She’s been streaming Warlocks and Angels every time I’ve come to see her. I kept my mouth shut because I figured it would come in handy eventually.”

Ralgath sighed. It was almost a shame he would be releasing Chess from their contract once they found the missing demons. With their negotiation skills, they would have made a hell of a crossroads demon. Gizrun would probably have hired them the moment they died.

They walked outside. Fluffpaw trotted up to greet them, a bumper decorated with chrome testicles dangling from her jaws.

“See?” Chess said as they climbed into the convertible. “I told you she wouldn’t eat my car.”

THE BLUESMAN lived several hours away. Despite Chess’s driving, Ralgath managed to fall asleep for most of the trip until a harsh bump woke him. Blinking blearily, he lifted his head and found Chess guiding the car down a rutted dirt road. Old farm fields, overgrown with weeds and yielding to the first growth of forest, stretched to either side in the afternoon light. Muddy water filled the ruts in the road, and Chess grimaced with each splash.

“First stop after this—a car wash,” they said when they noticed Ralgath was awake. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

Ralgath sat up, and his back and neck protested the movement. He looked from the pink car to Chess’s outfit. “Something like that.”

“What?” Chess cocked their head. “You think I look this good by accident?”

Ralgath snorted. “No.” He paused and wondered if it was smart to open up a conversation about the night they met. “You weren’t what I expected when I answered you at the crossroads. I’ve wondered since then if that was on purpose, to throw me off my game, give you an edge. But I guess not.”

“No.” The corners of Chess’s mouth curled up slightly. “I wasn’t really expecting someone as cute as you, if we’re confessing.”

Ralgath looked out the window. “I’d wondered that too, if you were actually attracted to me.”

Chess put their hand on Ralgath’s knee. “Wait, no. I wasn’t… you think I planned on seducing any demon who showed up?”

“Didn’t you?” Ralgath didn’t bother to keep the bitterness from his voice. “It seemed like you came prepared.”

“I live out of this car. Of course I had everything with me.” Chess gave Ralgath’s knee a squeeze for emphasis. “I wasn’t expecting to seduce anyone, because I didn’t realize y’all ever turned down contracts. Now, I’m not denying I wanted to make you moan from the first second I laid eyes on you. And sure, it played a part in my thinking, once you said you couldn’t help. I figured it would be a win-win—we’d both get laid and have a good time doing it, and I’d get my contract.” They let out a sigh. “I didn’t realize you’d lose your job over it. No wonder you don’t think much of me.”

Ralgath glanced uncertainly at Chess. Their attention was on the road, giving him a chance to study their profile. For once their lips were drawn tight in an unhappy moue.

A band loosened in Ralgath’s chest. He’d spent years thinking Chess would have seduced anyone who’d shown up, that it had meant less to Chess than even a quick hookup.

Still. “You used me.”

Chess glanced down at the steering wheel and then back up at the road. “Yeah. Not very heroic of me, huh? I’m going to make it up to you, though. I promise.”

They started to remove their hand from his knee, but Ralgath caught it. He wasn’t entirely certain why—encouraging Chess had gotten him into this situation in the first place. But Chess’s remorse seemed genuine. And the spark that Chess had taken advantage of before was still there, whether Ralgath wanted it or not.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said.

Fluffpaw chose that moment to thrust her head between them. Her hot breath scorched the side of Ralgath’s face, and her drool threatened to burn a hole in his cape.

“Stop that,” he said as he tried to shove her back. It was like trying to push a boulder out of the way.

“She knows we’ve arrived,” Chess said.

Ralgath peered out the windshield and saw they’d come to the end of the road.

It petered out in what could charitably be called a front yard, though most of it was bare dirt. Three cars sat up on blocks, streaked with rust. One appeared to have a tree growing out of the front seat. Chickens pecked and scratched at the mud, totally disinterested in them.

Like the cars, the house had seen better days. It was three stories tall, with porches upstairs and down. Whatever color it had originally been painted was impossible to determine; only boards bleached gray by the elements remained. The iron railings on the stairs and porches wept red stains, and one corner of the roof sagged ominously. In its prime, the house had probably been a gem of local society. Now it was just sad.

As Chess shut off the motor, a man stepped out onto the porch. He was tall and thin, and his pasty complexion suggested he didn’t get out in the sun very often. “Who are you?” he called from the porch. “What…?”

He trailed off at the sight of Ralgath and Fluffpaw. His eyes widened, and his mouth flapped soundlessly like a landed fish.

Ralgath exited the convertible and faced him. Threading infernal power into his voice, he said, “We’re looking for the Bluesman.”

The pronouncement boomed nicely around the yard. A cloud picked that moment to slide in front of the sun and added an unplanned touch of the ominous.

The man put his hands to his mouth. “Y-you’re looking for me? Oh my stars, I just can’t believe it. A real demon, in my yard. With a hellhound.”

Chess leaned their hip against the side of the car. “You sound like a fan.”

“Oh, I am. I am.” The sagging porch steps squealed as the Bluesman approached. His pale eyes scanned Ralgath avidly, as though he tried to memorize every detail. “My granny raised me on stories about crossroads demons. They always sounded so glamorous—good-looking, well-dressed, and in charge.”

Ralgath strove to keep his expression neutral at the reminder that he’d gotten the first two of those right and massively failed at the third. “We are the most sophisticated inhabitants of the Underworld,” he agreed. Though technically he wasn’t a crossroads demon at the moment. He would be again, though, as soon as this was over. “I am Ralgath, and this is my hellhound, er, Fluffpaw.”

“And this must be your mortal thrall,” the Bluesman said, staring at Chess with a mixture of awe and envy.

“That’s me,” Chess agreed cheerfully. “The boss here tells me what he wants, and I get it for him. And what he wants today is something only you can give him.”

The Bluesman let out a gasp. “Oh my. Oh my goodness.” He looked back and forth between them. “In that case, maybe y’all ought to come inside.”

V.

THE INTERIOR of the house was as messy as the exterior. The Bluesman led them into a parlor that looked to have been decorated by an old woman in the 1970s, and never updated since. A set of plates painted with hideous images of sad clowns hung in pride of place over the mantle. Ralgath suppressed a shudder. Even demons were afraid of clowns.

“The recliner is the best chair. Belonged to my granny,” the Bluesman said as he gestured Ralgath toward an avocado-green recliner complete with lace antimacassar. “Can I get y’all some iced tea? Dog biscuits?”

Ralgath was about to decline, but Chess said, “Some iced tea would be lovely, thank you.”

The Bluesman beamed and bustled off in the direction of what Ralgath assumed to be the kitchen.

“I don’t want to stay here any longer than we have to,” Ralgath said in a low voice to Chess. Fluffpaw sprawled onto the hearth rug and began to drool.

“I don’t think he’s the one responsible for the missing demons,” Chess whispered back.

Ralgath stabbed one finger in the direction of the clown plates. “Are you kidding? The man is obviously a serial killer. He’s probably poisoning our drinks as we speak.”

“It’ll be fine,” Chess said, with an airy wave of their hand. “Now listen, asking him to part with something in his collection is a big favor. We need to play nice, butter him up a bit, and that means drinking iced tea and letting him soak in your infernal presence.”

“I don’t actually see any evidence of this so-called collection, do you?”

“Oh, like he’s going to keep his most valuable possessions just sitting out anywhere. Now sit in the recliner and hush.”

Feeling as though he had once again lost whatever tenuous control he had over the situation, Ralgath sat. The recliner’s cushion was so soft, he felt as though he were sinking all the way to the floor, and it smelled like vinegar and cocoa butter.

The Bluesman came back in, carrying a tray decorated with yet more sad clowns. “Here you go, the best iced tea in the county.” He passed them each a glass and then took one for himself and perched nervously on the edge of a rocking chair.

Ralgath took a sip and nearly choked on the sweetness. “Very good,” he managed to say past the syrupy coating forming on his tongue.

The Bluesman grinned proudly. “I can’t believe this is happening. A real crossroads demon sitting right here in my living room.”

Chess drank the tea without seeming to notice there was a half a pound of sugar in the glass. “If you don’t mind my asking, why not just go to a crossroads and summon one if you wanted to meet them?”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that.” The Bluesman let out a heavy sigh. “Granny made me promise I’d see her again in heaven. Can’t do that if I sell my immortal soul, and well, a promise is a promise.” A mild look of alarm crossed his face. “That ain’t what y’all are here, is it?”

“No, no,” Ralgath said hastily. “We need your help on another matter.” He hesitated, but there was nothing for it. “Do you know of a demon by the name of Zemael? Or Muzzaxin?” Muzzaxin was a rookie, according to Gizrun, but Zemael had been in the business for decades.

“Zemael… oh yeah.” The Bluesman snapped his fingers. “She traded for the soul of one of our fine state senators. Well, he wasn’t a senator then, of course. Oh, and she was behind the rise of that pop star. You know, the singer with only one name?”

“That doesn’t really narrow it down much these days,” Chess said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ralgath said before the Bluesman got any more distracted. “We’re here because we’ve been told you’re the premier collector of demonic paraphernalia in this part of the country.”

“In the world,” the Bluesman said, clearly offended.

“I don’t know about that,” Chess said skeptically. “I hear the Vatican has a pretty extensive collection. Whereas you….” They looked deliberately around the room.

The Bluesman instantly leaped to his feet. “I’ll prove it. Right now.”

Ralgath took the excuse to put his overly sweet tea aside. Rising to his feet, he said, “I look forward to it.”

FLUFFPAW REMAINED sprawled on the floor. She seemed to have fallen asleep with her tongue lolled out and greenish drool slowly eating through the rug. The Bluesman would probably add it to his collection once they were gone.

The Bluesman led the way into the kitchen, its sink piled high with pots and pans. He opened the pantry, took out a key, and unlocked a second door at the very back. “This used to be the root cellar,” he said, voice muffled by the narrow pantry. “I had it updated to modern standards to house my collection—climate control, humidity control, the works.”

As he fussed with the lock and the light switch beyond, Ralgath leaned in to whisper in Chess’s ear, “If he puts on a sad clown mask and tries to kill us, I’m blaming you.”

So close, he was suddenly aware of Chess’s scent once again—gardenias and myrrh and mortal musk. It rose from their warm skin, saturating Ralgath’s senses and sending a shock of desire to his groin.

A little shiver ran through Chess, though Ralgath thought it had nothing to do with dread and everything to do with his breath on Chess’s ear.

Chess had said they hadn’t planned to seduce whatever crossroads demon answered their call. Could it be Ralgath affected them just as much as they affected him?

The door swung open onto a narrow stair leading down. “Just close it behind us, if you would,” the Bluesman called over his shoulder.

Ralgath did as asked and then followed his companions into the root cellar. There wasn’t much left to betray its original function. The walls and floor were made from sealed concrete, the air startlingly dry against Ralgath’s skin.

Row upon row of glass cases filled most of the room. Paintings hung on the walls, some skilled and some amateurish. Blues music streamed from state-of-the-art speakers, and Ralgath recognized the song as one composed by a musician who traded his soul for fame.

Small spotlights had been mounted to the ceiling, some of them with what looked like colored gels over the light, perhaps to enhance the mood. At the moment only a few plain lights were turned on. The room was largely in shadow.

“All the art in here was either created by a crossroads demon or under the inspiration of one,” the Bluesman said proudly. “As for the rest, have a look for yourselves.”

Ralgath politely leaned in to inspect the nearest cases. The Bluesman hovered over his shoulder as he did so, a bit too close for comfort.

The cases contained a great deal of… well, junk, to Ralgath’s eye. Vials with a single hair inside, fingernail clippings, a used tissue, a glass tumbler with a lipstick print on it, a shriveled hand that looked to have belonged to neither human nor demon.

“All of these objects came from, or were used by, crossroads demons,” the Bluesman said. His breath smelled like sweet tea and fried fish. “See that glass, right there? Xaztiel drank from that in 1972 when he bought the soul of one of those television preachers. That tissue? The demon Janelle had a cold when old Joe Cauthy in Mobile sold his soul for a tire-sales empire. Local empire, anyway. Half the state’s cars had tires from one of his stores. He died a few years back.” The Bluesman sounded pleased about it. “I guess you can’t tell me what happened to him?”

“I think he’s in accounting,” Ralgath said in the vain hope it would convince the Bluesman to move farther away from him. “Handling demonic expense reports.”

“That’d be Joe. He always did have a head for numbers.” The Bluesman nodded happily.

Chess cleared their throat. “What about Zemael? You said you had something belonging to her?”

The Bluesman shot them an annoyed look but shuffled down the aisle until he came to a glass case containing two mud-stained shoes. “She kicked these off back in 2010 at a crossroads outside of Baton Rouge.”

“Well, no wonder,” Chess said, peering into the case. “Just look at those heels. Dirt road after a rain, they’d sink right in.”

Ralgath winced in secondhand embarrassment on Zemael’s behalf. It would be hard to keep a professionally infernal appearance while losing your balance with every step. Hopefully she’d been able to salvage the transaction.

The Bluesman unlocked the case and reverently removed one of the shoes. “Now, why did y’all want to see something of hers again?”

This was going to be the tricky part. Ralgath glanced at Chess, who leaned insouciantly up against another case. Chess only stared back blandly.

Fine. Ralgath drew himself up to his most imposing height and looked down his nose at the Bluesman. “We need to borrow one of the shoes,” he said, putting just a little bit of infernal power into the words. One of the cases nearby rattled. “In return, I will offer you my cape.” He wouldn’t cut quite as imposing a figure without it, but it seemed the sort of thing the Bluesman would be into.

The Bluesman rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. Then he shook his head. “No.”

“No?” Ralgath was shocked back to his ordinary voice. “Why not? You have two shoes and no capes. It’s a more than fair trade.”

The Bluesman grinned slowly. “Why trade for a cape, when I can just add you to my collection?”

VI.

BEFORE EITHER Ralgath or Chess could react, the Bluesman held up a remote control and pressed a button.

The spotlight directly above Ralgath clicked on. Rather than a simple beam of light, it was covered with a stencil to create a pattern. Ralgath’s horrified mind had just enough time to recognize the Fifth Pentacle of Mars before his entire body froze in place.

Chess let out an angry cry, but the Bluesman had come prepared. He leveled a gun at Ralgath’s chest. “Each bullet in this gun is inscribed with sigils against demons and blessed by a priest. One move and your master dies.”

“He isn’t my master, and you wouldn’t dare.” Fury shook Chess’s words, but they didn’t move toward the Bluesman.

“I’d rather have a live demon for my collection. It’s true.” The Bluesman shook his head sadly. “Their bodies go to ash when they die, or so it’s said. But I can sweep him up and put him in an urn beside a mannequin dressed in his clothing.”

Ralgath’s heart pounded and his mouth went dry. Natural-born demons like him didn’t have souls of their own. That was purely the purview of mortals. If he died, he’d wouldn’t wake up in the Underworld.

He’d cease to exist.

He struggled to move so much as a finger, but the trap held him tight. Was this how Zemael had been captured? Or Muzzaxin?

Chess’s brown skin took on a grayish hue. “Don’t,” they said as they lifted their hands in surrender. “I won’t cause any trouble.”

“Good.” The Bluesman frowned. “Wait. I didn’t think this through. I need to do something with you, don’t I? Can’t leave any loose ends.”

A loud scratching sounded at the closed door at the top of the stairs, accompanied by a high-pitched whine.

The Bluesman’s attention snapped to the stairs for just a fraction of a second. It was enough.

Chess launched themself at the Bluesman, caught him around the waist, and dragged him to the ground. A glass case went with them and exploded into shards. The gun went off, and the bullet struck the spotlight above and destroyed the pentacle.

Freed from the trap, Ralgath took a hasty step back and held out his hand. A pitchfork of black metal appeared in his grasp, the haft strangely warm against his fingers. “Chess! Out of the way.”

Chess rolled to the side, and Ralgath brought the pitchfork down and buried it in the concrete floor, pinning the Bluesman’s neck in the gap between the rightmost and center tines. His eyes went wide with terror, and the front of his jeans darkened.

“Are you all right, Chess?” Ralgath asked.

Chess nodded. “I’m fine.”

Fluffpaw continued to whine and scratch at the door. Presumably she’d woken up and found them gone. “Could you let her in?”

Chess went to the stairs.

Ralgath’s cape pooled around him as he crouched beside the Bluesman. “Poor choice, mortal,” he said. The shadows turned darker at the sound of his voice, and another spotlight went out altogether. “You have brought down the wrath of the Underworld upon—”

The smashing of glass interrupted him. Ralgath turned to see Fluffpaw bounding toward him, her tail wagging furiously. In her excitement she took the most direct route to reach Ralgath, shouldering aside the display cases so they toppled into one another with a shattering of glass.

The Bluesman let out an anguished cry. “No! My collection! Call her off!”

“This is only the beginning of your punishment,” Ralgath intoned, as though he had planned on Fluffpaw wrecking the place. She reached him with a final shower of glass and a big doggy grin on her face now that she was back with her people. “Chess, take the shoe. I don’t think we owe anything in return.”

“Agreed.” Chess picked up the muddy shoe, which had fallen to the floor. They glared at the Bluesman. “What are you going to do with him?”

There wasn’t much Ralgath could do. Certainly he wasn’t going to kill a disarmed, helpless mortal, even one who had threatened to murder him. “Nothing… yet,” he said with his most diabolical smile. The Bluesman whimpered in terror. “I think we’re done here.”

He waited for Chess to retreat and for Fluffpaw to prance after. Then he wrenched the pitchfork back out of the concrete. He banished it with a gesture and strode toward the stairs, cape flaring out behind him. When he reached the lowest step, he stopped and turned dramatically.

The Bluesman had sat up and was rubbing his neck.

Ralgath pointed a finger at him. “I’ll be seeing you again soon,” he said. “In Hell.”

The Bluesman’s eyes widened. “No. I promised Granny.”

Should he do a diabolical laugh, or would that be too over the top? Deciding against it, Ralgath followed Chess up the stairs and shut the door firmly behind him.

CHESS LED the way outside, the muddy high heel dangling from one finger by its strap. But when they were only halfway across the yard, they stopped and turned around so abruptly that Ralgath nearly walked into them.

“When he had that gun on you…,” Chess started. Then they stopped and simply looked at Ralgath, for once at a loss for words. Chess’s eyes were dark, their lips parted. The scent of their musk teased Ralgath’s senses, and he was suddenly very aware of how close they stood together.

“It was your quick thinking that saved the situation,” he said. “Well, and Fluffpaw wanting in.”

Chess gave a halfhearted laugh. “I shouldn’t have let it happen in the first place. I should’ve been more careful. Some monster slayer I am.”

Ralgath opened his mouth to object, but before he could, Chess leaned in and pressed their lips against his.

It was just as good as it had been that night three years before. Their warm mouth tasted of the overly sweet iced tea, and the heel of Zemael’s shoe dug into Ralgath’s back when Chess wrapped their arms around him. He hauled Chess closer, as though pressing hard enough would somehow make the layers of clothing between them evaporate.

Eventually the kiss ended, and Chess drew back just a little but didn’t let go. “Been wanting to do that since you showed up in the warehouse.”

“Same.” Ralgath leaned his forehead against Chess’s.

Ralgath wondered if he’d lost his mind. Chess had already cost him a job, not to mention the respect of other demons. He had a feeling if he let things go further, he’d end up with a broken heart on top of the rest.

But there was something about Chess that made him ache all the way down to his toes. His cock was part of that ache, of course, but his very skin seemed to crave Chess’s touch.

This was going to be a disaster. But it didn’t stop Ralgath from kissing them again.

VII.

A FEW hours later, Chess pulled into a motel parking lot. “You had a nap earlier,” they said as they shut off the engine, “but unless you know how to drive, we need to stop here for a few hours so I can get some sleep.”

“We don’t have motor vehicles in the Underworld.” Ralgath frowned and tried to recall the details of the contract. “But I thought you need less sleep than ordinary mortals?”

“Less is the key word there, sugar. I’d already been up for two days tracking the missing humans when you found me.” They smothered a yawn. “If I don’t get some shut-eye soon, I’m going to collapse.”

Ralgath bit back his impatience. They finally had the means to track Zemael and put an end to this… but if Chess needed sleep, there was nothing to be done about it.

Besides, it gave him the excuse to spend a few more hours in their company. In a private room. With a bed.

It was either a good idea or a terrible one. Probably both.

“I’ll get us checked in,” Chess said. “You try to keep Fluffpaw out of sight. They probably have a no-hellhounds policy.”

As Fluffpaw had fallen asleep in the back seat, that wasn’t much of a challenge.

Within a few minutes, Chess returned and pulled the car around to one of the more distant parking spots. They grabbed a duffel bag out of the back seat and unlocked the door numbered 13.

“I can’t believe there are still places that use actual keys,” they said with a shake of their head. “Anyway, here we are. Oh damn—I know I told the guy at the counter I wanted twin beds, not a single.”

Ralgath snorted as he stepped inside. “Why don’t I believe that?”

Chess shot Ralgath a grin that made something flutter in his stomach. “I can’t imagine. I’m just an innocent young enby, who would never, ever think to do such a thing.”

“Right.” Ralgath pulled them close for another kiss.

“Pizza first,” Chess said, pushing him gently back. They winked. “Got to keep up my strength. I’ll put in an order. Veggie okay?”

“Sounds good.” Ralgath inspected the room while Chess looked up a local delivery place. There wasn’t much to see—mustard-yellow carpet with suspicious stains, an ancient television, and a bathroom with a leaky faucet. The bed looked clean, though, at least until Fluffpaw climbed onto it, rolled around, and left behind a layer of hellhound fur.

Chess briefly departed and returned with a six-pack of beer just as the pizza arrived. The two of them sat on the bed while they ate, backs propped against the headboard and legs stretched out in front of them. Chess picked off their black olives and fed them to Fluffpaw.

“You’re giving her terrible manners,” Ralgath said. “I mean, she didn’t have any to begin with, yet you’re still somehow making them worse.”

“I’m just keeping the olives from going to waste,” Chess protested.

Ralgath shook his head.

Chess uncapped two beers and passed one to Ralgath. “Cheers.”

Companionable silence fell between them. Ralgath watched Chess, who was in turn focused on Fluffpaw. The hellhound’s massive head rested on their knee, her eyes closed in bliss as they scratched behind her ears.

Ralgath was the first to speak. “Can I ask you something?”

“Just did.” Chess shot him a grin. “What do you want to know?”

“Why did you sell your soul?”

Chess didn’t say anything for a long moment, and that silence was much less easy. Then they sighed and returned their gaze to Fluffpaw. “You asked me that once before. Three years ago.”

“And you gave me some line about wanting to make a difference—not that I don’t think that’s part of it, of course.” Ralgath paused and then shrugged. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. It’s none of my business. We’re actually discouraged from asking when we’re negotiating a contract—another thing I got wrong with you. It just… didn’t seem like you gave me the whole story. That’s all.”

“I did it because I didn’t want to disappoint my parents.” Chess glanced over at Ralgath with a rueful smile. “I’m guessing you weren’t expecting that answer, were you?”

“I… no.” Ralgath shook his head. “I assumed… I don’t know, that your family had been killed by vampires, or werewolves ate your childhood pet—something like that.”

“Nope. I had a happy, normal childhood. No tragedy.” Chess shifted their weight so their shoulder leaned against Ralgath’s. “But… my parents were both Chosen Ones.”

“Chosen by Celestial Affairs?” Ralgath exclaimed. “Both of them? That’s… wow. That’s rare.”

“They met when they ended up tracking the same rougarou down in Louisiana.” Chess examined the pale pink nail polish on one hand. The scuffle with the Bluesman had left the thumb chipped. “Of course, they assumed their offspring would be Chosen as well. My whole childhood, they prepared me for the day Celestial Affairs would send a messenger to tell me I was special.” Their smile was equal parts sad and frustrated. “It never happened.”

“You are special,” Ralgath said, angry on Chess’s behalf. “Celestial Affairs is staffed by a bunch of idiots. And I’m not just saying that out of professional rivalry.”

“Thanks, sweetie.” Chess pressed their shoulder more tightly into Ralgath’s. “As the years went by and nothing happened, my parents started looking more and more disappointed. As for me… I didn’t know what to do, to be honest. I spent my whole life told I was going to be a Chosen One like them. I didn’t prepare to be anything else, didn’t even consider what I might do if it never happened.”

“That’s not fair.” Ralgath took Chess’s hand in his own. “Your parents didn’t even give you the chance to figure out who you are for yourself.”

Chess shrugged and wrapped their fingers around Ralgath’s. “Did your parents have expectations of you?”

“Plenty.” Ralgath sighed. “I didn’t exactly live up to them.”

“Because of me.” Chess winced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I thought if the Heavens weren’t interested in me, maybe the Underworld would be. If I’d known what the consequences would be for you, I never would have done it.”

Strangely enough, Ralgath believed them. From what he’d seen of Chess, they weren’t just beautiful and clever, but kind as well. “Do your parents know?”

“No.” Chess shook their head. “They wouldn’t have taken it well. I figured I’d already condemned my immortal soul, so why not add lying to my list of sins? I told them I’d finally been Chosen, just like them.”

“They’ll find out when I release you from your contract,” Ralgath reminded Chess. “Unless you can find some reasonable explanation as to why you’re no longer a Chosen One.”

“Yeah. It’s not usually the sort of thing that comes with a retirement plan.” Chess swiveled around to face him. “I’ll worry about it when the time comes.” They reached one hand up and trailed it along Ralgath’s jaw. “Did I mention how cute your horns are?”

Ralgath’s heart beat faster. “You can touch them if you want.”

“Are they sensitive?”

“Not really. No more than a fingernail. I can feel you touch them, but that’s about it.”

“Aw,” Chess mock-pouted. “And here I thought I was about to discover a demonic erogenous zone.”

Ralgath stroked their cheek and ran a nail over their lips. “I have plenty of others.”

Chess licked the pad of Ralgath’s finger with a pink tongue. “Show them to me?”

“All of them,” Ralgath promised.

RALGATH WOKE up shortly after nightfall, with Chess sprawled beside him, their skin warm and supple against his own. The curtains over the motel room’s large front window blocked most of the light from the parking lot, but he could just make out the shape of the television against the far wall and Fluffpaw’s pointy ears and raised head.

Fluffpaw growled, and the rumble rattled the entire bed. Chess’s eyes flew open, but they didn’t say anything. Ralgath remained silent as well and listened intently for any sound.

The door flew open with a crash, the locks ripped free from the frame. Chess was on the far side of the bed from the door. They rolled off the mattress in a single smooth motion and dropped to the floor. Fluffpaw leaped to her feet, and the growl became a snarl. Ralgath sat up, and a silver knife thunked into the pillow where his head had lain only seconds before.

Ralgath snapped his fingers, and a flame appeared above his hand. Its weak light revealed their attacker’s face. He looked to be a mortal in his thirties, dressed in a black leather jacket and scuffed jeans. One hand was empty—probably the one that had held the knife—but in the other gleamed a sword.

Fluffpaw came off the bed with a snarl, but the man sprang away with superhuman speed.

A Chosen One? But no. Ralgath could smell no trace of Celestial lilies in the human’s scent. Rather, the man’s sweat reeked of rue and cloves.

An infernal Mark—like Chess’s.

The man sprang onto the bed, sword swinging so fast that it was nearly a blur. Only Ralgath’s demonic reflexes saved him. He fell flat on the bed, and the sword carved a chunk out of the headboard instead of Ralgath.

The knife protruded from the pillow by his head, and Ralgath jerked it free, only to have it kicked from his hand by his attacker’s heavy boot.

Then Chess caught the man in a flying tackle. They both crashed into the window and through it, dragging the curtains with them.

Ralgath had just enough presence of mind to shove his feet into his shoes to keep the glass from slicing them. Summoning his pitchfork, he ran outside to find Chess and the intruder dueling. Chess had a sword as well—no doubt that was what they dove off the bed for. Metal chimed off metal as they exchanged a swift flurry of blows.

Ralgath hesitated. He might be able to disarm the attacker with his pitchfork, but he was equally likely to stab Chess by accident.

Fluffpaw rushed past him, snarling and growling. She flung herself on the man, and her massive jaws closed around the arm holding the sword. Teeth sliced through leather like butter, and he screamed in pain.

“Good girl!” Ralgath shouted, hurrying after her. “Hold him there!”

The man punched Fluffpaw in the side of the head. She let go with a yelp, and he bolted.

But Chess blocked their attacker’s path, sword leveled at his heart. “Not so fast,” Chess said.

He stopped and held up his hands.

“Are you all right?” Ralgath asked, running to them. He wanted to sweep Chess into his arms but contented himself with running his gaze over their form. Which was easy to do, as they were still naked. So was Ralgath, except for his shoes.

“I’m fine,” Chess said as the sound of sirens started up in the distance. “Looks like the front desk has called the police on us, though. How fast can you put your clothes on?”

“What about him?” Ralgath asked, gesturing to their prisoner. “We need to find out who sent him and why.”

Chess grinned. “I guess we’ll just have to take him with us, then.”

VIII.

THE CONVERTIBLE bumped along yet another back road, though this one was at least paved—in theory, anyway. It consisted of equal part asphalt and holes, and if there had ever been lines painted on it, they were long gone.

They’d managed to get away from the motel just before the cops arrived. Ralgath wasn’t entirely sure how mortal police would react when confronted by a demon, and he was relieved he hadn’t had to find out. Ordinary bullets wouldn’t kill him, but they would hurt. Not to mention Gizrun wanted this kept quiet—a shoot-out with the police wouldn’t look good on Ralgath’s record.

“Do you know every back road in the south?” he asked Chess. Magnolia trees blotted out the moon, and a multitude of frogs peeped so loudly, he could hear them over the engine.

“All part of the job, sugar,” Chess said. They wore a pale blue camisole-style top and skinny jeans. Not having a change of clothing of his own, Ralgath had to content himself with the same suit he’d worn since leaving the Underworld. “Vamps and weres don’t stick to the interstates, so neither do I. Thank heavens for modern GPS. Can you imagine trying to do this job with nothing but an out-of-date paper map?” An overgrown road that might once have been a driveway cut a swath through the trees. Chess pulled onto it and shut off the car. “Have your pitchfork at the ready, just in case.”

Ralgath nodded. They climbed out of the car along with Fluffpaw and went around to the trunk. There hadn’t been much time to empty it out, so weapons and luggage were both strewn across the back seat.

“Stand guard,” Chess said.

Fluffpaw instantly wandered off after a firefly.

Chess unlocked the trunk and swung it open. Their attacker lay inside, still bound and gagged. He glared at them from beneath heavy brows as Chess hauled him out and dumped him on the road.

“Take his gag off,” Ralgath said. While Chess did so, Ralgath tried to make himself look as impressive as possible. Moonlight glanced through the trees and glinted off the tines of the pitchfork. A little bit of infernal power, and Ralgath’s eyes glowed like twin red fires.

“Mortal,” he said to their captive. “You have dared attack an emissary of the Underworld.”

The man snorted. “Cut the ominous bullshit, dude. It ain’t going to work. I’ve seen your junk.”

Damn it.

Chess yanked the man into a sitting position. “Don’t act so tough, big guy.”

“Fuck off,” he snapped. “If I talk, she’ll kill me. And I mean that literally.”

Ralgath pounced. “She?”

The man paled. “Umm.… I mean he. That’s what I said. He’ll kill me.”

“Not chosen for your brains, were you?” Chess asked wryly.

Ralgath stepped closer. “What’s your name, mortal?”

“I ain’t telling you nothing.”

It was getting tedious fast. Ralgath looked at Fluffpaw, hoping she might help them intimidate their prisoner, but she was busy rolling on her back, big paws waving in the air and tongue in the dirt.

Gods below, give him strength.

Chess sat back on their heels. “Look, I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I know how the ‘Chosen One’ thing works. So why are you after us? Yes, Ralgath’s a demon, but he’s not doing any harm. Trying to prevent it, in fact.”

“He isn’t a Chosen One,” Ralgath said. “I forgot, you wouldn’t be able to tell, but it’s obvious to any Otherworldly being.”

Chess frowned. “Then… are you saying he’s like me? He sold his soul to a demon?”

“Yes.” Something was very wrong. “I have an idea.” Ralgath moved closer to the mortal and loomed over him as best he could. Despite the man’s earlier defiance, a flicker of fear showed in his eyes. “I can’t force you to answer most questions, mortal. You have free will. But you signed a contract with one of my kind, which means I can make you tell me one piece of information.”

All the blood drained from the man’s pale skin. “Wh-what?”

Ralgath smiled, showing as many teeth as possible. “The name of the demon you sold your soul to.”

Real fear showed in his eyes. “No. Please. I’ll die if I betray her.”

“Tell me,” Ralgath commanded. “Who holds your contract, mortal?”

Cords stood out on his neck as he strove not to answer. But in the end, he had no choice. “Zemael!”

RALGATH GAPED. He couldn’t have heard correctly. “Z-Zemael?”

Chess looked up at him in confusion. “I thought you said you lost your job over my contract.”

“I did. And she would have lost hers if she did the same.” Ralgath swallowed. “This must have happened after she disappeared.”

The man slumped. “I’m dead,” he moaned. “Dead.”

Ralgath’s head reeled. If the mortal was afraid of Zemael, it implied she wasn’t being held captive somewhere, as Gizrun had assumed. And if she sent the man after Ralgath, she wanted to cover her tracks for as long as possible.

Had she taken Muzzaxin captive when he came to find her? Or worse?

“Then you’d better tell us everything you know,” Ralgath said. “Your only hope is if we stop her first.”

The man shook his head miserably. “No. I….” His eyes widened, and blood began to trickle from his nose. “Shit. Oh shit. It’s already started.”

Chess glanced worriedly at Ralgath, who was just as confused. “What’s started?”

“It was part of the contract. I betray her… I die.” The man coughed wetly. “Oh shit.”

This wasn’t part of the plan. Ralgath crouched beside him, feeling helpless. “I didn’t know.”

“There must be something we can do,” Chess said, “some way we can help in exchange for what you know?”

“The only way to stop it would be to amend the contract,” Ralgath said grimly.

“You’ve fucking killed me, demon,” the man said, and then another round of coughing wracked him and more blood came up.

Curse it. Ralgath bit his lip, thinking. “Listen. You’re bound for the Underworld. Help us now, and if we defeat Zemael, I’ll put in a good word for you. I hear they’re hiring in the Archives.”

“I ain’t going to the Underworld, demon.” He sniffled, and more blood spilled out of his nose. “Zemael is collecting souls along with men.”

It just kept getting worse. “Then I swear we’ll free you once we defeat her.” Ralgath gripped the man’s shoulder. “Just help us.”

“Fine.” The man bowed his head. “Not like I’ve got a choice. My name’s Keith.”

“Wait,” Chess interrupted. “Not Keith Bell? Crap, I knew you looked familiar.”

“You know this man?” Ralgath asked, confused.

“He’s one of the people whose disappearance I was looking into.” Chess turned to Keith. “A bunch of underground fighters, including you, dropped off the radar in short order. Was Zemael responsible?”

Keith nodded. “I didn’t even go to a crossroads. Zemael just showed up on my doorstep. Said she’d seen me in a fight and had an offer for me—superstrength, superspeed, superhealing. And that was just a signing bonus. The real offer was money, power—more than I could ever hope to make on the fighting circuit. I just had to do what she said and stay loyal, and all my wildest dreams would come true.”

Chess looked grim. “Why did she make such an offer? What is she doing?”

Keith shrugged. “Fuck if I know. She’s got some other people working for her too, probably the ones you were looking for. Maybe she shared her grand plan with them, but I’m just the new guy.”

Unease tugged at Ralgath’s spine. “How did she find out I’d been sent after her?”

“I don’t know that either, or how she tracked you.” Keith had another shuddering coughing fit. “Like I said, I’m the new guy. I was supposed to prove myself by killing you. And before you ask, I don’t know where she is. She came to me the first time, and afterward I’ve either met up at a bar with others who sold their soul to her, or got my orders over the phone. That’s all.”

Chess rose to their feet and gestured for Ralgath to follow them. They moved a short distance away, though Ralgath noted Chess kept a careful eye on Keith.

“This is bad,” Ralgath said before Chess had a chance to speak. “Whatever Zemael is up to, it definitely isn’t approved by upper management.”

“Did you know her?”

Ralgath shook his head. “No. I wasn’t in IA long enough to meet anyone but the trainers.”

“So no ideas as to what she might be up to?”

“Collecting souls? Surrounding herself by superstrong, superfast mortals? She could be starting her own book club, but I rather doubt it.”

Chess snorted. “Yeah, our new pal Keith doesn’t seem like much of a reader. Speaking of which, is there anything we can do to help him? I mean, he tried to kill us, but….”

Ralgath watched Fluffpaw dig a hole in the pavement. “The only way to stop it is for an official representative of the Underworld to amend his contract. Zemael has the contract, which means it’s out of my reach.”

“And as quickly as he’s going downhill, he probably isn’t going to live long enough for us to get to it.”

Ralgath cocked his head to one side. “This is bothering you, isn’t it?”

“I guess.” Chess shrugged. “If I’d killed him in the fight, it would have been one thing. But this is slow and painful.”

“Yeah.” Ralgath squeezed Chess’s hand. “I have one more favor to ask him while he’s still able to speak coherently.” They returned to Keith. “Is Zemael expecting you to report in?” Ralgath asked.

Keith watched them warily. He looked worse by the minute, the whites of his eyes slowly reddening, his skin taking on an unhealthy pallor. “Yes.”

“Contact her and tell her the job is done. We’ll untie you and take you to a hospital.” It probably wouldn’t help, but maybe it would prolong Keith’s life long enough for them to defeat Zemael.

“What have I got to lose?” Keith asked bitterly. “I have a number to call. My phone’s in my front pocket, right side.”

Ralgath stood guard with his pitchfork, just in case Keith tried something, while Chess fished the phone out. But the mortal seemed in no shape to do anything. Chess found the contact on the phone and put it on speaker.

It rang only once before a woman’s voice snapped, “Report.”

“It’s, uh… it’s done.” Keith cleared his throat. “The demon’s ash.”

“And the hellhound?”

“Uh, yeah. It bit me, but I got it too.”

“Good work. Payment will be in your account in two days.” She paused. “I’ll be in touch soon. Be ready.”

“Yeah, I—” he started, but she’d already hung up.

Chess’s eyes widened. “She ordered you to kill Fluffpaw? That precious baby?”

Keith blinked in Fluffpaw’s direction. The hellhound was busy chewing through a chunk of asphalt. “Er….”

“Let’s go,” Ralgath said. He touched Chess’s arm. “We have to hold up our end of the bargain.”

“Fine,” Chess muttered. “But Zemael is officially on my shit list.”

IX.

THEY DROPPED Keith off at the nearest emergency room and drove throughout the rest of the night. Every so often Chess would pull over and cradle Zemael’s discarded shoe. As they bent over it, their eyes shut tight in concentration, Ralgath took the opportunity to observe them—their long, strong fingers, the thick hair tied back in a braid, the pointy shape of their chin. A knot formed in Ralgath’s throat and tightened every time he thought about what might come next.

Even if they succeeded—when they succeeded, he told himself—they’d part ways. Ralgath would get back his old job as a crossroads demon, and Chess would do whatever it was they wanted to do once they were free from their contract.

Somehow the idea of returning to the crossroads didn’t seem nearly as appealing as it had before. Not to imply Ralgath wanted to go back to his job in Intake either. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, exactly—except for this not to end.

A part of him longed to tell Chess that he’d miss them. He’d think about them even more after their second parting, hard as that was to believe. But the words stuck in his throat. It wouldn’t be fair to Chess to say anything aloud when there was nothing to be done about it. They were from different worlds, and they had no choice but to go their separate ways.

Shortly before sunset they drove slowly past an abandoned textile mill. Kudzu crawled over the brick walls and drowned half the structure in green. The grape soda scent of its flowers filled the evening air. On the other side of the old mill ran a small river, which had no doubt once helped to power the machines within. There might have been other buildings near the mill—worker housing, if nothing else—but they’d long ago been razed, leaving behind only a wasteland of vines and the occasional scrubby tree.

“She’s in there,” Chess said with a nod at the mill.

“Right.” Ralgath peered at the building but saw no movement. “Any ideas as to how to proceed?”

“A few. She’ll have stationed guards. The windows looked bricked up, but I doubt she’s just sitting there blind. The easiest way might be to come in from the river.”

“Right.” Ralgath squinted in thought. “I have a plan. But we’ll need to go back to the canoe rental place we passed a few miles back.”

AN HOUR later they paddled off the river and into the tailrace leading to the mill. Fluffpaw sat in the prow, entranced by the ripples. Ralgath was in the middle and Chess in the stern.

“Where are we going?” Chess asked, confused.

“These old mills had exterior rooms for generating hydropower, situated off a reservoir diverted from the river. We’re coming in through the tailrace to the generation room. That will let us into the mill itself.”

“I like it,” Chess said. “But how do you know so much about mill construction?”

“You’ll see.” For a long moment, there was nothing but the splash of their paddles in the water. “Chess? After this is over and I destroy your contract, do me a favor.”

Chess’s silence had a wary quality. “What?”

“Don’t waste any more time trying to make your parents happy. Find out what makes you happy instead.”

When Chess didn’t answer, Ralgath looked back over his shoulder. They stared at him with a soft expression, lips parted slightly.

“What makes me happy,” Chess said, then swallowed. “Yeah.”

The upper reservoir must have been closed off, because the tailrace was largely brackish, nothing but a side channel off the river now. Duckweed clung to the sides of the canal, and hydrilla brushed against the bottom of the canoe. The tailrace flowed beneath what had once been the room for generating power. Several turbines were in place, slowly rusting away, but one of the bays looked to have never had a turbine in it to start with, leaving a clear hole up into the generation room.

Ralgath pointed at the hole. “By not putting in the final turbine, the plant could claim it was still under construction and get a large tax break.” He shot Chess a grin. “Sin of greed, you see. Amazing the sorts of things you pick up while working the Intake desk in the Underworld.”

Chess laughed softly. “I’m impressed. Can you see in the dark?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Then let’s head inside.”

They climbed carefully up through the empty bay. Chess motioned Ralgath to wait and then pulled themself up the last distance and scouted ahead.

Then they were gone, so quickly and quietly that Ralgath didn’t have time to react. There came a muffled grunt from somewhere inside the building, followed by a thud.

“Chess?” Ralgath whispered. When no reply came, he scrambled the rest of the way up, followed by Fluffpaw.

Chess crouched over the prone body of a woman just a few feet away. When they saw Ralgath and Fluffpaw, they grinned. “Human sentry,” they whispered. “I managed to get the drop on her.”

“One of Zemael’s contracted humans,” Ralgath murmured back. “I can smell it on her.”

“If we encounter any more, leave them to me.” Chess stood. “Let’s keep moving. Zemael has to be here somewhere.”

They let themselves through the door the sentry had been guarding, between the generation house and the main part of the mill. Here and there some of the heavy machinery had fallen through from above as rotting floors failed to support the tons of abandoned equipment. Ralgath nervously hoped what remained would hold up, at least until after they left.

Another sentry stood at the bottom of a flight of stairs. This time they weren’t so lucky. The man was staring right at them when they rounded a corner.

As before, Chess didn’t hesitate. They rushed the man before he could draw his weapon, and they exchanged a flurry of unarmed blows. Ralgath ran to help, but by the time he arrived, Chess already had the man in a chokehold. When he lost consciousness, Chess eased him to the floor.

“You’re good,” Ralgath said admiringly.

“You told me that already, back at the motel,” Chess said with a wink. “Seriously, though, if Keith hadn’t surprised us while we were sleeping, the fight wouldn’t have been as close.”

It didn’t sound like bravado—more a statement of fact. “Why not?” Ralgath asked as he followed them up the stairs.

Chess glanced down at him. “Because they’re new to this. Even if they were the sort to get in a lot of fights before, they still aren’t used to being this strong or this fast. I’ve had three years of practice against things that wanted me dead—things just as fast and strong as me.”

“Oh.” It made a certain amount of sense, Ralgath supposed.

The stairs let out on the second floor. At first glance the place was empty, just shadows and dust, interrupted by enormous iron beams holding up the ceiling.

The scent of rue and cloves penetrated the dust and mold that coated Ralgath’s sinuses. An infernal Mark—and not Chess’s.

“We aren’t alone,” he hissed.

“No,” said a woman’s voice. “You aren’t.”

THERE CAME a metallic clang, and light, blinding after the darkness, suddenly burst from fixtures high overhead. Ralgath flung up one hand, summoned his pitchfork, and blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted. Chess muttered a curse, and Fluffpaw growled.

They were surrounded. Four men and women seemed to have materialized out of thin air around them, all holding unsheathed swords and knives.

“Drop your weapons,” said a voice filled with demonic power, “or my followers will cut you down where you stand.”

Unlike the rest of the mill, someone had gone to the trouble of restoring this room—repairing the floor, painting the walls, and even adding clusters of furniture, as though it were an artistic loft space. Catwalks hung high above. Whatever their original purpose, they now gave a perch to another man with a crossbow. At one end a dais had been built up, complete with an ornate throne-like chair.

And on the throne sat the demon.

Zemael.

Ralgath’s heart pounded, and he glanced wildly from Chess to Fluffpaw. He didn’t know how Zemael had concealed her followers from them. He should have been able to see through normal demonic glamour.

“Drop them,” Zemael repeated.

Chess drew out their sword and tossed it on the floor, followed by two knives, a gun, and a garrote of silver wire. Fluffpaw whined and lay down, head on her paws. Ralgath swore and dropped his pitchfork.

As soon as it hit the ground, they were swarmed. Ralgath forced himself not to fight back as hands searched him for hidden weapons. One of the men drew out Chess’s contract from his pocket. “You might want to look at this, Zemael,” he said.

“Bring it here.”

Zemael was beautiful, if one liked the sort. Her skin was inhumanly pale, more like a sheet of paper than a normal complexion, and it gave her a deathly cast. Hair the color of flame stood out from her sharp features in a feral shock. Her bloodred lips matched her eyes, and ivory claws tipped each hand. She took the contract, studied it briefly, and arched one brow. Then she rose to her feet.

“Ralgath,” she said as she slowly descended toward them. “Imagine my surprise when the kennel master told me you were the one they were sending after me.”

Ralgath’s heart sank. “The kennel master?”

“Fluffpaw, no!” Chess exclaimed. “You betrayed us?”

Fluffpaw lolled out her tongue and cocked her head in confusion.

“Of course not,” Zemael said. “That mongrel doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together. Utterly useless, but she comes from a good line, so the kennel master can’t get permission to simply put her down. I offered to solve his problem if he would solve mine.”

Ralgath gasped and instinctively put himself between Zemael and Fluffpaw. “That was how Keith tracked us to the motel. The kennel master gave you some of Fluffpaw’s fur.”

“You’re not as stupid as I thought.” Zemael folded her arms over her breasts. “Not intelligent enough to avoid my trap, but not a complete idiot either.”

Ralgath felt heat collect in his cheeks. “I’m not the one who tried to wear high heels to a muddy crossroads, now am I?”

“What do you want?” Chess asked before Zemael could retort. They gestured to the ring of mortal men and woman who watched in silence. “You’re building an army… but why?”

She regarded them for a long moment. “I’ll answer your question, mortal.”

“The name’s Chess.”

“Chess,” she repeated. A warmth that Ralgath instantly distrusted entered her demeanor. “I’ll answer your question and then ask one of my own. Deal?”

The hair on the back of Ralgath’s neck stood up. That wasn’t a word crossroads demons threw around lightly.

But Chess merely shrugged. “Deal.”

“I got the idea from Ralgath, actually.” Zemael’s red eyes seemed to shimmer. “When news of his humiliation spread, most of my colleagues only laughed. Gizrun had to bend over backward to placate Celestial Affairs, who saw it as a mockery of their Chosen One program.”

Ralgath struggled to keep his expression neutral, but her words stung like acid in his veins.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Chess said. “What idea?”

“Of creating my own Chosen Ones. But I took it a step further and made certain they were loyal only to me.” Zemael was being far too friendly toward Chess. She was certainly up to something. “I’ve been a crossroads demon for almost a hundred years—decade after decade of meeting mortals, listening to their petty wants, and negotiating for their pathetic souls. And what did I have to show for it? Nothing. Gizrun could have at least offered me an office overlooking the Lake of Fire, but no. That suck-up Janelle got it instead. She’s not even a natural-born demon, just some human who sold her soul and then lucked out at job-placement time.”

“Janelle?” Ralgath exclaimed. “She brings in twice the souls anyone else does. And the marks she gets for customer service are second to none.”

Zemael flung out a hand, and a wave of infernal power crashed into him and sent him to the ground. “I wasn’t finished talking.”

A bit to Ralgath’s surprise, Chess didn’t attempt to help him up. He climbed to his feet and leaned heavily on Fluffpaw as he did.

“Now, where was I? Oh yes. My choice was to spend the next few centuries living in a one-room apartment, dating succubi, and eating noodles. Or I could abandon my post, remain in the mortal world, and live like a goddess.”

“I’m fairly certain there were actually more options than that,” Ralgath said. “Did you think about transferring to another department?”

Her lip curled. “They said they had an opening… in Intake.”

“Oh.” He nodded. “Never mind. I completely understand.”

“I thought you might.”

Chess scuffed their boot against the floor. “Won’t the Underworld just keep sending demons after you, though? They aren’t going to just sit back and let you get away with doing whatever you want.”

Zemael stepped closer to Chess. “It will take those idiots a while to figure out I’m the one behind this. And by the time they do… well, even I was shocked by how many mortals are eager to trade their souls in exchange for physical prowess and the promise of power—souls I will keep.” She glanced briefly at Ralgath. “I was discontented with my lot in the Underworld, yes. But then I learned something, a secret not even dear Gizrun knew”—her eyes flashed—“about the true power of souls.”

That didn’t sound good. “What do you mean?”

She snorted. “Why would I tell you? I’m signing contracts left and right. By the time the Underworld sends anyone truly dangerous after me, I’ll have the power to hold them off. The only ones who might hope to stop us are Chosen Ones, and we all know how stingy Celestial Affairs is when it comes to handing out its gifts.”

Chess smiled wistfully. “That we do.”

“I thought so.” Zemael’s gaze raked Chess’s form. “You’ve proven you can fight better than several of my men.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I know who you are, Chesapeake Richards. I was curious about the mortal who had so inspired me, and I looked into your family legacy. Celestial Affairs didn’t want you. Infernal Affairs didn’t want you. But I do.”

Chess stood very still, lips pressed together, not answering.

“Chess, no,” Ralgath exclaimed. “You can’t seriously be considering this.”

“Can’t I?” Chess tossed their head back and flipped their braid from their shoulder to swing free. “I’ve spent three years fighting vamps and weres and everything else. And do you think my parents had a good word for me? No, because I was expected to do it. All they did was criticize. I could have found that vamp nest faster or taken down that moth man easier. I spent my whole damn life trying to live up to what they wanted. I sold my fucking soul to make them happy. And it wasn’t enough.”

“Chess,” Ralgath whispered.

They shook their head. “Sorry, sugar. It’s been fun, but I told you up front I didn’t want any take-backsies. Your offer was crap. Hers isn’t.” They shrugged. “Nothing personal.”

Zemael grinned and revealed rows of sharp teeth. “Excellent.” She snapped her fingers. “Put Ralgath and the mutt in the holding cells. I’ll decide the most entertaining way to dispose of them later.”

“No,” Ralgath said. “No! Chess!”

But Chess had already turned their back.

Ralgath struggled against the hands that pinned him. He refused to look away until he was dragged from the room and the door slammed between them.

X.

RALGATH SAT on the bottom of his cage, face buried in his hands.

The cage was just large enough for him to sit and far too short for him to stand. It hung suspended several feet above the floor, and every time he moved, it swung nauseatingly.

Not that he felt like moving, or doing anything else, except maybe banging his head into the iron bars repeatedly.

Chess had done it to him again—manipulated him, tricked him, and then abandoned him the second it was convenient.

Gods below, he was an idiot. He knew better than to get involved. But Chess flashed him that smile and batted those long eyelashes, and Ralgath had let himself be led around by his cock all over again.

Except, somehow, this time was worse.

He’d believed Chess when they said they’d never set out to trick him the first time, believed the first seduction had been spur-of-the-moment and that they genuinely felt bad Ralgath lost his job over it. The connection between them had seemed so real.

So he’d let his guard down, done what he swore he wouldn’t do again, and then been surprised when Chess stabbed him in the back.

“I’m an idiot,” Ralgath groaned.

Fluffpaw let out a despondent bark from where she hung in a cage to his left. To his right was a third cage that contained only empty clothes and a dusting of ash. R.I.P. Muzzaxin.

“Gizrun sent me because I was expendable.” Ralgath raised his head, careful not to rock the cage too much, and looked at Fluffpaw. The hellhound lay with her head on her paws, her ears drooping and her tail tucked between her legs. “And the kennel master sent you for the same reason.”

Fluffpaw cocked her sad gaze in his direction.

“He was wrong about you, though.” Ralgath dashed the back of his hand across his eyes. “You’re not useless. You’re a good dog.”

“The best dog,” Chess agreed.

Fluffpaw leaped to her feet and wagged her tail so hard, her cage began to slowly spin in a circle. Ralgath kept his gaze fixed on her. Poor dog, too stupid to understand she’d been betrayed.

“Have you come to gloat?”

“Is that what you want?” Chess asked softly.

“Since when do you care what I want?” Ralgath wished he could stand and glare down at Chess, that he could be the angry, defiant demon, unbroken by a second betrayal. “Go back to Zemael and lick her boots and leave me alone.”

“Mmm, no.” Chess’s step sounded on the barren floor of the little room. “Don’t get me wrong, those are some darling boots. I wish I’d thought to ask her where she got them. But I suppose it’s too late for that.”

“I’m sure you’ll have many happy years together. She’ll probably buy you a pair just like them. You can be twins.” Then Ralgath’s brain caught up with his mouth. “Wait—what do you mean?”

Chess cleared their throat loudly, and Ralgath finally looked in their direction. They stood just inside the doorway, hip cocked. In one hand they dangled what was unmistakably the key to the cages.

Ralgath lunged forward and grabbed the bars. The movement caused the cage to spin on its chain. “Where did you get that?” he asked the wall.

Chess laughed. “Where do you think? Off of Zemael.”

Ralgath widened his eyes. “You had sex with her, didn’t you?”

“What the—why would you think that?” The cage swung far enough around for Ralgath to see Chess’s shocked look. “I’m a one-demon sort of human, you know.”

Ralgath bit his lip. “I… wasn’t sure….”

Chess sighed and rolled their eyes. “Honestly. You really don’t think very highly of me at all, do you?” They marched over to Fluffpaw’s cage and unlocked it. Fluffpaw leaped out and ran joyful circles around Chess. “I can’t believe you thought I was serious.”

Hope sank painful roots into Ralgath’s heart. “You didn’t let her amend your contract?”

Chess steadied Ralgath’s cage and reached for the lock. “Well, I couldn’t get around that,” they admitted. “But it was the only way I could think of to keep us alive, and at least one of us free.”

Oh no. Ralgath’s heart began to race. “You didn’t agree to the same terms Keith did, right?”

The lock clicked. Chess swung open the door, and Ralgath dropped to the floor. “Let’s not worry about that now,” Chess said. They started to turn and wiped surreptitiously at their nose as they did so.

Their hand came away smeared bright red with blood.

Fear spiked Ralgath’s veins. “Chess?”

“I’ll be all right,” Chess said without meeting his gaze. “Let’s just concentrate on getting out of here so you can go back to the Underworld and warn them Zemael’s recruiting mortals and collecting her own batch of souls. You need to be at a crossroads to travel, right?”

Ralgath grabbed their shoulder, spun them, and swept them into his arms for a searing kiss. Chess sagged against him and gripped his lapels with superhuman strength.

“I’m not leaving,” Ralgath said when they broke apart. “I’m not going to let you die for betraying Zemael.”

Chess swallowed heavily. “There’s nothing you can do about it now. She has my contract.”

Ralgath’s heart plummeted. It was all his fault. He was the one who agreed to do Gizrun’s bidding, who dragged Chess into this mess. “If we defeat her now, while she can still be stopped, I can force her to amend it again or even do it myself, if I can get the contract back in my hands.”

Chess shook their head. “I can’t let you take the risk.”

Fluffpaw let out a concerned whine and bumped her nose against Chess’s leg.

“Not your choice.” Ralgath cupped Chess’s jaw in his hand. “I’m not going to let you die, and I’m certainly not going to let her have your soul. This is one deal you aren’t going to negotiate your way out of, so just accept my help.”

A reluctant smile touched Chess’s lips. “I have a hard time saying no to you, sugar. All right.”

Fluffpaw barked happily.

Ralgath brushed another kiss over Chess’s mouth and then reluctantly let go. “Right, then. We need a plan.”

RALGATH CROUCHED on one of the high catwalks overlooking Zemael’s throne room, his cloak pulled tight around him to blend with the shadows. Chess had silently killed the catwalk guard and then bent over double, barely able to suppress a coughing fit. When they took their hand from their mouth, it was scarlet with blood.

Ralgath tried to turn his thoughts from Chess’s predicament. Their contract lay rolled on a table near Zemael’s hand, along with Ralgath’s quill and pitchfork. The remaining four guards stood at attention around the confines of the room.

What had Zemael meant, that there was some secret concerning souls? What did she intend to do with the ones she took?

She was able to cast a glamour that had fooled even his eyes—a small magic, but more than she should have been capable of. Had the power somehow come from the souls she owned—perhaps even Keith’s? Or was he jumping to conclusions and there was some more reasonable explanation?

Below on her throne, Zemael smothered a yawn. “I’m bored. Help me think of the most creative way to kill the prisoner.”

“Pull off his horns,” one of the guards suggested.

Ralgath frowned and reflexively rubbed at one horn.

“Did he have a tail?” another asked. “I can’t remember. If he did, you could make it into a whip or something.”

A door opened, and Chess strolled in, accompanied by Fluffpaw.

Zemael instantly straightened. “What is that useless mutt doing out of its cage?”

The attention of the guards focused on Fluffpaw. Holding his breath, Ralgath began to crawl as quietly as possible across the catwalk. He made for a spot directly behind Zemael and near the table with his pitchfork.

“Fluffpaw?” Chess asked, as though there might be some other hellhound in the room. “I let her out because she’s a good girl.” They scratched her behind the ears and then beckoned to one of the other guards. “See? Come over and give her a pet.”

The guard grinned and stretched out his hand. “Aw, you’re right, she’s—argh!”

Fluffpaw snapped her enormous jaws. The guard jerked back and revealed only a bleeding stump. Before any of the others could react, Chess pivoted on one foot and kicked a second guard in the stomach.

Ralgath didn’t waste any time. He dropped from the catwalk and landed with a thump by the table. Zemael spun toward the sound, even as he snatched up his pitchfork.

“Give up, Zemael,” he said, “and maybe you’ll get off lightly. Fancy scrubbing toilets in Hell for the rest of eternity?”

She shot out her hand, and a pitchfork of her own materialized in her grasp. “I don’t know how you convinced the mortal to betray me, but their life is forfeit—as is their soul.”

Ralgath didn’t dare look away. Sounds of fighting came from the other side of the room, but they mingled with a deep, hacking cough. He had to hope Fluffpaw could protect Chess for a few more minutes.

“Amend their contract, or I’ll kill you and amend it myself,” Ralgath said as he stabbed his pitchfork in her direction.

She pirouetted out of the way. Fire appeared on the tines of her pitchfork, and a smirk touched her red lips. “Well, well, well. I thought you’d let the mortal make a laughingstock of you because you were incompetent. But no. You did it because you’re in love with them.”

Ralgath lunged at her. She caught the tines of his pitchfork on her own, and they struggled and pushed against each other. He dug his shoes into the concrete, and the floor buckled as she shoved him back toward the wall. He drew on all his infernal power and channeled it through his pitchfork, which began to glow with leashed energy. Zemael’s eyes widened just as he released its force in a gout of demonic fire.

She flew back and crashed into the table, scattering contract and quill. Ralgath leaped after her—but a hand closed on his cape and yanked him to the ground. His pitchfork fell from his grasp.

One of the human guards loomed over him. Claw marks slashed across his face, and his shirt was torn open to reveal a vicious-looking bite wound. But already the injuries were healing, thanks to the powers Zemael had granted him.

Where was Chess? Fluffpaw? Had the guard simply gotten past them? He could still hear the sound of fighting but didn’t dare look away as the grinning mortal stared down at him. He groped wildly with his free hand, desperate to find the dropped pitchfork.

“I ain’t never killed a demon before,” the man said as he lifted his knife.

Ralgath closed his fingers on the pitchfork, just as the knife came down. He flung his arm up, and the knife clattered off the haft. Ralgath rolled to his feet and drew on all his demonic power. His cloak billowed around him, and his eyes glowed as he thundered, “And you won’t now.”

The man gaped and then turned to run. Ralgath hurled his pitchfork with all his might. The tines buried themselves deep into the man’s back, and he collapsed to the floor.

Ralgath turned back to the room and searched for Fluffpaw and Chess. Fluffpaw faced off against the lone remaining guard, her fur on end and shining with green fire. But Chess was slumped against one of the columns, barely on their feet. Even as Ralgath watched, they coughed up a great gout of blood.

They were dying.

The contract. He had to find the contract.

He spun toward the shattered table—and Zemael punched him in the chest.

Ralgath flew through the air and smashed into one of the columns. The steel bent beneath the impact, and he fell, dazed, to the ground.

Zemael marched toward him, a figure of fire and fury. She drew her lips back to expose sharp teeth, and her red eyes burned like twin flames. A scalding wind ruffled her hair, and the tines of her pitchfork went white-hot.

“You haven’t won anything today,” she snarled, and sparks flew from her lips like spittle. “This is merely a setback for me. Tomorrow I’ll have a whole new batch of mortals, eager to sell their souls for a little power. Your lover’s soul will be my plaything, and as for you… you won’t exist at all.”

So saying, she raised up her pitchfork and brought it down at his chest.

RALGATH SHUT his eyes and flinched back at the last moment. He felt a gust of heat, smelled scorching flesh, and heard a cry of agony.

Startled, he opened his eyes. Chess stood between him and Zemael, and the tines of her pitchfork had skewered them through the shoulder. That wound didn’t bleed. It had been cauterized by the intense heat.

But it didn’t need to. Blood covered their mouth and bubbled out their nose, thanks to the curse levied by the contract. They lurched back, off the tines, and Ralgath caught them in his arms before they could hit the ground.

The faintest grin curved Chess’s lips. “I said I’d make it up to you, didn’t I?”

“Chess,” Ralgath whispered. “Please….”

Chess shook their head. “I’m sorry about before. I l-love you.”

Their body went limp. Ralgath lowered them to the floor and frantically searched for a pulse. “Chess? Chess!”

The grief in Ralgath’s chest was like a collapsing star. Its gravity sucked in everything around it. Fluffpaw threw back her head and howled mournfully.

“Pathetic,” Zemael said. “All of you. I’m ashamed for the Underworld that they sent you.” She hefted her pitchfork. “But now you no longer have the worthless mortal to protect you. I see now why Celestial Affairs didn’t waste time on them.”

The icy black ball that had been Ralgath’s heart began to reignite, and he rose slowly to his feet. He lifted his gaze from Chess’s slack face to Zemael’s mocking eyes. “Chess isn’t worthless.” He stepped over Chess’s prone form and held out his hand. His pitchfork blinked from the dead guard and into his grasp. “They did more in three years than most of us have done in our entire lives.” Fire burst into being and raced along the tines of the pitchfork. “And I’m going to make you pay for hurting them.”

Zemael’s eyes widened in shock, and she took a step away from him. Then she licked her lips. “You can try.”

Ralgath swung at her. Their weapons clashed with a hellish ringing of iron off iron. Sparks flew into the air, and Ralgath drove her back, step by step. Her lips went tight against her teeth, and she snarled in fury and desperation.

“Surrender,” he shouted.

She shook her head. “No. No! I won’t bow my neck to the likes of you.”

With a burst of strength, she flung him aside, and his shoulder struck one of the steel columns. Shrieking in triumph, she hurled herself at him, pitchfork poised to skewer.

Instead he dropped bonelessly to the floor, and the pitchfork buried itself deep in the column. Zemael tugged at it frantically, but it refused to pull free.

Ralgath surged up, leading the way with his own pitchfork.

For a moment Zemael only swayed on her feet and looked surprised. Then all the color leached from her face and hair. In seconds she was nothing more than a gray statue of ash.

Fluffpaw trotted up and sniffed at her. The ash crumbled to the floor, along with her now-empty clothes, and the hellhound sneezed and puffed Zemael’s remains into a cloud.

Ralgath’s pitchfork fell from his hand, and he ran to the shattered table and flung aside bits of wood. The contract—he had to find the contract and the quill.

There—the quill shone softly with a reddish light. He picked it up, but it was useless without the contract. Fluffpaw began to dig through the wreckage beside him, and she let out an excited bark when a corner of parchment came into view.

“Good girl.” He snatched it up and ran back to where Chess lay.

Chess didn’t move when Ralgath knelt beside them. Were they even breathing?

“Chess?” Ralgath whispered as he brushed their hair back. Gods below, they were pale. “Hold on, love. Hold on.”

He unrolled the contract. A quick slash of the quill struck out Zemael’s addendum. Ralgath overwrote her signature and restored his own.

“By the powers invested in me by the Underworld,” he intoned, “Chesapeake Richards, your contract is restored to its original terms.”

He set aside the contract and looked hopefully at Chess—who didn’t move.

“Come on, Chess,” he said. “We did it. Wake up.”

Nothing.

Because, of course, the damage Zemael had done hadn’t simply reversed. Why had he imagined it would? Restoring the contract wouldn’t turn back time.

Fluffpaw whined and lay down beside Chess, head on her paws.

Ralgath bent his head, and tremors began to run throughout his body. If only he’d been faster or smarter—whatever it took to stop Zemael before the damage was too great.

Tears threatened, and he blinked rapidly. “It’s not fair.” He took Chess’s near hand between both of his and held it to his lips. “Not fair. It’s not supposed to end this way.” He swallowed thickly. “I never had the chance to hold up my end of the bargain. I never got to… got to tell you I love you.”

The movement was almost imperceptible, but Chess tightened their fingers on his.

Ralgath opened his eyes with a gasp.

Chess moved their head slightly and licked their dry lips. “Don’t count me out so fast, sugar,” they rasped.

Fluffpaw leaped up with a happy bark and started to lick Chess’s face, but Ralgath pushed her off. “Get back, you lump,” he said, but he was laughing with relief. “Give them some space.”

He slipped an arm around Chess’s shoulders and helped them sit up. Chess leaned against him, and Ralgath gratefully took their weight. They were still pale, but they were warm and alive. Healing, thanks to the contract.

“How are you feeling?” Ralgath asked.

“Like I just got my ass kicked by a demonic curse,” Chess said. “Funny how that is.”

“Yeah.” Ralgath buried his face in Chess’s hair. “You scared me.”

“I scared me too.” Chess snuggled in closer. “I’m just going to rest here a bit, all right?”

“Sure, love.” Ralgath kissed them softly. “Take as long as you want.”

XI.

TWO DAYS later Ralgath and Chess perched on the trunk of their car at a crossroads. Fluffpaw snored loudly in the back of the convertible, and frogs trilled from the scrubby forest around them. Fireflies danced in the syrupy-warm air. Fortunately Ralgath was immune to the humid heat, and the light sheen of sweat on Chess’s skin made them look even more delectable.

Ralgath didn’t want to leave Chess to recover alone, so he’d gone to a crossroads and contacted another demon to take his full report to Gizrun. To his surprise, Gizrun sent word he wanted to meet in person on the mortal plane.

“So,” Chess said as they swung their legs idly.

“So,” Ralgath replied.

Chess leaned back. “I guess you’ll be going back to the Underworld.”

Ralgath didn’t want to think about it. Even though Chess had spent most of the last two days taking it easy, they’d been some of the best Ralgath could remember in a long time. There’d been a spark between them from the first moment they met, but with the time and space to get to know each other a bit better, the spark had strengthened into something more.

Ralgath took Chess’s hand in his. “I don’t have a choice,” he said, not trying to disguise his unhappiness. “I’m a demon. They don’t let us wander around on our own, you know.”

“Right.” Chess sighed. “I know. I just… I want you to stay.”

“If only I could.” Ralgath let go of their hand and reached into his coat pocket. “Before I forget, here’s your contract. You upheld your half of the bargain. Time for me to uphold mine.”

“No.” Chess pushed the parchment away.

Ralgath frowned. “No? But why not? The Underworld will own your soul. When you die….”

“Maybe I’ll see you again.”

Ralgath’s throat ached. “Chess….”

“But this isn’t about you,” Chess went on. They stared down at their boots, as though absorbed in the sight of their low heels and bedazzled leather. “I’ve been doing good in this world. Sure, it hurt that Celestial Affairs didn’t want me. But the thing is… you made me realize I don’t need them. I’m not doing this to prove myself to my parents or to you or to anyone else. I’m doing it because I choose to.”

Pride swelled in Ralgath’s chest and constricted his breath. “I love you,” he said, and he kissed Chess desperately.

Gizrun cleared his throat. “Oh, don’t let me interrupt.”

Ralgath jumped. “Mr. Gizrun!” He hopped off the trunk and gestured to Chess. “This is Chesapeake Richards.”

Chess’s mouth fell open at the sight of Gizrun. Actual crossroads demons tended to look more or less human, as they were the public face of the Underworld. Gizrun, being in management, was probably like nothing Chess had ever seen.

“I figured that much out myself.” Gizrun snorted with a blast of steam. “Try to keep it in your pants for a half hour, Ralgath.”

Ralgath’s face heated. “Umm, yes. Sorry.”

Gizrun fixed half his yellow eyes on Ralgath and the other half on Chess. “You did good work, Ralgath, better than I expected.”

“I imagine so, since you expected to never hear from me again,” Ralgath said dryly.

A purple flush spread over Gizrun’s scaly cheeks. “I was pulling for you the whole time, kid. Hoped you’d turn out to have some of your mother in you. Lots of upper management demons speaking your name right now.”

“So I’m getting my old job back?” Ralgath asked hopefully.

“Well.” Gizrun scratched at the back of his neck. “Lots of people speaking your name, like I said. But this whole incident was pretty embarrassing for IA. Rogue crossroads demon. Rogue kennel master. It looks bad.”

Chess’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding me? You want to screw over Ralgath just to keep things quiet?”

“Hold your horses, mortal. I’m not talking about screwing over anyone.” A sigh of steam escaped him. “The truth is, we’re worried Zemael might have been just the tip of the iceberg. She abused the system pretty badly, but she’s not the only one, just the only one dumb enough to get caught.”

Not to mention her claims that the higher-ups were hiding something to do with souls. Ralgath had hesitated to include that in his report, but in the end, he felt he had no choice.

“The two of you did good work,” Gizrun went on. “So, in part to head off any rumors that IA isn’t taking the situation seriously, I have a proposition.”

Ralgath struggled not to let hope show on his face. “What?”

“We form a new team. Enforcers aren’t really equipped to track down demons, like I said before. If we took the initiative, it would look good for IA. You’d be our… hmm, Employee Satisfaction Reconciliation Committee has a nice ring to it.”

Chess arched a brow. “We’d reconcile employee satisfaction by killing rogue demons like Zemael?”

Gizrun held up his hands. “Or convincing them to return to the Underworld. Whatever works.”

Ralgath glanced anxiously at Chess. “What do you think?”

Chess pondered. “So let me get this straight. You want Ralgath and me to track down any other demons who decide to do a runner.”

“Right.”

“And my contract remains in force?”

Gizrun shrugged. “Fast healing and speed will be an asset. And obviously you’ll get preferential placement in the Underworld when you die. You might even become a crossroads demon yourself.”

Ralgath’s heart beat faster, but Chess still looked contemplative.

“One condition,” Chess said. “In between jobs for you, we keep doing my work—hunting down vampires and other creepy crawlies.”

“The Underworld doesn’t care about the soulless,” Gizrun said. “Except for demons, obviously. Have at it.”

A slow smile spread over Chess’s face. “Sounds like a deal to me.” They glanced at Ralgath. “What about you?”

Ralgath tried to keep his expression professional, even though he wanted to grin like an idiot. “That sounds acceptable, Mr. Gizrun.”

“Good, good.” Gizrun swiveled a few eyes in the direction of the sleeping Fluffpaw. “You can even pick out a real hellhound, if you want.”

Chess’s eyes widened in horror. “Replace Fluffpaw?”

Ralgath cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Mr. Gizrun, Fluffpaw has proven herself a valuable member of the team.”

Gizrun shook his head. “If you say so. All right, Ralgath. Come to a crossroads at midnight once a week. If I’ve got a job for you, a demon will appear and give you the details.”

Ralgath bowed slightly. “Thank you, sir. We’ll do our best.”

Gizrun vanished in a puff of sulfur-scented smoke, and Ralgath turned slowly back to Chess. “I—”

With a loud squeal, Chess launched themself off the car. Ralgath caught them in surprise, and Chess wound their arms and legs around him. “I can’t believe it. You get to stay with me.”

“I can’t believe it myself,” Ralgath said, and kissed them soundly. “I never expected Mr. Gizrun to make such an offer.”

They held each other for a long time, just breathing, feeling the newness of their partnership, the joy of being together.

“You don’t mind being relegated to the mortal world?” Chess asked after a while.

Ralgath leaned back just enough to look Chess in the face. “I’m happy to be in any world that has you in it.”

Chess’s expression softened. “Sweet-talker.” They kissed him again. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before Gizrun changes his mind.”

Ralgath climbed into the passenger seat, and Chess cranked the engine. As they started off into the hazy southern night, Ralgath had never been happier. The wind ruffled Chess’s hair, and their mouth was set in a smile that warmed Ralgath all the way to his toes. Fluffpaw hung her head out of the car, and as usual, her tongue flapped in the breeze.

“There is one thing,” Chess said.

“Oh? What’s that?”

Chess glanced at him out of the side of their eye. “You’re going to have to meet my parents.”

Ralgath grinned and settled back in the seat. “All right,” he said as they left the crossroads behind. “It’s a deal.”

JORDAN L. HAWK is a nonbinary queer author from North Carolina. Childhood tales of mountain ghosts and mysterious creatures gave them a lifelong love of things that go bump in the night. When they aren’t writing, they brew their own beer and try to keep the cats from destroying the house. Their best-selling Whyborne & Griffin series (beginning with Widdershins) can be found in print, ebook, and audiobook at Amazon and other online retailers.

Collared

By TA Moore

When ex-priest Jack finds a dead man nailed to his bed, he knows it’s going to be a bad night. He just has no idea how bad. Now he’s been recruited by his own personal demon to find the thieves who killed a man, kidnapped his family, and stole something of indescribable value from the demonic Math. To find answers he has to delve deep into the infernal underbelly of his town and face his own past. Jack’s been promised his soul back if he succeeds. As local cop Ben Ambrose risks his own soul by following too closely in Jack’s footsteps, and with a child’s life on the line, Jack has to decide if it’s a deal he’s willing to make.

To the Five who have always believed in me, to Mum who always worries I’ve not slept enough, and to everyone who’s said “but you seem so nice” after reading my stories.

1

PEOPLE HAVE always said that the world was going to Hell. In the end it didn’t have to. Hell came to us.

THERE WAS a dead man sleeping in Jack’s bed. A red smile had been cut into his throat, deep enough to flash a sliver of stained bone in his spine, and his hands had been nailed to the headboard with thick iron railroad spikes. Flies buzzed blood-drunk circles in the air or crawled, too glutted to fly, over the pillows.

Jack poured himself a whiskey. It didn’t do much for him—his body had gotten used to harsher spirits—but it felt like an appropriate response to the situation.

He was going to have to get new sheets.

The corpse hadn’t put itself there. Jack had seen suicides cut their throats before—you had to really mean it, but some did—but never drive spikes through their palms afterward. So it was either a frame-up or a message. Jack went to the window and twitched the curtain back to look out.

The moon was bright and silver, and the sidewalks were lit with steady fluorescence from the streetlights. If he blinked, he could see the crimson shadow of Hell’s flayed-skin moon laid along the road, and the streetlights flickered with the lucifer yellow of old gas lamps.

Demons liked gas. It had so many… connotations.

The bloom of the Witching Hour had nearly reached the city. One way or another, pretty soon he’d find out what the corpse was there for. Jack sat down on the floor on the far side of the room, his back braced against the mold-spotted wall and his legs stretched out in front him. Muscle memory made him drink the whiskey as he waited, even though it sat sour and unappealing in his gut—like a childhood friend at a school reunion, not nearly as much fun as you remembered and prone to repeat.

Self-hatred turned belly-up in Jack’s brain and cackled at him. School reunion, it mocked in a scratched-out voice, like if any of your schoolmates were alive, they’d ask you to come?

Jack snorted and tilted his glass in a mute toast and then tossed back the last of the disappointing liquor. He couldn’t argue with that. Last time he’d seen any of his old classmates….

He felt the bloom of the Witching Hour against his shoulders, a tug at old hooks buried down under the skin.

On the bed the corpse gagged on a mouthful of flies and sat up. Ichor dribbled black from the corners of its mouth, and Jack could see the tendons and muscle in the exposed throat work as it struggled to speak.

For a second it was a horror, and then it folded beauty around itself. Dirt-matted gray hair turned to silver, the coarse drink-raddled features sharpened, and the death-bloated corpse tightened. As before-and-after pictures for damnation went, it was effective.

Jack grimaced and looked away. It had been a long time since the demon picked that body to wear, a long time since he’d had to see that face and that mouth. His own fault. It never did any good to think about the past. When would he learn that?

“What the hell happened to my hands?” Math complained. His voice sounded like an opera singer had gargled with ground glass, like a boy had breathed too deeply of hellfire. “Why the fuck am I nailed to the bed?”

“Maybe I’ve gotten kinky,” Jack drawled as he drew his legs under him and pushed himself up the wall.

The eyes should have been blue. That’s how Jack always remembered them. Instead they were black and glossy like jet beads. The smile was the same, though—slow and uneven.

“Promises, promises.”

Math pulled his hands free. The spikes sounded wet as they tore through skin, and the fine bones snapped like dry, brittle sticks. For a second Jack saw the rot beneath, and then Math’s skin stitched back together over it.

“What do you want?” Jack asked.

Math smiled a devil’s sharp smile. “Does it matter?”

It should, but they both knew it didn’t. The hook in Jack belonged to Math, and so, by extension, did Jack. He’d do as he was told, like a trout strung from the river on a line, but he didn’t have to be enthusiastic about it.

And if he asked, that small, self-loathing voice in Jack’s head mocked him, what would you do for him if he just asked?

That was still too easy a question to answer. It was how Jack had gotten into this mess in the first place. He stayed where he slouched against the wall, empty glass dangled between his fingers, and waited.

Math gave in first. Patience was a virtue, and on principle, he had no truck with it. He climbed off the soiled bed and padded naked to the dresser. It hurt Jack not to look, to keep his eyes off the long, lean lines of tight muscle and pale honey skin, and it didn’t help. He knew Math’s body, and the ache of want settled in the cradle of Jack’s hips, the cramp of it tight in his thighs and the web of muscle across his stomach. His cock ached, tight and heavy as it stirred under his jeans, and he remembered how his hands had skimmed over the smooth curve of Math’s ass.

“Someone stole from me,” Math said as he pulled open drawers and searched roughly through Jack’s clothes. He left boxers crumpled on the floor and T-shirts piled on the candle-scarred walnut top of the dresser. Jack poked down under the thin buzz of the whiskey for irritation, but he couldn’t muster any. After all the times Math had rummaged through Jack’s soul, it seemed pointless to object to him touching a few old shirts. “I want what they took.”

Jack laughed, and Math turned to look at him. The tilt of his head cast a shadow on the shabby walls that didn’t quite match his flesh. Anger curled his mouth and tightened the pale, perfect skin over bones as sharp as his smile.

“I stole nothing,” Math said. “I took nothing that you didn’t give.”

“You kept it, though. Me.”

Math shrugged and grabbed a pair of jeans. He pulled them up over long legs and tucked his cock in behind the zip. “You dressed better when you were a priest.”

“I suppose I did.” Jack tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “I was better when I was a priest.”

Math padded across the room, betrayed by the creak of old, winter-warped boards, and stood too close to Jack. His breath was sweet—cinnamon and first fall apples—but there was no warmth to the hand that brushed Jack’s face. There never had been. His skin had always been cool, even when Jack’s was slick with sweat and dizzy with high summer and… lust.

“Liar.” For a second Jack wasn’t sure what Math meant. They were both lies. He opened his eyes and looked up into coal-black eyes. Math’s fingers lingered on his jaw. “You were the same man then. You were just more… afraid.”

Jack stiffened his neck to resist the urge to tilt his face into Math’s cold hand, like a lover or a pet. He bared his teeth in a humorless smile.

“Not afraid enough,” he said.

Math laughed. There was something under his humor that pricked the back of Jack’s neck with atavistic fear, like the dread one felt when they heard the brittle crack of ice underfoot. It made him hard too. The fact that that was the least of his issues didn’t say much about his life.

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Math said as he turned and grabbed a T-shirt from the bed. “You would still have wanted me more.”

It wasn’t that Jack spent a lot of time on his clothes. Interchangeable jeans, interchangeable T-shirts, the same biker boots and leather jacket, but as Math pulled the soft blue fabric over his head, the muscles in his back heavy as they moved under his skin, Jack realized it was his favorite. Or it was his favorite now. Math could make it hard to tell what direction your want ran—to him or from him.

“I guess we’ll never know,” Jack drawled. His mouth was dry with lust, so he grabbed the whiskey from the table and took a swig straight from the bottle to wash it away. It used to work better. “What do you need?”

Math looked at him and Jack felt a cold chill down his spine. It was never easy to forget what Math was but Jack could usually manage it for a while. Until moments like this when Math went to someplace past simply still and a caveman part of the brain freaked that a predator was considering Jack for dinner.

After a moment Math cocked his head slowly to the side. His black eyes grazed down Jack’s body from his shoulders to the hard, didn’t-give-a-fuck-about-good-ideas jut of his cock under his jeans. The tip of his tongue dabbed his lower lip.

“If only you’d been this accommodating when you were alive,” Math said as his gaze flicked back up to Jack’s face. “Now all you have that I need is a car.”

Jack winced. There was nothing like the truth to draw blood.

“Kill yourself once,” he drawled, “and nobody lets you live it down. You have an address?”

Math blinked contemptuously at him. “No. I thought we’d just drive around until I see something that looks familiar. Come on. We don’t have long.”

He walked out of the bedroom. Jack watched him go, because apparently his cock was actually incapable of learning, and he waited. The hook caught under his breastbone and lodged there, a jolt of sharp pain that punched through him. Wet, itchy sweat prickled at the back of his neck, and his breath rasped against the back of his throat.

It reminded him of summers back home when he was a kid, of the racoons his dad trapped on the porch and laughed at as they choked themselves to death on his shitty snares. Jack had cut one loose once, after the old man drank himself into piss-wet unconsciousness, but it hadn’t absolved him. One live racoon didn’t make up for all the dead ones.

Jack deserved this. It didn’t mean he could bear it.

“Suffer on your own time,” Math said impatiently from the hall. “I don’t have time for you to wallow.”

Jack let the compulsion win. The cracked-bone, exposed-marrow pain of it eased immediately as he stepped away from the wall. He capped the whiskey bottle and clunked it down on the disorganized dresser on the way past, slotted it between his tossed aside shirts. The whole bottle wouldn’t make him slur his words, but he didn’t know what it would do to his blood-alcohol level.

The world rattled along on a fragile balance of disbelief these days. It probably didn’t need Jack to stand up in traffic court to argue that liquor didn’t work on the damned soul of an ex-priest. Although, to be fair, it had sailed blithely past worse evidence of Hell’s incursion into their reality.

Jack grabbed his jacket, keys heavy in his pocket, and shrugged it on. He gestured for Math to leave his desk alone and head on out through the door.

Sometimes, when you couldn’t change what was going on and you didn’t want to understand it, all you could do was shove it under the bed and make sure your toes didn’t stick out from the covers.

Ten years ago a whole fucking town in South Carolina, all 14,000 God-fearing bastards of Jack’s old congregation, had rotted itself straight into Hell, and all the waking world had done was change the road signs.

It wasn’t sarcasm. Jack rolled off the throttle as he turned off Berman, and his knee dipped precariously close to the road as the weight of the bike leaned into the corner. Math tightened his arms around his waist.

“Where now?” Jack asked over his shoulder.

“Just drive. I’ll know it when I see it.”

Now that he thought about it, Jack supposed that Math didn’t travel by road often anymore. When you could ride the dreams of the lost and lonely on a straight-shot express from bedroom to bedroom, why commute?

The empty lot of the fairgrounds loomed dark and almost empty on the left, just a chord of twisted calliope music carried on the Witching Hour to catch the ear and pull your eye to the shadows. A ragged banner flapped desultorily over the gate, frayed and faded from six months of weather since Craven’s 42nd Annual Spring Fair. A crow perched on the roll of barbed wire on top of the fence and unspooled a ribbon of innards from something it had spiked on the barbs.

It was Hell’s wink, the barker’s pitch to cajole the susceptible into asking “what if” and whistling the right tune at the right crossroads to catch something’s attention. Out here on the outskirts of the city, where the buildings had no secrets and the suffering was the banality of a nine-to-five, the Infernal still needed an invitation.

The hard line of Math’s body pressed against Jack’s back as he hissed “here” in his ear.

Or at least a ride.

Jack leaned his weight down and let up on the throttle. The heavy rattle of the engine under his ass dulled to a growl as he rolled into an empty parking spot in front of a closed diner. Faded white lines marked out the spaces on the concrete. Two large green dumpsters were shoved up against the side of the building, eyes bright and reflective in the shadows under it.

Cat, possum, or imp. At this time of night, in the company Jack kept, it could be any of them.

He let the engine shift into idle and planted his booted foot against the scarred concrete. The Virago wasn’t heavy as bikes went, but he could feel the weight of it against his thigh muscles as he braced it.

“Here?” he repeated dubiously as he looked up at the diner.

A dusty green neon sign was stuck up at a lightning-bolt angle over the door, decorated with the red letters that spelled out No Wait Diner. Through the dark glass, behind his reflection, there were rows of red leather booths and white Formica tables. The sign in the door claimed that the diner was Open but it felt closed, like the dusty sign of abandonment.

Math loosened his grip on Jack’s hips and slid his hand down the taut line of Jack’s thigh as he got off the bike.

“No,” he said over his shoulder. “I just wanted a burger.”

That was sarcasm. Like most demons, Math didn’t eat animal flesh. Souls were like salt to them—without it what was the point.

Jack killed the bike engine and kicked the stand down. He rubbed his hands over his face and thought sourly about the plans he’d had for the night. Two hours ago he’d planned to bribe the old drude behind the jail to snitch on the prisoner’s dreams in return for cheap whiskey and a murdered rat. If he’d known he’d end up here instead, he’d have been more enthusiastic about a night with the drude.

“So what did they steal?” His voice sounded loud and out of place in the dim early morning. “Your grandma’s hot sauce recipe?”

“My grandmother was a rooster,” Math said as he peered through the window of the diner. “My father feasted on him once he hatched.”

“I don’t know what’s worse,” Jack said as he gave in to the prod of curiosity and got off his bike. The rancor was an old friend, but Jack had nursed it too long for it to be interesting. “Your god-awful family tree, or the fact that my kin are still worse.”

Jack could, just about, remember his grandmother, a woman who’d spent so many years making herself small that when she died, the funeral director was surprised to realize she was nearly six foot tall. Maybe his dad hadn’t eaten the old woman, but the trail of angry neighbors and whimpering dogs—later the angry priest and whimpering girls—had certainly drained the life from her.

He tried the door.

“If they’d left the door open, I could have just let myself in,” Math said irritably. “Unlocked counts as an invitation. Remember?”

Jack shrugged. He stepped to the side and broke the glass with his elbow. It took two blows for it to shatter, and cracks zigzagged up through the black paint that marked out the opening hours and the instruction to Push. The alarm fritzed on with a staticky whine, a pulse of insistent noise that cut through the night. It made Math grimace and step back.

“Idiot,” he said. “What use are you going to be to me in jail?”

“Look around.” Jack pulled his sleeve down over his knuckles and punched a hole in the shattered glass until he could reach through. Glass scratched the cheap leather as he groped around until he found the cool metal of the handle. “There’s no one out here to see it. No neighbors to get irritated by the noise. No old ladies to get scared. Cops won’t be here for half an hour at least.”

He turned the lock, pulled his arm back out—his knuckle was nicked where a shard of glass caught him—and shoved the door open. It creaked open over a low drift of flyers and bills and the smell of old food and curdled grease wafted out of the dark interior. The smell caught in the back of his throat, somewhere on the edge between mouthwatering and nauseating.

“Math—”

“I can’t ask,” Math snapped. He stepped over the mail and walked into the restaurant. His feet left damp prints on the tiled checkerboard floor. “There was a man.”

“Isn’t there always?” Jack cracked as he flicked on the lights.

Math gave him the finger. It looked almost like a natural reaction, not one he’d learned from Jack’s bad habits.

“There was a man,” Math repeated. He stopped at one of the tables and touched the edge of a plate that hadn’t been cleared away. The rind of burger shriveled and grew a pale beard of mold under his attention. “He had small ambitions—a woman, a business, a ‘nice’ life—and he was willing to do almost anything to get them, except work for it.”

That old familiar story. Jack had heard variations of it all his life, from people who wanted to get the world for someone else’s song, whether it was his dad’s get-broke-quick schemes or the priest who wanted to barter someone else’s soul against the devil.

“Aren’t we always,” he said bitterly.

Math looked over his shoulder. His smile was sharp enough to cut.

“You made me work for it,” he said. “The man in my story couldn’t wait to hand his soul over. It seemed to have weighed on him. In return he wanted his best friend’s life, his best friend’s wife, and you get the gist.”

He did. Jack ran his hand through his hair. The shrill noise of the alarm dug through his skull and found the ghost of a hangover from the whiskey earlier. There was a large blue door at the back of the diner that blocked off access to the kitchen. It was the one place he couldn’t see.

“So let me guess,” he said as he took a second look around at the unfinished cleanup. “Best friend dropped dead of a heart attack in the kitchen, blocked the door to the freezer, and the man and the wife died huddled in each other’s arms for warmth?”

Math paused and then shrugged. The shirt looked better on him than it did on Jack. To be fair, most things did.

“No, but that’s not bad,” Math said. “A little obvious, but the minimalism of it does win you some points back. A solid C for style.”

“What did you do?”

“I lost points for minimalism.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Jack spat in frustration. “What did you do, Math? If you want my help, you have to tell me what’s going on.”

Math turned to glare at him. Tension pulled his face tight over the sharp bones underneath.

“No, I don’t.” His voice was sharp with cruelty. “If I tell you to help, then you’ll help. Or maybe I’ll make you wait here and spend the next forty years in jail. It doesn’t matter. If I want it, you’ll do it. You being dead made you worthless, but it didn’t set you free.”

Jack flinched despite himself. Damnation put other fears into perspective, but his fear of confinement refused to be cowed. The thought of prison—steel bars and the smell of other men’s cum and crap—flushed cold, sticky dread through him.

The thick heat of a South Carolina summer in the confines of a confessional, the door barred and his sins the only key to escape. The weight of his mom’s corpse as she pinned him facedown to the bed and slurred the blame in his ear.

“Go to Hell,” he said.

Math gave him a look of incandescent satisfaction. “I can’t,” he said as he stalked back over to Jack. “But tell you what, Jack, you get what was stolen from me, and you won’t have to either. I’ll give the title to your soul back, free and clear.”

It was a trick. Math might not lie, but he never needed to. He told the truth in the right way, at the right time, and people heard what they wanted to hear. Needed to hear.

Jack knew that. He always had. Maybe one day it would help him make the right decision. Right now, with old fear sour and salty in the back of his heart, the lure of freedom already had him on the hook.

“Deal,” he said, dry-mouthed for the second time.

It was just as anticlimactic as it had been the first time—no ominous crack of thunder, no diabolical cackle from Math, no swarm of demons—just a slow blink of jet eyes and a sense of finality that sank into Jack’s bones.

Math grabbed Jack’s wrist and pulled his hand up. The scab between Jack’s knuckles cracked, and blood welled out in a slow, thick trickle that ran down toward his wrist. Instinct made him try to pull away, but Math’s grip was like stone. He bent his head, the short crop of curls still sun-streaked for all the sun hadn’t shone in weeks, and pressed his lips to Jack’s bloody fingers.

Damp cool lips and the cat-swipe of Math’s tongue sent a pulse of reaction through Jack. His breath caught under his breastbone, and his balls tightened between his thighs. He struggled to stay above the hot wash of want and focus on what he needed.

“Deal,” Math said as he raised his head. His lips were stained red as he smiled the imperfect, faintly crooked smile that Jack could never convince himself was fake. He waved his hand toward the heavy blue door to the kitchen. “Open the door, Jack. We haven’t got long, and the glass slipper is going to stink when the bell rings.”

Jack wiped his hand on his jeans and took a deep breath to steady himself. The tang of old grease was sour as it hit the back of his throat, but he walked forward and pushed the door open. His reluctance made it feel heavier, as though whatever nasty thing he was about to find on the other side pushed back against it.

It was a kitchen. Unwashed dishes sat in the sink, fat congealed on the surface of the water in gray white bergs, and greasy pans sat with greening burgers still in them on the stove. It wasn’t a kitchen where Jack would choose to eat the meatloaf, but he’d eaten out of worse.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” he asked.

Math snorted as he walked over to a narrow door on the far side of the room. It was jammed open, a dim light half dead inside.

“You were a better priest than you are detective,” he said.

“I was a terrible priest,” Jack said.

“My point,” Math said. He leaned against the doorjamb, his shoulder braced. “Find what they took or we’re both fucked.”

The Witching Hour faded like a shadow. Jack had adjusted to the pressure across the back of his brain, but it faded, the dusty pollen taste in the back of his throat cleared, and the dead man replaced the demon. As the borrowed beauty faded, the corpse slid down the wall and toppled onto its side, still in Jack’s jeans and favorite shirt. One arm flopped limply, neatly, into the door to keep it propped open. A livid mark showed where it had spent hours in that position.

Flies rose up off the body as though they’d just been unpaused, fat and iridescent with good health. Demonic possession was hell on the ecology, but flies, rats, and pigeons thrived in Hell’s company.

Jack’s stomach turned as the faint, sour-tallow smell in the kitchen ratcheted up with the addition of a badly stored corpse. He mildly regretted his earlier hunger. No more burgers for him for a while.

He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and walked over to the corpse. The clothes were a write-off. Without Math’s face to overlay it, the dead man looked… nondescript, the sort of vaguely handsome that was far more forgettable than ugly ever would be. Jack gingerly stepped over the body and hooked his boot around the door to pull it open.

It had started its life as a larder or a storeroom, but someone had repurposed it. Boxes of unwholesomely fat white candles were stacked on the shelves, a rough chalk sketch of a goat’s head with canine teeth growled from the back wall, and a pentagram had been scraped deeply into the tiled floor.

The setup wasn’t new, but the pile of coins neatly deposited in the middle of the pentagram was. Demons liked hard currency, and silver had tradition behind it. As Jack stared at it, another coin pinged out of midair, dropped onto the pile already there, and clattered down to the floor. Eventually one would roll far enough to breach the lines of the pentagram.

Jack sighed and crouched down to pull his knife out of his boot. He flicked the blade out and reached over to scrape a shallow line crosswise against the grain of the pentagram.

The ting of metal stopped as one last, forlorn silver coin bounced over the floor. Jack pointedly crossed himself with the knife and muttered a quick apologetic prayer under his breath.

He doubted God had any use for him these days, but even a pinprick doorway to Hell could do damage. Even if only whispers could escape, that could be enough to let Hell settle over the neighborhood.

Or not. No one really knew, but they were all very authoritative about it.

Jack pushed the knife back into the sheath and pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. His foot bumped the dead man as he stepped back, and another cloud of flies burped out of the wet smirk of his opened neck.

“Well, you’ve got nobody’s life now,” he said. “So I guess that leaves the best friend’s wife as a lead.”

In the room, the pile of silver coins glittered enticement, pale and bright and stamped with not-quite-right dates and faces. “Take me,” they seemed to beg, “it’d be a waste otherwise.”

Jack grabbed a handful of them and stuck them in his pocket as he stood up. Something on the other side of the pinprick exhaled smugly, almost sexual in its satisfaction. Jack shrugged at it as though it could see him.

So the coins were cursed. Jack wasn’t surprised. Anything—anyone?—that spent time in Hell either rotted or was tainted. Good luck to the curse in making his life any worse.

Besides, he needed new sheets.

2

WHEN HELL moved to Jasper, South Carolina, people asked, “Why here? Why us?” The demons just smiled sharp smiles and said, “We like the humidity.”

MATH HADN’T been wrong.

The office/studio had been cheap, the Private Investigator had already been painted on the door, and Jack had no better ideas at the time. When the first client knocked on his door, it seemed like as good a job as any for a man whose only previous experience had been the priesthood and being a demon’s pet.

Not many people were desperate enough to come to him. There were other investigators in Craven, ones who had experience, computers, and some sort of state certification. If a person wanted their wife followed or their business partner’s bank account turned over, that’s where they went.

The clients who climbed all the way up the stairs to Jack’s door had been turned away from everywhere else. Their wives had started to go out more, sure, but when they came back, there was blood on their shoes, not cologne on their collar. Their business partners had bright silver in their pockets and strange, dark new associates who always smiled and never ate. Something terrible had infested their nice, normal world, and they didn’t know what to do about it.

Jack usually did. He’d been one of the Vatican’s exorcists, even if his tenure had been for a mere two days. It was only when a case required some actual investigation that he came up short.

His usual recourse to that was to draw it to the attention of the relevant authorities and wait. Eventually the case would end up on the desk of one of the harried detectives with too much integrity to turn a blind eye and too much common sense to believe in any of it. Ever since Father Colm at Saint Benedict’s stopped taking their calls, that was when they’d call Jack in.

Usually.

Jack slouched down in his office chair, hips barely on the cushion of olive-green leather, and stared at the old-fashioned plastic handset on the desk. Like the Private Investigator on the door, it had been there when the landlord handed over the key. It was currently obstinately silent.

It was past noon. Even if the police had ignored the alarm at the diner all night, the complaints would have started to roll in once the rest of the street opened for business. Once they found the dead man, his sour stock of candles, and the goat-man shrine, the pass-the-shit-parcel game would begin.

That was a game that always ended on one desk.

So why wasn’t he on the phone?

Jack gave in and reached for the landline to make the call himself. He could claim business was slow and he was chasing work. It could even pass as true; things always flagged as the year trudged toward October. Demons had to plan their Halloween events as well, and haunted houses had to be on their best behavior if they wanted the frats to rent them for an All Hallow’s party.

But just as he grabbed the sweaty plastic handset, the ringtone rattled the receiver against his fingers. He dropped it and let it ring as he spun to give the window a quick look. His own reflection stared back at him suspiciously, his brown eyes deep-set, and three day’s worth of stubble dark against his lean cheeks. He looked like hell, but not literally. There was no sign of Math’s pale, smug shadow in the planes of glass.

Coincidence, then?

Jack didn’t know if he believed that. He answered the phone as it rang for the fourth time.

“What?” he said.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, as though whoever was there had already thought better of the call. In the background, faintly, Jack could hear the low murmur of voices and slow movement. Then a soft, nervous cough broke the silence.

“I need to talk to you,” Ambrose said in a low, tense voice. “Now. It’s important.”

Jack decided that, coincidence or not, he wasn’t going to look a gift detective in the mouth.

“Where?” he asked as he scrambled to his feet and grabbed his keys. Even as his mouth shaped the words, he didn’t know why he bothered.

“St. Benedict’s,” Ambrose said.

Where else?

THE SOUND of bells greeted Jack as he pulled up outside the church. Despite everything, the somber toll of the Angelus bell strung the prayer up out of his soul like a rosary, one word at a time.

The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary….

It tasted bitter.

St. Benedict’s was the sort of narrow, whitewashed church you saw in picture books—high stained-glass windows and a hollowed-out steeple with windows at the top so you could see the bell ring. It sat on a neat square plot on the edge of the worst part of town, a defiant watchtower against the slow creep of Hell.

Or it had, until Father Colm lost his nerve.

Jack climbed the steps and let himself in. The smell of beeswax and fear caught in his nose—decades of sinful piety sweated into the stained pews and the cracked old floor. It smelled familiar.

At the front of the church, a clutch of middle-aged women waited in line for the confessional and played “guess the sin” between prayers. Behind them an old man with frayed gray curls hunched over his hymnal and muttered bleakly as he flipped through thin pages with a grimy finger. Right at the very back, a young man sat with his head bowed over clenched hands, fingers twisted painfully together and knuckles sharp and white. The light through the stained-glass windows painted his skin and hair in gold and blue until he looked like something out of an old illuminated manuscript.

Jack found an empty row and sat down. His ass slid with easy, narrow familiarity into the smooth dent that others had made in the wood over decades of piety. St. Benedict’s used to be a well-attended church.

Habit made Jack fold his hands together for prayer. He scowled at his fingers as though it were their fault and pulled them apart to shove into the pockets of his jacket instead. Why tempt fate? God might overlook that he’d raised a flare next to an open portal to Hell, but this was His house, and Jack had fucked up his welcome years ago.

Eventually Ambrose raised his head from over his hands and looked around. His eyebrows pinched together and a short wrinkle etched crookedly in the skin between them when he saw Jack waiting. He got up and shuffled along the length of the pew, hunched and apologetic as though he were in a movie theater.

“You should have told me you were here,” he said quietly as he slid in next to Jack. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack said. “You were praying. Maybe it will help.”

Detective Ben Ambrose laughed quietly and rubbed at one deep-set eye with a long, knuckly finger. “That would be new.”

He was only still when he prayed. The rest of the time, Ambrose was in constant nervous motion as he pushed his hair back, fidgeted with his cuffs, or checked the watch strapped around his bony wrist. He was handsome in a worn, weary way that pinched the corners of his mouth and bruised his eyes. There was something poignantly human about it.

“I pulled a case out by the fairground,” Ben said quietly. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a creased, well-stuffed envelope. “Tell me what you think.”

Jack folded the flap back and extracted a sheaf of photos of a familiar crime scene. The unflattering glare of the flash showed details that he hadn’t noticed the night before. Almost buried in the puffy flesh of the man’s arm was a glitter of beads and silver, and under the chalk outline of the goat man, he could just about see the scrubbed-away ghost of another sigil on the wall.

That was bad form. Demons might spread their favors promiscuously, but servants who did the same rarely lasted long.

Jack shuffled back through the pictures to the dead man in his stolen shirt. “Who is he?”

Ambrose shrugged. He leaned forward and rested his arms on the pew in front, his hands lax as he watched a woman, with a rosary twisted around her fingers like wire, light one votive candle after another. Her face was pale and set as she mass-mailed God her prayer over and over. Eventually she kneeled down and started to work through her beads again.

“Dale Kinney,” Ambrose said quietly. “He owns a diner near the fairground, has a wife and kids at home, and apparently went to the Missionary Baptist Church every Sunday.”

“Well,” Jack said dryly. “Baptists.”

That was an echo from his childhood. Back in Jasper the question of whose house God would stay in if he visited was an old and contentious one. It wasn’t enough for the other congregation to be wrong, they had to be told about it ahead of time. As it turned out, none of them were quite on the money.

Ambrose gave him an annoyed look. “What can you tell me about the murder?”

Jack looked back at the photos and balanced what he knew against what he could share. Ambrose should keep an eye on the beat cops and crime-scene techs for a while, since the pile of silver had further diminished from when Jack grabbed a handful. But that would require too much explanation.

“I’d need to know more about him,” Jack said. “His associates. His friends?”

“From what the waiters have said, he didn’t have any,” Ambrose said. “He used to be close to his brother, they opened the business together, but after he married his brother’s ex, that broke down.”

Jack nodded. That fit. It was a brother instead of a friend, but human bonds were difficult for demons to understand. They defined relationships by what they needed from each other, not by affection.

“Could the brother have done it?” Jack asked. “Fratricide has a proud tradition.”

“He’s in Alaska,” Ambrose said. “He’s out at sea on a fishing boat. No way he could have gotten back here, murdered his brother, and taken a plane back in time.”

“What about Dale’s wife and child?” Jack asked. “What do they say about him?”

“Not much,” Ambrose said bleakly. He checked his watch, sat back, and tapped a beat out against his knee with his fingers. “The symbol in the larder. Is that… the Devil?”

He almost whispered the words, as though that would help. Jack snorted.

“This? No. If he tried to summon him, nobody would have answered. Lucifer doesn’t leave Hell.” Or maybe couldn’t leave Hell. Every demon or drude or lilin that Jack had spoken to had a different story about why they’d all left Hell two decades before, but they were united that they wouldn’t go back willingly. “But just in case he changes his mind, no other demon wants to stand on his toes and step in for him. That’s the number-one reason more stupid high-school kids don’t end up with their soul in hock.”

Ambrose scowled and rubbed his hand over his face. “You say that like it’s a fact, like the servants of Hell are just another gang, with rules and standards. Why should I trust you, Jack? How did you find out so much about them?”

Blood in Jack’s eyes and mouth, his head full of the underwater disorientation of concussion. They’d dragged him out of the church and down to the shore, the stones hard and unforgiving under bare feet. A bonfire flickered and flared on the beach, the heat of it an unbearable addition to the muggy oppression of the summer that seemed like it would never end.

A girl groped his cock, fingers tight and frantic as she dug into the flesh, and the specter of his dad in Jack’s head cackled some sort of twisted approval and laughed in a nervous, shrill voice at her transgression.

“Get the fuck off him,” one of the boys in black hoodies, sleeves clumsily painted with occult symbols, spat as he slapped her hands away. “The Lord of Lies wants a virgin, not your fucking sloppy seconds.”

They were just kids who had nothing and wanted everything. Stupid, dangerous kids.

“Are we really gonna…,” a nervous voice whispered. They sounded as though they almost hoped that no one would hear the question and seal it with an answer.

“Too late to back out now,” the hooded boy snapped.

They dragged Jack into the center of the shell-made pentagram and used tent pegs and nylon rope to pin him down. The hooded boy started the chant, a girl’s voice was the first to pitch in, and then the rest gradually joined.

Jack choked on his own blood and laughed at the fact that the church choir had at least taught them to harmonize.

“The hard way,” Jack said as he absently reached up to rub the old scar that was almost hidden in his hairline. After a second he reached out and gripped Ambrose’s shoulder. There was wiry muscle wrapped around his long, lanky frame, hidden under baggy shirts and worn jackets. “Don’t ask too many questions about Hell, Ambrose. You won’t like the answers.”

“Why not?”

Jack smiled thinly. “It’s Hell. There’s not much to like.”

A shudder rattled through Ambrose, and he twitched his hand up to cross himself but never quite completed the gesture. Instead he tugged at the collar of his shirt.

“First time I called you,” he said softly. “What was it? The haunted McDonald’s?”

The McDonald’s hadn’t been haunted; it was the cow. Wherever they’d sourced their meat from had been near enough to the borders of Hell to pick up some sort of taint. It screamed when they slapped it on the grill and dripped wet, red blood no matter how charred it was. At night the shade of something big and mean put itself together from grease and charred smoke—as good as burned offerings, any day—to stalk customers.

“I think so,” Jack said. “Why? I doubt it has anything to do with—”

“I didn’t speak to you for months after that. How many times have I called you this year?” Ambrose raked his fingers through his hair, and it stuck up in unruly curls around his face. “Once a month? More?”

Jack hesitated. “Sometimes more, sometimes less.” He hedged around the truth. It was usually more.

“It’s getting worse,” Ambrose said. “There’s a new cult in town, killing more people. They don’t even try to hide it.”

That was true, but it always got worse. Hell was like an infection—once it bloomed in an area, the best you could do was contain it. There were places where it was worse, where it spread faster. Back home in Jasper, it metastasized through the town within a year, roots buried so deep there was no way to get the lye to them.

“I need to know what I’m dealing with,” Ambrose said, almost pleaded. “How to deal with them. Stop them.”

It wasn’t the first time Ambrose had asked, and it wasn’t the first time Jack had shaken his head and rejected the idea. “Then how would I make rent?” he asked. “Best to just leave it to me, Ambrose. You’ll sleep better at night.”

Jack didn’t know if that was a mistake or not. Maybe if everyone in the world turned around and saw that Hell had grown up in the suburbs and alleyways, consumed whole towns and counties, they might do something. The Church might find a sacrifice that was big enough to wall the demons away again.

Maybe. Might.

If Ambrose wanted to survive, he needed to hang on to the little part of him that didn’t quite believe in demons, the part of him that looked skeptical at Jack’s statements about sigils and souls and might be able to join the rest of the world in looking the other way.

Otherwise he’d end up like Jack—soulless and damned but without the streak of asshole that Jack had inherited from his dad, the only useful thing the old drunk had ever given him.

“I don’t sleep well now,” Ambrose said as he braced his arms against the panel in front of him and pushed himself to his feet. “You should know that.”

The words hung in the air, caught somewhere between flat statement and accusation. Jack rubbed his hand through his hair and left it there. One night. An itch and a bad idea. It had left him with the bittersweet notion that he might have loved someone like Ben Ambrose, if he hadn’t been someone like Jack. And he always had been, even back when he’d been Father Collins.

“Can I talk to Dale’s wife?” he asked.

Bitterness looked good on Ambrose’s expressive poet’s face. It might have been aimed at Jack or it might have just been for the world.

“She’s missing,” he said. “Their kid too. Presumably whoever killed Dale took them too, but at least your consulting fee is safe. Here.”

He pulled a door key out of his pocket and handed it to Jack. A cardboard evidence tag dangled from it with an address and a case file number written on it. “We’ve already searched Dale Kinney’s house,” he said. “So there won’t be anyone there. Maybe you’ll see something that we didn’t. You know, since you actually know what’s going on.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple sharp under the thin skin of his throat, and after a second, he decided he had nothing else to say. Jack closed his fingers around the key and squeezed until the edges cut into his skin.

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t,” he muttered.

A few pews ahead of them, the wild-haired man turned around. He was younger than his hair and posture suggested, and his eyes were mismatched, not just in color but in expression. One was blue and desperate, the other bright green and merry. The collar around his neck was grubby and limp with sweat.

“You shouldn’t drink the cup of demons,” the man said sharply, condemnation in his voice. His inky hands worked their way into his tangled hair and tore at it. “You will seek death, but death will be denied you.”

“No offense, Father Colm,” Jack said as he stood up. “You’re a few years too late with that advice.”

The mismatched eyes stared at him. Tears welled up in the blue, and the green one dropped in a wink.

Word on the street was that Father Colm had gotten into the communion wine, but Jack knew better. One day he’d walk in there and be greeted by a gray-haired man with matching eyes. He wanted to believe they’d be flinty and blue, alight with a crusader’s passion, but he didn’t. If he believed in miracles, he might have made different choices.

The memory of Math’s face flicked through his head, eyes wicked and wet, well-kissed mouth slanted with dark amusement.

Or he might just have made the same ones.

Colm narrowed both eyes, and a sly smile pulled up one side of his mouth as though he knew what Jack was thinking. It was possible, and it made Jack’s thoughts feel soiled and sour.

“By their fruit, ye shall know them,” Colm said archly. “A bad tree won’t bear good fruit.”

Jack tucked his keys into his pocket and gave Colm a lean smile. “It’ll do if you’re starved, though. Pray for me, Father.”

For a moment both parts of Father Colm—human and demon—were in rare agreement as he dropped his hands and stared at Jack with undisguised venom.

“No.”

Fair enough.

THE KINNEY family had only been absent for a few days, but the little blue Cape-style house seemed as though it had been abandoned for years. It wasn’t neglected—the inside, once Jack let himself in under the police tape, was briskly clean and well-tended—but it was preserved rather than lived in.

There were pictures of a little blonde girl on the sideboard and on coffee table, her big blue eyes and irrepressible gap-toothed grin framed in Ikea square frames, and a few of Dale and her as he pushed her on a tricycle or let her ride on his shoulders. Jack assumed the space on the walls was reserved for the dead brother.

For the first time, he appreciated why Dale might have made a devil’s bargain to take over his brother’s life. The man caught in Technicolor 2-D on the eggshell white walls looked enough like Dale that it was obvious they were siblings. But he was a more defined version, not exactly handsome—his nose was a bit too big and he had a scar through one eyebrow—but memorable. The walls were the only place where the wife made an appearance, her face always turned toward the man as though he were the sun.

Jack wondered dourly how hard Math had had to work to make her want to fuck her dough-faced brother-in-law instead.

The sick wash of pity and guilt would usually have put Jack back on his heels, but he didn’t have time for that. Whatever had been done couldn’t be undone, not for the Kinneys, but his soul hung attainable, like a brass ring at the fair.

He could feel bad later.

It took him an hour to go through the house. He might not be much of a private investigator, but he had once been a kid full of guilt and shame. It wasn’t hard to work out where people hid the things they didn’t want to think about.

The police would have gone through already, of course, but they looked for evidence and contact details. He needed to find something more precious to Math than Jack’s soul. Although, since he’d killed himself, it was hard to weigh exactly how precious that was.

The mother had hidden a blank card with a phone number on it on the fridge, sandwiched behind layers of kid’s drawings that were held in place with random Ms and Hs. If it was found, she could plead ignorance of how it got there. Jack tucked it in the back pocket of his jeans and paused to study the drawings.

Some of the drawings were typical little-kid scrawls, with suns that smiled and perfectly square houses. Others looked more like ones you’d take to the psychologist’s office than put on a fridge, with hollow-outlined people and black scratched shadows that nearly tore through the page in places. Children found it harder to edit out the parts of the world they weren’t meant to notice. They might not understand what they saw—rationalizing it as a monster under their bed instead of a demon’s influence around the house—but they knew it was there.

Jack hoped she learned to close her eyes before it was too late. He clipped a fallen blue magnet back to the fridge and went to find Dale’s secrets.

Nothing.

Under Dale’s side of the bed, Jack found a porn magazine with crumpled corners and predictably big-breasted women who pouted and tousled from the wiped-clean pages and the police had also found a better-hidden envelope of pictures taped under a drawer in his desk—lean blond men with whips and thick erections dominated.

None of them were the stand-in for Math that Jack would have picked, but he couldn’t judge.

No tacky grimoires, cheap amulets, or signs of the occult anywhere. Jack wondered briefly if he was on a wild goose chase. Maybe Dale hadn’t been the cultist and had just found out something he shouldn’t.

It was possible enough to gnaw at Jack’s nerves, but it seemed unlikely. Math was circumscribed by his nature not to be too forthcoming, but whatever was lost, he wanted found. A stupider demon than Math wouldn’t muddy the trail more than necessary under the circumstances.

So Dale just hadn’t kept the stuff in the house, but it would be close. That sort of stuff, no matter how hard you tried to get rid of it, always ended up making its way back—a buried grimoire dug up by a neighbor’s dog and bought by your wife as a cookbook or a tossed athame that turned out to be the murder weapon that killed your son.

Demonic items didn’t like to be discarded.

Jack went out into the garden. It was bare dirt and a few sparse patches of stubborn grass. A rusty swing set was set up in front of the fence, and a dog yapped with metronomic persistence from the house next door.

Hell overlaid the neighborhood lightly even in daylight. The rows of gently worn homes were interspersed with dark run-down houses with blacked-out windows and mold-bulged siding. Gardens had sprouted white fleshy plants with thin, rattling branches and painful twisted trunks, and the swings in the yards creaked gently as they swung, even though there was no wind. Just a stain until dark, when things would tap on back windows and people would dream of all the impossible things they wanted to do. If only they had some way to pay for them….

The scent of the Infernal made Jack’s job a little more difficult.

He scuffed his boots through the dry tough grass as he had a quick look around for anything out of place. There was a kennel at the far side of the house, big enough for a spaniel or something of that size, but no dog to be seen. Jack crouched down and peered in.

The dark was thick as fur and smelled of old piss and dog sweat. An old bundle of rags lay at the back, and the glitter of the zipper as the light caught it momentarily deceived that it was an eye. Jack grimaced and thrust his hand into the space. His fingers dug into wet, rancid fur, thick and felted under his grip like a hotel carpet, and flesh that yielded too eagerly for health.

The familiar shrieked in inarticulate surprise and offense as he dragged it out into the air. It looked like a dead cat with a rat’s low-set bald ears and a set of teeth too big for its mouth. Long stained claws made from shaped bone scrabbled at the inside of the kennel as it tried to stay where it was.

Jack tightened his grip, and something split and oozed over his fingers.

“Your master is dead,” he said. “You’re falling apart already. Give it up.”

The familiar lost a claw in the wood of the kennel. It keened—a warble of sound that sounded more like a bird than whatever had been used to make the thing—and went for Jack. It writhed out of his grip and left a handful of greasy fur and slimy meat twisted in his fingers as it lunged at his face.

Jack spat out a curse and lurched back. The snap of oversized teeth snapped shut just shy of his nose, the whiff of decay and damnation sweet as old roses. He lost his balance and landed on his ass in the hard dirt. The familiar smacked into his shoulder and clamped down. Its teeth tore through his leather jacket and into his shoulder.

Pain injected into his muscles, a hot bleed that ran down through his elbow and into his fingers and then settled into a dull itch. It seemed unfair that the dead could still be hurt, but he supposed it made sense. Hell would otherwise be just a long, patient wait for the end of days.

Jack clenched his jaw and grabbed the thing’s naked rat tail. It was ridged with barbs that sliced his fingers, and the drip of his blood was thin and slow as he wrenched it off his shoulder. It brought a ragged scrap of his jacket with it, still clenched in its jaw.

Getting his soul back was turning out to be hard on his wardrobe.

The familiar crawled up its own tail and sank its teeth into his wrist. The points scraped against his wristbone as it gnawed. Jack spat out a “fuck” and shook his arm. The familiar lost its grip and swung, all hisses and drool, from his fist.

It showed no signs that it was going to just give up.

“I gave you the chance,” Jack muttered.

He swung the disintegrating familiar against the side of the kennel. Scavenged bone cracked and poked in raw yellow points through the badly cured hide. It should have made it easy. The familiar was just a lockbox of bone and skin for the imp whose services Kinney had bartered for. Jack just had to unlock it, and the thing would have no hold on the solid world anymore.

Except it looked—sort of, in bits and literal pieces—like a cat, and he felt the guilt as he dropped the dead, squirming thing to the ground and stamped on it. It still writhed and tore its own rotting skin off to bare the makeshift structure of bone and staples underneath. He swore at the distastefulness of it and smashed its skull under his foot. The bone cracked, and a single silver coin and a handful of scented powder spilled out over the grass. As the coin rolled away—a bright glint of dangerous metal that secreted itself in the damp space under the kennel—the familiar finally went still.

It smelled worse dead than alive—a sticky, cabbage-water reek that clung to the inside of Jack’s nose and tainted his spit. At least it looked less like a pet as the binding of clumsy spells that had kept it together were pulled apart as they unraveled.

Jack covered his mouth with the back of his hand and used the side of his boot to kick the rags and tatters of the thing under the Kinney’s untended shrubs. He wiped his boot on the tangled brown grass, and the familiar’s ichor made the already-dead vegetation blanch to gray and shrivel down to the roots.

There would be a dead spot there for years.

He glanced at his wrist and grimaced. A lamprey indent of needle teeth stood out raw and open on his wrist. The edges were already inflamed as infection tried to take hold. It wouldn’t work, but the imp-spit was trying its best. Jack fumbled through his pockets for a handkerchief and wrapped the square of bleached cotton around his hand.

A holdover from the old days, that. The old priest at his church had hated tissues and refused to use them. “Mourning is not disposable.” He’d had a drawer in his office full of neatly pressed, starched handkerchiefs that he would ceremonially dispense before house visits. Jack didn’t have anyone crying on his shoulder anymore, nor a housekeeper to starch and iron them, but he found that a handkerchief was definitely more use in emergencies than tissues.

He used his teeth to tug the knot tightly under the knob of his thumb. Once it was secure, he crouched down and reached into the back of the kennel. He pulled out a handful of creased, stapled-together pages, bloated and wrinkled from the spellwork written on them, and a lined notebook held together with a child’s pink hair band.

Jack pulled the hair band off and snapped it absently around his wrist. The elastic had grooved deeply into the sides of the paper and the damp had glued the edges of the pages together. Jack had to pick them apart carefully.

It wasn’t—exactly—a grimoire.

Names, lists, price points, all scrawled down in crooked columns in a careful, all-caps hand. Most of them were just for single-digit numbers, but some went up to twenty or higher and had discounts marked down next to them. It was a ledger, albeit a clumsy one.

Jack thought of the boxes of greasy candles, fat stippled and ripely unwholesome. There were a few staples in the cultist’s handbook—candles, unguent, and paint, all of which required vats of simmered blood and rendered-down pots of fat. It was a cottage industry that was more acceptable when witches and demon worshippers lived in shacks in the woods. These days they had to outsource production to avoid complaints from the neighborhood association.

The suppliers were usually morticians and butchers, but a diner owner had similar resources.

Most of the names were unfamiliar, but as Jack ran his thumb down the list, he found one he knew.

Clem Runnels.

Jack clenched his jaw until his teeth creaked. He should have expected it. If there was something sleazy going around in town, Clem would be behind it. That had been true even back in Jasper, when he’d just been a garden-variety sleazebag instead of a cut-price warlock.

He snapped the book shut, twisted the tie around it, and stuck it in his pocket. The imp that Kinney had tied to his familiar had squirmed half out of the meat glove and was just anchored by its foot and ass now. It swore at Jack. He didn’t know the words, but you could still tell.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

Jack braced his good hand against the cracked paving stones and pushed himself to his feet. He could have left, but he headed inside to grab some of the wife’s personal items, just in case. Then he needed to track Clem down.

The thought of that made Jack grimace sourly. Sometimes it seemed like, no matter how far he ran, Jasper dragged along behind like an anchor.

Once he got his soul back, maybe he’d finally be able to cut it loose.

3

THE THING that wicked people don’t understand is that the demons don’t want their shit souls. If you really want a good exchange rate, be a saint for fifty years and then trade that in.

BLOOD DRIPPED from Jack’s shoulder and into the basin. It diffused through the water and gave the dirt-filtered liquid a pink tinge. Jack wrung out a threadbare washcloth and roughly scrubbed the mangled flesh of his shoulder. The pus-colored scabs peeled off, and the skin underneath was raw and clean. It would be healed by morning, but for now it ached and itched.

Jack draped the washcloth over his shoulder, cold against the hot skin, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked older than he remembered himself, with crow’s-feet squinked around his eyes and his cheeks hollow under harsh cheekbones, but not as old as he should have been.

It was the face he showed the world. People had called him handsome, but he’d never seen that. It was his dad’s face and his mom’s mouth, and he had good memories of neither.

Only the mirror got to see the brand on his throat. Jack lifted his chin and watched the itch-red handprint stretch out on his skin. The thumb lay along the line of his jaw, the palm was scorched under his ear, and long fingers spread back into his hair. He remembered the flash of heat, a jolt of pain as sharp as oil splattered from a pan, but at the time, it had been nothing compared to the heat of Math’s mouth on him.

He absently rubbed his throat, even though there was no mark there that anyone else could see.

“I’m going to need to talk to Clem,” he said. It had taken him most of the evening and a freshly killed rabbit for the drude to track the two-faced weasel down. “He’s holed up in the Badends, Hell’s own acre in Craven. I walk in there, how much trouble will I be in right now?”

Demons didn’t lie. They had a reputation for it, but that was because humans hated to admit they hadn’t read the fine print. When Math said he couldn’t go to Hell, he probably hadn’t meant figuratively.

“Math?” His fingers pressed down against the mirror scar until he could almost feel the scar-slick flesh against his fingertips. His voice sounded very loud in the small bathroom and bounced off the cracked white tiles, but it seemed he was the only one who heard it. There was a smear of something in the back of the mirror, but that could just have been damp behind the glass.

Jack growled in frustration, but he was Math’s, not the other way around. If Math didn’t feel like answering him, he had no recourse.

He peeled the soiled washcloth off his shoulder and tossed it in the garbage. Then he splashed his face with cold, soap-scummed water and ran damp hands around to the back of his neck. It felt as though he should be out there on the streets in search of answers.

The dead man in the diner had brought it on himself. Beef-fat candles wouldn’t summon anything, except maybe that grease-and-smoke ghost from McDonald’s. Cultists wanted human-fat candles, glue boiled from murderers’ sinews, the soft, gelid bones of stillbirths. Dale Kinney had been Hell-bound even if he hadn’t sold his soul. His wife thought her first husband hung the stars, and then she broke her wedding vows to fuck his brother. She might have worshipped whatever little demon had adopted the goat-head man as its sigil or been innocent of any other sin. Either way, she was a grown woman and not Jack’s responsibility.

It was the little girl, with her unshadowed eyes and huge smile, who tugged at Jack’s atrophied shepherd’s instincts.

She wasn’t in any danger from demons. There were rules, and there were consequences. True innocents were usually safe from the Infernal. They could be scared or harried but not hurt. It was the humans who had her Jack didn’t trust.

He had never needed to chase demons. They—Math—had come to him with an offer already in hand. Cultists were those whose souls weren’t worth the effort—damned or banal. They worshipped devils as a sort of hellish Kickstarter and crowd-sourced their damnation one demon at a time.

Not the sort of people you’d trust your child—any child—with.

Water dripped down the back of Jack’s neck and between his shoulder blades. He shuddered and straightened up. The towel behind the door had been pink once. It was mostly white now with pale pink smears that could have been old blood or older dye. Jack wiped his face on it and hung it around his neck as he glanced back at himself in the mirror.

He wasn’t going to walk into the Badends after dark with the dubious protection of Math’s ownership flickering like a spent bulb. The days when he’d been enough of a prize to trade for anything were long gone. All he’d get was cut in quarters and buried at the cardinal points, and that wouldn’t do the Kinney girl any good.

“They took her for a reason,” he told his reflection. “She has some value to them. She’ll be okay.”

His mirror image didn’t look convinced, but then he’d always been a miserable bastard. Jack believed that, or at least he would until he didn’t have a choice.

He pulled the plug on the sink. The water took its time to gurgle away as he tossed the towel into the bath and headed to bed. He might as well get some use out of the sheets before someone dropped another corpse on them.

THERE WAS a glass of sour black whiskey in Jack’s hand, the taste of molasses and sin thick in his throat. The last thing he remembered had been his head on crisp white pillowcases and the thought that he needed new pillows as well. Now he was in….

Jack set the whiskey down and turned around. His gaze skimmed over book-lined walls to the huge picture window and the honey-ripe heat of a South Carolina afternoon.

“Here?” he said.

Math sprawled at ease in a big, leather chair with his feet propped up on the corner of the old, rich walnut desk. He still wore the clothes he’d stolen from Jack, the cuffs of the jeans frayed where they hung down over bare heels.

Verisimilitude, although he hadn’t gone so far as to commit to dirty feet. The thought made Jack look down to check how dressed he was. Strange what stuck with you over all the years and all the sex. Math had seen everything Jack had, touched it, fucked it, but the thought of being naked during a conversation still made Jack’s stomach knot. The jeans and faded T-shirt—the logo of a bar he’d liked in… where had it been…. Victorville, he thought—

“Sometimes I miss the old place,” Math said. “The blood on the ice at the fishery, the perfumed hypocrisy of your little church, my parents puking their power into me until I was glutted like a tick. Simpler times. Don’t you ever wish you could go back to the nest?”

Jack scratched his wrists. The razor hadn’t left any scars, not even in the mirror, but he always expected to feel them like threads under his skin.

“I did,” he said. “It’s still a shit hole.”

A wicked grin creased Math’s face. “Wasn’t that the appeal?” He swung his feet off the desk and stood up in one smooth motion. His eyes were blue here, in the strip of the Infernal laid like a fly trap in the space between sleep and dreams. The incubi’s hunting ground. “But the setting is a whim. What did you want, Jack?”

For a second, caught in the memory of stolen kisses and sun-warmed hands, Jack couldn’t remember. Then he swallowed and tasted the black misdeeds of whiskey in his throat. It grounded him.

“What did—”

Math put his finger to his lips. The shush was silent, but it locked Jack’s tongue behind his teeth.

“Sometimes we like to watch each other work.” Math brushed past Jack and claimed the abandoned whiskey. When he took a drink, Jack felt the press of cool lips against his mouth, the swipe of Math’s tongue as he lapped up the liquid. It made Jack shudder as the pleasure crawled down his spine to catch in his balls. His only recently gathered thoughts threatened to scatter again. “Don’t embarrass me.”

Jack’s tongue was his own again, but it took him a moment to think of anything other than kissing to do with it.

“I need to go down to Badends,” he said as he turned to watch Math. “I don’t want to get stuck there.”

Math chuckled as he took another drink. This time the flick of his tongue was faded, a ghost of sensation, but still enough to make Jack swallow hard.

“That’s something you should have thought of before you sold your soul,” Math pointed out. He closed his eyes as he savored the last draft of black whiskey, his head tilted appreciatively to the side. The sun, stuck forever at heaviest, stickiest noon, painted his hair an almost-human caramel. “My name has enough weight that no one should bother you, as long as you don’t get into their business. Do you think you can do that?”

If he counted the Kinneys as his business? “Sure,” Jack said.

Math laughed and opened his eyes. “Liar,” he said, and the word rolled over his tongue like a compliment. He set the tumbler down on the dresser with a distinct click and reached up to hook his fingers in Jack’s T-shirt collar. The soft fabric stretched under his fingers, down over Jack’s collarbones, and something dark curled in the corners of Math’s smile. “See, that’s another thing I miss. That nice stiff collar had its uses.”

“Not what you used to say,” Jack said.

Math showed his teeth in a dangerous smile. “I was younger then. Impatient. I appreciate a good hunt more now, especially when I know I’m going to win eventually.”

It was hard to argue with that confidence. Jack gave in. He cupped Math’s face in his hand, grazed his thumb over the hard ridge of his cheekbone and ducked his head to kiss him. The glass and liquor ghost kiss had left him hard, but it was nothing compared to the reality of flesh and teeth.

Math purred satisfaction under his mouth. He slid his free hand down to roughly cup Jack through his jeans. Lust caught hot and hungry under Jack’s ribs as he traced Math’s cold, full lips with his tongue and then dipped into his mouth. It had always seemed like a demon’s breath should be sour, but Math’s was wet and clean. The only taste was the whiskey, sweet now that Math had drained down the sin of it.

The rough squeeze of hard fingers around Jack’s cock made him groan, and a jolt of pain melted into the heavy want that settled like a weight between his hip bones.

Lust cracked Jack open like a knife, left him to throb raw and exposed. It had been years, decades, since they’d first fucked—the sharp tangerine scent of hemlock crushed under Jack’s shoulders and his soul in Math’s hands—but that didn’t make it any less… desperate.

Jack fumbled at Math’s jeans with clumsy, suddenly stupid hands as they stumbled and sneaked quick glances down to try to find the buttons between hard, slashed kisses that bumped their mouths together.

The back of Math’s thighs hit the edge of the desk, and they stopped. He leaned back against it and shoved Jack’s hands impatiently out of the way so he could unbutton them himself. The waistband sagged around his lean hips as he slid his hand down to grab the flushed, heavy shaft of his erection. He dragged his hand roughly down it, the fine skin wrinkled as he pulled it back from the tight, precome-slick head.

Math leaned back against his other arm, his muscles tight and defined under night-dweller pale skin.

“Get on your knees, Jack,” Math told him thickly. With his thumb he traced the thick vein that ran the length of his cock and pressed down against it. “Show me what I’ve won.”

It probably didn’t matter that Jack didn’t obey him immediately. They both knew he would. Jack leaned in, hands braced against the desk on either side of Math’s hips, and licked the wet curve of Math’s lower lip.

“What are you going to do for fun once I have my soul back?” he asked.

Math let go of his cock and reached up to cup Jack’s face. He pressed his thumb against Jack’s mouth, and defiance forgotten, Jack parted his lips and let it into his mouth. It tasted like sex and pennies, sharp and sour against Jack’s tongue.

“Your soul wasn’t in hock the first time you sucked my cock,” Math reminded him. “You broke your vows for me long before we made any deals. Why should it change now?”

Jack bit down on the pad of Math’s thumb and then let it slide wetly out of his mouth. Would he even be around? He wasn’t sure what would happen to him without Math’s possession of his soul to complicate its final disposition.

Maybe he’d go to Heaven. More likely he’d find out what had driven the demons out of Hell.

Something to worry about when it came to pass.

Jack kissed his way down Math’s throat, from the hinge of his jaw to the sharp, bony wing of his collarbone. He sucked a bruise into the taut hollow of skin with his teeth and lips, and the stain of red and blue spread over Math’s neck. Wet, openmouthed kisses left damp patches on the thin blue shirt as Jack worked his way down Math’s chest. He lingered at Math’s nipple and flicked his tongue against the tight bud through the faded cotton until Math grabbed his shoulder and pushed him down.

Jack laughed with a dark rattle of humor and went down on his knees. His cock ached as his jeans pulled tightly over his crotch with a twist of pleasant pressure that clenched back into his ass. He let it throb as he ran his hands up the back of Math’s thighs, the denim soft under his fingers, and leaned in to drag his tongue from the base of Math’s cock to the head. He dipped his tongue into the crease under the glans and curled against the skin there.

Math made a noise somewhere between a hiss and a groan. He twisted his fingers into Jack’s hair and slid back to cup the back of his skull. Jack wrapped his mouth around the head of Math’s cock and sucked on it, the glaze of precome heady and penny-sharp as he lapped it up.

Jack loosely gripped the base of Math’s cock and felt the pulse of it against his fingers. He twisted his hand around the shaft as he slid his head down. He pressed his tongue flat against the cool, hard underside of Math’s cock as his lips stretched around the thickness of it. When he pulled back, he let the head slide out of his mouth with a lewd pop. The twist of his fist dragged Math’s foreskin up to bunch around the glans and then back down again. This time Jack let his teeth graze along the thick length of the cock.

It wasn’t something that most humans appreciated, in Jack’s experience, but it made Math groan and twist his fingers in Jack’s hair. The tug prickled across Jack’s scalp and down his spine.

“I was your first love. You were my first soul,” Math said. His voice scraped along the edge of a low, thick growl. He tightened his grip on the back of Jack’s head as Jack went still, old wounds caught on the raw, and rolled his hips in a slow, hard thrust. Math’s cock slid over Jack’s tongue and bumped the roof of his mouth. The taste of him, the smell of him filled Jack until he felt dizzy with it. Some old indoctrinated part of him wanted to be ashamed of how much he wanted this, was pretty sure he should be, but Jack ignored it. He had a lot to be ashamed of, and he’d never deny that, but not Math and not this. He braced his hands on the desk and sucked eagerly as Math thrust into his mouth again. His tongue pushed against and around the thick cock as Math’s voice dripped into his ear. “It felt… neat, like a closed circle. Most deals aren’t so satisfying. Some miserable little man who smells like grease and bad coffee comes to you with an envy-bitten soul and an ambition as underwhelming as his cock.”

Math pulled Jack’s head back to look up at him, his cock still in Jack’s mouth and his knuckles against the back of Jack’s skull. His eyes were still blue and sharp as he searched Jack’s face to make sure he understood.

“It gets dull.”

Math pushed Jack off his cock and dragged him to his feet. A quick, harsh kiss stole the penny-sharp taste of his cock from Jack’s mouth.

“My heart bleeds,” Jack gasped out raggedly.

Math dragged his T-shirt down over his shoulder—the thin fabric made a wet, almost organic sound as he pulled it too far—and leaned down to press his mouth to the still-open wound. He laved his tongue over the torn flesh, mapped the edges of the bite, and then he bit down on it. Jack sucked in his breath raggedly and grabbed the back of Math’s neck. He could feel the tendons work in his throat, the long lines that ran up into the corner of his jaw, as Math tasted him.

“So I see,” Math said as he raised his head. He licked blood from his lips. “Still sweet as hemlock, Jack.”

“I thought I didn’t have what you wanted anymore,” Jack said.

Math pushed Jack back onto the desk. Old papers crumpled under his back, and the sharp edge of a book dug into his hip.

“You don’t have what I need,” Math corrected him. “What I want, though?”

Math skimmed his hand in a tease of a caress over the hard bulge at Jack’s groin. The blue of his eyes drained into black as Jack hitched his hips up into the touch. Math dragged Jack’s jeans down his thighs and left them hobbled around his knees. He cupped Jack’s balls in his cool, callused fingers—callused for no reason; he’d never worked, but still he had the hands Jack expected—and squeezed hard enough to make Jack swear and writhe on the slick walnut surface.

“What I want is right here,” Math said as he tugged on his handful of flesh. “And we both know what you want, Jack.”

He let go and rolled Jack over onto his stomach. Jack swore, a strangled blurt of noise, as his cock was trapped between his stomach and the wax-polished wood of the desk. It made him squirm, ass in the air, until Math slapped his ass with a sharp crack of sound and a seductive jolt of hot, stinging pain.

“Unless you don’t want it?” Math teased as he kissed the sting better, his breath cool against hot flesh. “Do you want me to stop?”

Jack laughed. His breath ruffled the papers under his jaw, the ink smeared where he’d sweated on them. “When have I ever?”

He felt Math pull his cheeks apart and his asshole puckered tight at the wet flick of Math’s tongue against it. Jack groaned and pressed his head down on his forearm. The backs of his thighs ached and trembled, the heavy knot of lust in his groin tight enough to hurt as Math pushed his tongue inside him. Jack tried to squirm against the table, but Math’s arm over the small of his back pinned Jack in place as Math worked.

The crabbed, ugly script on the papers under his nose swam into focus. Jack recognized the shape of the letters. He’d seen it on the card Math’s father had sent to the church to request… “spiritual guidance” after the death of his wife. It hadn’t even been a well-laid trap. Despite himself, Jack picked out one word after another on the crumpled page.

…shame and piety to the straight and narrow. The Boy is set on him, but I still wager the old priest wants heaven for himself more than he fears….

Jack closed his eyes. The torn pages were just dream flotsam, cobbled together from memory and old paranoia. Even if they were real, there were things Jack didn’t want to know.

Math’s hand was curled around his hip hard enough to bruise, and his spit slicked Jack’s hole and dripped wet down to his balls. That was enough to focus on. Jack clenched his fist and pressed his knuckles against the wood. His cock throbbed heavily against his stomach, and he couldn’t stop the frustrated hitch of hips as he ground himself against the hard, scalloped edge of the desk.

“Do you know what demons do to dull people?” Math asked as he gave Jack’s ass one last kiss.

“Leave them alone?”

Math snorted and ran his hand up Jack’s back. He curled his fingers over the bloody bite wound and squeezed down. The sharp pain of it got tangled up in the delirious, ball-aching hunger and melted into a queasy pleasure that made Jack whine and grind against the desk.

“Once they’ve gone to so much trouble to get my attention? Seems rude,” Math said. The thick, blunt head of his insistent cock pressed against Jack’s ass, and Jack struggled to hold on to what Math actually said. He knew it was important, but as Jack felt his ass stretch around Math’s rigid shaft, it didn’t feel important. “No, what we do is make them interesting, give them much more than they thought to ask for. At least, those of us with power to spare do. It makes it so much sweeter when we take it back.”

“You guys need to look into hobbies,” Jack said raggedly.

He could feel the tight pressure of Math’s cock inside him as it worked deeper with each slow roll of his hips. Jack’s ass stung as he stretched, a reminder that even the bad-idea itch he’d scratched with Ambrose had been a while back, and then bled into the hot, pleasant warmth of worked muscle.

“You’re my hobby,” Math growled at him.

He buried himself inside Jack in one long, smooth thrust. Jack gasped and cursed raggedly as he was shoved forward. His stomach muscles clenched, hot and fluttery under his skin, and his thighs trembled as he tried to brace himself.

Math fucked him with long, hard strokes that stretched Jack wide around him and forced him down against the wood. Jack’s cock, trapped between his stomach and the smooth, waxed surface of the desk, throbbed with dense lust.

“God,” he muttered, mindless with want.

Math laughed and ran his hand up Jack’s back. He traced his fingers along the tight play of muscle from his ass up to his shoulder as he thrust again and Jack’s muscles clenched.

“Try again,” he said. “What do you want, Jack?”

He knew the answer. It was the same answer whenever Math asked. All he wanted was to make Jack say it.

“My soul,” Jack said.

Math twisted his fingers in his hair and pulled him back.

“Right now?” He thrust roughly, and his cock slid a quarter of an inch deeper inside Jack’s ass. A dark, liquid sensation pooled in his stomach, and a sharp, desperate noise escaped the tight arc of his throat. Math leaned over him, pressed a sharp-toothed kiss to the pulse under his jaw, and mouthed against wet skin, “One-time offer, Jack. Tell me what you want, and you can have it.”

It was a lie. Or that’s what Jack tried to tell himself, but he knew it wasn’t. Otherwise the choice he was about to make was just stupid.

“You.” The admission scraped its way out of his throat. “I want you.”

Jack felt the smug smile against his throat.

“I know.” Math braced an arm on the desk and pushed himself off Jack. His cock slid out of Jack’s ass as he did so, and the hollow it left cramped up into Jack’s bowels.

“Turn over,” Math told him.

It wasn’t graceful. In the dream-trap of an incubus, you’d think it would be all graceful fucks, not papers slid onto the floor, jeans tangled around your shins, or expensive-looking inkwells knocked over onto the floor with a very realistic crack of crystal against wood. Maybe then people would know it wasn’t real.

Jack awkwardly shoved his jeans down his legs and kicked them off. His T-shirt was plastered to his stomach with sweat, the neck torn from collarbone to nipple, and his cock was slick with sex, come, and spit. Somehow Math made being mostly dressed look more lewd, his hand wrapped around the hard, wet curve of his cock and his jeans slouched low over his hips. He tilted his head to the side and licked his lips.

“I should have fucked you on my father’s desk when I had the chance,” he said. “Or on his corpse.”

“We did make out on my mom’s grave,” Jack said. It wasn’t funny… in a twisted way that made it funnier.

Math clicked his tongue as he stepped in close and nudged Jack’s legs wider apart. The dull ache between his hips made Jack’s stomach muscles flinch.

“She clawed her way out years before,” Math said. “It hardly counts.”

His cock nudged up against Jack’s taint as he leaned over him, and a hot thread of pleasure sliced briefly through everything else. Jack squirmed under him, the hard plane of Math’s stomach hardly softer than the table against his aching cock, and shuddered as Math scraped his teeth roughly across the flat bud of his nipple.

Jack wrapped his legs around Math’s lean waist, his ass lifted into the air, and Math reached down between their bodies to adjust his cock. The wet head of it nudged against the sensitive skin of Jack’s asshole, and everything from Jack’s ass to his navel pulled tight and tender as Math shoved roughly into him.

They fucked messily on the desk, possession scrawled on each of their bodies in spit and bruises. Math’s kisses dappled blood down Jack’s throat, and Jack raised welts on Math’s shoulders and across his back.

Each thrust slapped Jack’s ass against the sweat-slick and slippery desk and tightened the screw on his balls. Math’s eyes had bled black, the whim of glamour lost, and he worked his hand between their bodies to grab Jack’s cock. His knuckles dug into Jack’s stomach as he squeezed roughly in time with each stroke and the seams of his jeans chafed against Jack’s thighs.

It felt like holding your breath. The tight pressure, the sense of weight, and the steady build toward that gasp of relief. Jack came first in a wet spill over the tight cuff of Math’s fist. It glazed Math’s fingers like milky icing as he raised them to his mouth and licked them clean. Dry hunger wrung painfully through Jack as he watched Math’s throat work as he swallowed, and his ass clenched tightly around Math’s cock.

Math leaned down and kissed Jack, lips sticky and warm from Jack’s come. He came inside Jack, cool and sparse, and then sprawled out on top of him. His lean body seemed heavier than bone and tight muscle had any right to.

His cock, soft now, slipped out of Jack as Math whispered in his ear. “Get what I lost back.” His breath, musky with sex, brushed against Jack’s cheek. “Or I might not have your soul to return to you.”

JACK WOKE up in his cold bed. The evidence that it hadn’t been quite a dream was dried sticky on his balls and chewed into his skin. His shoulder had knit itself back together, and Math’s bite was bruised dark where the raw flesh had been. The sheets were sweat-soaked, tangled around his legs, and ripe with the smell of sex and Math.

He knew better than to think it would wash out. The cotton could be doused in bleach for a month, and the smell would linger, pungent whenever Jack grabbed his cock or brought an itch back to scratch. His skin was the same, but he couldn’t burn that.

Jack thought about whether he should get up and change the sheets before he got hard again. He couldn’t be bothered. It could wait till morning. Until then he could just sleep in Math’s spoor. It wouldn’t be the first time.

If he did get his soul back, it might be the last.

4

TO SOMEONE—something—in Hell, a world of fresh food, sunny days, and dogs must look like heaven. And what wouldn’t you do to get into Heaven?

BACK IN South Carolina, the first flowers of Hell’s blooms had sprouted in the fisheries. In Craven it had been in the Backlin and Yard slaughterhouse. Jack didn’t know how it started. The workers who were laid off when the place finally closed their doors had shiny new SUVs and nondisclosure agreements. But Hell settled in to stay when Brixton Yard’s secretary found her boss neatly butchered and laid out in cutlets on his desk.

The official cause of death came down as suicide, the county pathologist bought a shiny new boat, and Martin Backlin’s vintage Chevy remained parked in his assigned spot in front of the boarded-up building.

Jack saw it as he rode past on his bike. The dark-red Chevy looked fat and well-fed in the morning light, with no dust or rain spots to mar the paintwork. Despite the fact that the slaughterhouse hadn’t been in use for six years, the stink of death—blood, fear, and shit—still hung in the air like a dark perfume.

Between Jack’s legs, his bike’s engine coughed harshly, and his nerves gave a cold pinch on the nape of his neck. Stupid, but driving past the Chevy felt like walking past an alligator in the woods, or when Jack used to sneak out of the house through the narrow window before his dad got abusively drunk.

Like one wrong step and it might not kill you, but you’d regret it.

It felt stupid to be wary of what, in car years, was basically a retired septuagenarian. Jack felt the itch of it down his spine anyhow, until he took the corner at the end of the street and the Chevy was out of sight.

The corruption had spread out under the slaughterhouse’s high chain-link fence and into the surrounding streets. At first it was only at night and only if you were—on some level—looking for it, but soon enough the personable fellow at the crossroads with his sharp suit and sharper nib could be found at noon. Children would run past old dead-eyed houses with bad histories—even though a month ago they had just been houses with swings in the garden and lazy old men who drank beer in their underpants on the porch—and teenagers would dare each other to go in and, sometimes, they’d not make it back.

After a while anyone with good intentions left. They got new jobs somewhere else or went away to college. Or, sometimes Backlin’s Chevy would be spotted, parked outside a house, and by morning, the family living there would be gone. It was okay. No one had liked the new neighbors anyhow—the demonic, the soulless, the stupid kids in black leather and cast-iron amulets who thought they were the next John Dee.

That’s when the rest of the city had named the whole area the Badends. No one questioned why, and if asked, they’d say it had always been called that.

By now Hell’s roots had gone deep enough there that some streets couldn’t even be found on Google Maps. Even Hell’s architecture was predatory, and neglected streets and empty cul-de-sacs made for easy prey. Jack needed to find one of those cuckoo streets if he wanted to find Clem. One of the few things that could be said about Clem Runnell was that he never half-assed anything. He’d made his choice, and he wallowed in it.

When a pass through the streets didn’t turn up anything, Jack pulled in to the curb at an intersection. The shadow of the city’s overpass lay damp and unwholesome over the street. Damp gray moss crawled up out of the drains, and fat, twisted things that looked like rats scrapped with things that looked like cats behind the dented rows of garbage cans. A thin man with greasy hair showed teeth the same color as the moss to two women whose hair was too glossy and clothes too department-store nice to belong down there.

Jack kicked the stand down and got off the bike. One of the women, dark-haired and stocky, gave him a wary glance as he walked toward them. She had glitter smudged into the corners of her eyes from the night before and the slightly worried look of someone who realized they were in over their head.

“Marissa,” she hissed as she grabbed her friend’s elbow. “Maybe we should go.”

The other woman, smaller, blonder, and angrier jerked her arm free. “No. Fuck that, Janey. She deserves this. She is my best friend and she fucked my girlfriend.”

A weary, unsurprised look flashed over Janey’s face. Maybe she’d thought coming into the Badends without even a chance to wash last night off her face would elevate her to best friend or girlfriend, but she wasn’t surprised it hadn’t.

“This is stupid,” she said. “None of this stuff is real. Let’s go. Just tell everyone what she did.”

Jack stopped out of grabbing distance and shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

“You should listen,” he said. “This isn’t something to mess with.”

“Shut up,” Marissa spat at Janey and then swung a venomous mascara-masked glare toward Jack. “And you can mind your business. Who do you think you are? My father? Mattie always wanted to have a ‘real’ supernatural experience. All I’m doing is making it happen.”

“It’s not real,” Marissa repeated. Her voice was low and a lot less convinced of that than it had been a minute before. She bounced nervously from one flimsy pump to the other and glanced at the scrapping monsters as they rattled between the trash cans. “I mean, it’s just urban legends? Right?”

Janey huffed in irritation and rubbed the heel of her hand over her eye. It didn’t help unsmear her makeup.

“Mattie will think it’s real,” she spat. “Keep up.”

“Well, I’m leaving,” Marissa blurted. “This is stupid.”

She turned and scurried away toward the cute blue VW parked a few yards away. Janey hesitated for a second and then flapped a “wait here” hand at the greasy gray man. “Just give me a minute to get her to stop freaking out. She’s my ride.”

“Yeah, you don’t want to try and catch the bus around here,” Jack said.

Janey snorted at him and clattered away over the road, her skinny ankles at risk as she tottered over the potholed road. She caught up with Marissa, and they bickered over the keys.

“Fuck off, priest,” the gray man spat.

Jack tugged the collar of his shirt and felt a quick rash of inappropriate heat over his stomach as he remembered Math doing the same thing.

“Not a priest anymore,” he said.

Gray man showed his brown teeth. “You still stink of it. Second thoughts and fucking shame, it’s not good for business.”

It wasn’t, and Jack had been warned about that. He swallowed the instinctive belligerence that wanted to snarl at the gray man—he’d learned as a kid that men didn’t “take anyone’s shit,” and you never quite forgot a lesson from the end of a belt—and just shrugged instead.

“I need to find Clem,” he said. “Clem Runnells.”

The gray man laughed. There was something in his throat, thick and furzed around his tonsils, and his breath smelled fetid.

“Think anyone comes down here,” he asked, “looking for some other fucking Clem? What does the likes of you want with him?”

Jack smiled thinly. “Nothing that I want to share with some corner dealer. Where can I find him?”

Gray man hesitated, but then he glanced over at the Beetle and saw the day’s best sale already halfway in the car, her long bare legs stuck out into the road as she talked. His tongue darted out over his lips.

“You can usually find him at the Tantalus Draft—two streets down and take a left.” The gray man gave Jack an unfriendly look. “Don’t tell him I sent you.”

He shoved past Jack and moved to the edge of his patch, the spot where corner technically turned to street.

“Tell you what, two for the price of one,” he called out as he reached into his coat and pulled out two charms. “The bloke fucked you over, too, right?”

To Jack, the charms looked like old bone on fresh tendons—still wet—but Janey must have seen something different. She shrugged off Marissa’s attempt to pull her back and scrambled out of the car.

Despite her claim that this was just a mean trick, there was a nasty glitter in her eyes as she reached for the charms. The gray man tugged them back out of her reach and made them dance from their cords. Janey pouted but pulled her hand back as she fell into the negotiation.

“What will they do to them?” she asked in a voice that tried to be cagey but couldn’t disguise its eagerness. “I mean, how will I know it’s worth my time?”

The gray man stepped back until he could lean against the wall, and she followed him. Once she was back on the corner, the gray man started his pitch.

Jack closed his ears to it. It wasn’t his business, and it was easier to ignore if he didn’t know the details. He stalked back over to his bike and swung his leg over it, and the muscles in his thighs, still tender from the night before, ached as he pushed the weight of the machine upright.

It growled to life under him, and better judgment aside, Jack looked back as he drove away—not at Janey but Marissa, hunched and miserable in the car. As though she were ready for a quick getaway, she hadn’t bothered to close the passenger-side door. She rubbed her hand over her face.

Guilt gnawed at Jack’s stomach from two directions. On one side, could he really just abandon two women in Hell without even a lifeline, but on the other, a little girl needed him to rescue her… and his soul? The Kinney girl won. She’d been dragged into adult sins against her will. Marissa and Janey had driven down there of their own volition.

In Craven, bad intentions would always end up in Badends. People knew that, whether they admitted it or not, and they had to live with their own decisions.

That conviction got him to the left turn he was supposed to take, but instead he spun the bike around in a tight circle and drove back down the road. The gray man tracked him with suspicious eyes as he drove past, but he couldn’t distract his attention from Janey for too long. He had to sell her a fix so he could get his own.

Jack stopped next to the VW Beetle and leaned down to look in through the passenger door. A massive sunflower air-freshener hung from the rearview mirror and filled the interior of the car with the incongruous musk of roses. Marissa jerked her head up and gave him a worried look.

“I don’t have any money,” she blurted.

“Don’t bring her back here,” Jack told her. “If she comes anyhow, don’t come with her.”

Marissa wiped her cheek clumsily with one hand and sniffed. “We won’t be back. This is just to freak Mattie out, make her think she’s cursed. Why would Janey come back?”

Some people had a weakness for alcohol, some for heroin. Jack had grown up with enough of those. Others had an addict’s weakness for the Infernal. When he glanced over the road at Janey, he saw that in her face and in the hungry crook of her fingers as she tried to snatch the charms from the gray man’s restless hands.

He wasn’t in any position to judge, but he couldn’t miss it either.

“Why would you?” he asked Marissa.

Her lips, red matte lipstick still caught in the corners, pleated in a miserable smile. “She’s my best friend.”

“If she keeps coming down here,” Jack told her, “she won’t be anyone’s friend.”

Marissa looked stubborn, but Jack couldn’t do anything about that. He’d given her fair warning, and that was more than most people got. She might just have to learn on her own that some people weren’t cut out to be anyone’s friends, even if they didn’t end up addicted to the Infernal.

Jack revved the engine and swung the bike around in a tight, feet-up U-turn. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too late for Marissa, and Jack wouldn’t be too late for the little Kinney girl.

MOST OF the time, Hell dressed itself up in the shabby trappings of the human world. Demons put on pleasant smiles and carried briefcases made of leather that was too fine and slightly freckled. They pruned the black, bloody trees of the dead into box hedges and set their gardeners to pluck the dead birds and shrews from the hollow thorns.

Tantalus’s Draft hadn’t bothered. It had dragged itself out of Hell and seeded down in a cheap sports bar. You could see the line where they had been fused together, as the cracked obsidian floor ate into the scarred parquet, and the bottles of lead-capped hemlock distillations jostled up against IPAs.

Demons in sharp black suits drank pale oily liquors with the squirming, too-small skinsuits of the possessed. Blood dribbled from corrosive-scorched lips—Hell’s booze wasn’t meant for human livers—as the possessed spat out words between the host’s sobs. Tired waitresses brought plates of blanched sliced mushrooms and flayed fish, the pulped flesh bright as the thing breathed its last, and handed them off to diners. Most ate them with knife and fork, but a few just shed human manners and slobbered over their plates like hungry dogs.

It would have been less disturbing if they looked like monsters.

The humans in the bars—groupies and warlocks, cultists and nihilistic teens—sipped watered-down venial sins and traded spells under the tables like porn. Jack shrugged his battered jacket off and propped himself up against the bar. Thick veins of red ran through the dark wood and pulsed with a slow, weak heartbeat under his forearms.

“Can I interest you in a drink?” the bartender asked as she turned to him. A flick of the cloth she’d just used to wipe the bar shed crumbs over the floor, and she tucked it back into her pocket. She smiled at him and flashed empty gums and two metal implant fangs. “A bottle of Lethe perhaps. Half price for the first pretty new face in here in forever.”

She slid the clear bottle toward him, but Jack pushed it back to her. It wouldn’t do him any harm to drink it, since it was usually just tap water. Sometimes it had flavors mixed in or was dipped from streams to give in an authentically stony touch of chlamydia. Mostly they just filled it from a tap and glared any questions into silence.

There was no Lethe. Or if there were, demons had no ready access to it. If you wanted to forget—and at times Jack had in other bars—the black lustful whiskey was the best bet.

“Clem,” he said. “Where is he?”

The bartender poked a nervous tongue up into the sharp point of her teeth. The flowers she had tattooed over her neck and shoulders moved when she swallowed as though they’d caught the breeze. She didn’t answer Jack’s question but just pointed with her chin over to the shadowed booth in the very corner of the room.

Jack passed a tainted silver coin over the bar. In Hell no one cared about curses. How could life get worse? The bartender scooped it up and stuck it in her pocket while Jack turned and headed over to Clem’s table.

“I was surprised to find out you were back in town,” Jack said as he sat down in the booth. The cheap vinyl sighed and sunk under his weight, the smell trapped in the stuffing musty and fetid. “Last I heard you weren’t welcome.”

Clem tossed back a shot of kerosene-oily gin and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The shadows of the booth fell across him like a curtain, so Jack couldn’t read his expression.

“Things change,” Clem said sourly. “Look at you. Used to think you were so fucking special. Now you’re just some washed-up old priest that no one cares about. Still running errands and sucking cock. Whose is it now? Zachariah’s? I told him if I were interested in playing acolyte, I’d had offers from real demons over the years.”

Jack grimaced. Maybe some things changed, but Clem didn’t. He never would.

They’d grown up in the same place at the same time. Not together. Jack’s dad had been the town drunk and his ma the town whore, or that’s what people called her, anyhow. The Runnells had been what passed for rich around there, turned out judges and doctors and even the occasional small-town politician.

So when Clem found out about magic and demons, he assumed it was for him. He wanted to claim ownership of Hell, to spit “do you know who I am?” at demons and have them quail like the poor broke waitress at the local diner.

It didn’t work like that, but he’d never given up. One hit of the Infernal had been enough to hook him for life, and he’d never quite gotten over that it didn’t give a damn about him. That was why he never made it as a cultist and ended up selling his soul in dribs and drabs—he wanted the demons to serve him.

“I’m looking for someone,” Jack said.

Clem poured himself another glass of gin. “If Math has finally lost interest in you, Jack, give up and have yourself put down. Old dogs and old priests don’t get new homes.”

“Dale Kinney.” Jack hitched his hip up off the booth and pulled out a folded-into-quarters photo of the man in question. Creased lines etched over the bland soft face when he unfolded the paper, but the image was recognizable. Jack pushed it over the table. “I don’t have time to play games, Clem. This is important. Do you know him?”

Clem snatched the photo off him and crumpled it up between his fingers. He leaned forward, finally out of the shadows, to glare at Jack. The state of him made Jack recoil in surprise. Hell treated nobody well, but the last time Jack had crossed paths with Clem, he’d been generically degraded, with puffy skin, scabs, and a junkie’s hollow eyes. Still recognizable, though, still tall and bony with expensively cut red-blond hair. Not anymore. He looked like he’d sold his color to Hell for something. His hair was dishwater-gray and his skin nearly the same color, and all his sharp bones had gotten lost under tight, bloated skin.

Not fat, not like he’d had any pleasure in getting there, just swollen and pocked with soft-edged craters. He looked like proving dough, like you could slice a chunk off and roll it, but Jack didn’t like to think about what he’d bake into.

“I don’t want to, and I ain’t gonna, help you,” Clem spat out. His eyes were dull and porridge-colored behind pink-rimmed lashes. “There’s nothing in it for me. If you fuck this up, maybe Math will finally realize he needs someone with a bit more class to deal with business for him.”

Guilt gnawed at the back of Jack’s throat. It felt like his fault. Not because he’d jumped the line to sell his soul, but because no matter how much he disliked Clem—all their lives, long before Hell was anything other than a way to liven up the Sunday sermon—he had been part of Jack’s congregation. This was the sort of thing that priests were definitely not supposed to let happen.

It was enough to get Clem one more chance. “This isn’t about currying fucking favor, Clem,” he rasped. “There’s a little kid missing. She could be anywhere, with anyone.”

Clem laughed nastily and slouched back into the shadows again. He dipped his finger into the gin and noisily sucked it clean.

“Why should I care? That’s just one less white-trash hillbilly to worry about,” he said. “Shame no one did the same to you—”

Jack reached over the table, twisted his fingers in Clem’s sweat-damp colorless hair, and smacked his face down into the table. The impact tipped over the bottle of gin, and acrid viscous liquor spilled out over the table. Clem screamed muffled profanities as Jack pressed his face into the puddle of gin, spit, and blood.

“Care yet?” he asked.

Clem garbled out a wet insult through split lips and cracked teeth and groped at the pockets of his coat with frantic hands. He managed to hook a thorned lead amulet out of his pocket with one hand and lashed out blindly with it. Jack swore and grabbed Clem’s wrist, dug his fingers to the bone, and smacked it against the edge of the table until he let the amulet drop.

It fell into the spreading pool of spilled gin and sizzled like acid.

“You broke my wrist,” Clem screamed at him. “Fucking gutter-trash cracker inbreed. I’ll—”

Jack smacked his face into the table again to shut him up. “I don’t want to enjoy this,” he growled harshly. “So shut up unless I ask you a question.”

He shifted his grip to the back of Clem’s collar and dragged him over the table. Clem didn’t shut up. He screamed insults flecked with blood and spit, grabbed at the edge of the table and the torn seats of the booth with both hands, and writhed like a gaffed trout. The other customers either pretended not to notice, engrossed in whatever they saw in the bottom of their glasses, or turned to look.

One last yank pulled Clem all the way out of the booth. He rolled off the table and hit the floor with a thud that didn’t sound quite heavy enough. Jack used his collar to haul him back to his feet and shook him until his teeth clacked and he shut up.

“Changed your mind?” he asked.

Clem spat blood spit at him. He didn’t snort enough phlegm for it to carry, and most of it dribbled down his chin. Only a wet spray hit Jack’s face, but he took that as his answer. He dragged up the collar of his T-shirt to wipe his face and shoved Clem toward the door.

“Get off me! Get your filthy hands off me.” Clem’s fingers squeaked over the bar as he grabbed it, and blood smeared along it as the sharp stone cut him down the bone. He tried to dig his heels in but couldn’t find purchase. In a panic he fell back to his old habits. “Do you know who I am?!”

Jack laughed at him. “Fuck’s sake, Clem. Do you think anyone cares?”

With a gargled snarl, Clem twisted around and swung his fist in a wild, knuckly haymaker at Jack’s head. It caught Jack on the cheekbone, and the impact rattled through his bones before the dull ache of the bruise settled in. Blood dripped down his cheek and onto his shirt.

Clem grunted in satisfaction and tried again with a short left-handed hook to the ribs. He’d never been much of a fighter, not when he could pay other people to do it for him. Jack absorbed the crack to his ribs, grabbed the lapels of Clem’s coat, and yanked him in close enough to ram his knee into Clem’s crotch.

There wasn’t as much “meat” there as you’d expect, but it was still enough to make Clem whine and fold over. He staggered back and bumped into a painfully thin figure on a barstool. The impact made the figure spill their beige, thick slop over the bar, and they hissed like a snake writ large in irritation. They unfolded themselves from the stool and turned around.

“That was my drink,” the perfectly unremarkable, somehow undeniably wrong person said. It was impossible to say exactly what they’d gotten wrong about being human—a little too thin, maybe, or the way the perfect white veneer of their teeth matched their eyes—but it was enough to disturb. “You spilled my drink.”

Usually that was when Jack would invoke Math, the seal on his throat evidence he had the right to do so. If Math’s name wasn’t enough to make whatever it was back down, then a mixture of threat, blackmail, and flirtation would defuse the tension.

That was off the table.

Jack grabbed a bottle of whiskey, swung it in a short, vicious arc, and smashed it against the side of the demon’s head. Its odd glassy eyes skewed with the impact, and it wobbled on its feet. Blood and red liquor poured down its face and stained the neat collar of its shirt. The starch wilted as it got wet.

The only thing his dad had ever bothered to teach him—when in doubt, fuck somebody up. If nothing else, it will buy you some time.

The demon reached up and dubiously poked the bloody injury. The jagged chunks of glass stuck in its thick skin ripped its fingers as it poked at them.

“That hurts,” it said incredulously. It looked around at the other demons and repeated itself. “It hurt me!”

Jack hooked his foot behind its ankle and yanked. It staggered, and while it was still off-balance, he grabbed it by the throat and muscled it up to the bar.

“I could strip your skin and fuck your heart,” it spat at him. “What are you? How did you do that?”

Jack tightened his grip on its throat. It swallowed, and the way its throat worked under his fingers felt alien. He leaned in until he could smell the sour-milk neglected-baby stink that sweated off it and whispered in its ear.

“I guess I’m just a special case,” he said. “So just back off and let me finish my business with Clem.”

A muscle twitched just under its eye. “You’re still just human. I could take you apart and stitch you back together inside out, give you a fucking spleen for a nose.”

Jack grinned against its cheek, and the scrape of his stubble made it shudder. “I’ll fuck you up on the way down, though. And what will that make you look like?”

“The winner,” it sneered, but its perfect doll’s eyes rolled as it took in the audience. “Whatever. You aren’t worth the time. Besides, you need to catch a bus.”

Jack looked around just in time to see Clem stagger out the door and slam it behind him.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

He let go of the demon’s throat and started toward the door. A few other demons got up and moved to intercept him. He wasn’t sure if it was loyalty or curiosity, but it didn’t bode well for him. Demons didn’t care for fame, and rarely understood how to actually fight, but there were more of them. Besides, when you could twist off someone’s arm like the leg off an overcooked turkey, you didn’t need to know the proper technique to throw a punch.

They probably wouldn’t—probably couldn’t—kill him, but it wouldn’t be pleasant. Jack didn’t know what it would mean for Math either. If he didn’t intervene to save his favorite toy, he might look weak.

Jack drew himself up and shrugged his jacket straight over his shoulders. He lifted his chin and picked the demon in the middle to lock eyes with. She looked like a yummy mummy, with blonde hair in a messy ponytail and yoga pants stamped with more logos than pattern. But the raw fish smeared over her face and the pin bones caught in her teeth would probably scare the other mummies in her yoga class.

He walked up to her, and she cocked her head and grinned fishily at him. “Look at you. Brave little man,” she crooned.

“Don’t make me break out the Latin,” he said.

The grin didn’t shift. She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth, visible against her cheeks, and then slowly stepped back. One of the other demons went to step forward into her place, and she grabbed him by the back of his head. His skull crunched when her fingers dug through the bone, and his face went slack. She put him down on the floor, and his knees cracked against the stone.

Jack jogged past her, but she leaned over and hissed in his ear as he passed, and the words caught despite his best efforts to ignore them.

“Maybe we’ll fuck bloody one day,” she said and slapped his ass hard enough to make him stagger as the muscle went numb down to his knee.

“You’re not my type,” he tossed back as he made himself keep moving on his numb leg.

She laughed. It was surprised and honest, an untempered scrape of raw vocal cords and sand. “I don’t care.”

He shuddered and stiff-armed the door open. Drops of blood were smeared over the road outside, and a seagull stood over one and pecked at the blood on the pavement. It cocked his head, squinted a beady yellow at him, and flapped away as he got too close. Maybe it was a Hell thing, or it might just be a gull. It could be hard to tell the difference.

Jack followed the trail around the corner and into a cloud of gritty, sickly sour powder. He punched through it and laid Clem out flat on the muddy alley. Fresh blood poured from his battered nose, and he tried to stem it on the cuff of his jacket.

“What was that?” Jack spat grit off his lips and rubbed his finger and thumb over his eyelids.

“It should have drawn your soul from your body,” Clem said, “so I could trap it.”

He crawled his hand over the ground to an embossed bag he’d dropped, but Jack stood on his wrist and bore down until he heard the creak of bone.

“I’d need a soul in residence for that to work, wouldn’t I?” Jack asked.

Clem snorted a laugh out through clenched teeth. “I suppose you would. I always forget.”

Jack kept his foot where it was and crouched down. The weight against his arm made Clem go a sickly whey color and whine through his nose.

“If anything happens to that little girl,” Jack said. “I’ll….”

“What?” Clem asked. “Pray for me, Father?”

Jack reached down and grabbed his nose. The broken bones shifted sickeningly under his fingers, and Clem croaked out a strangled sound. Bubbles of blood snotted between Jack’s fingers.

“You won’t get away with this.” Clem’s voice was thick and half strangled with blood. “We’ll see how cocky you are when I send lilim to pick the flesh from your bones. Or maybe I’ll summon your dear, dead ma. Remember how piss-pants scared you were—”

Jack used his grip on Clem’s nose to rap his skull back into the ground and shut him up. It cut the threats short, but Clem knew he’d hit a nerve and cackled about it.

“So you know my sore spots,” Jack said. “And I know yours. I know how long you’ve warlocked yourself out to any demon willing to sell you a spell. How much respect do you think you’ll get around here if everyone knows you can’t cash your checks anymore? You’ve got, what, one sliver of a soul left? Maybe two? Do you think that Zachariah of yours would still be trying to win you over, or would he just take what he wanted?”

“Shut up,” Clem said through tight lips. “What do you know about souls? You pawned yours off to Heaven and then traded it to Math for his cock.”

He sounded defiant, but his blanched eyes looked defeated. The fight had gone out of everything but his voice. Jack let go of his nose and wiped bloody, snotty fingers on Clem’s shirt. He didn’t have any spare T-shirts left.

“Kinney,” he said. “You did business with him, right?”

Clem licked blood off his lips and grimaced. “I do business with a lot of people.”

Jack reached for his nose again, and Clem twisted his head to the side as he spat the words out.

“Fine, bastard, all right. All right. I know him. The Candleman. I bought candles and stuff off him to pawn off on the pilgrims. I used some myself. I don’t have anything against the bastard, Jack, or his family. He’s just some useful nobody. Everyone knows him. Everyone buys from him, even that jumped-up sorcerer’s apprentice Zachariah. But then you forget about him until it’s dark and you need a light.”

“Was nobody,” Jack said. “Someone killed him. Who was his patron?”

Clem turned his head and spat. “He didn’t have one. Dead?”

“He had a shrine in his diner,” Jack said. “The sigil was a goat head, no horns. What demon answers to that?”

Clem looked blank. “Nobody. I’m telling you, Kinney wasn’t a cultist. He sold his soul. It was a straight trade—one and done. Think about it. Worship is like the zombie powder. You need a soul to make it work.”

That… made sense. Jack should have thought of that. He cast his mind to the little cupboard with the grubby cardboard boxes and fresh white-chalk goat face on the wall and the pile of tainted silver that tinkled and dinged. The wife? Jack had considered the idea she might be complicit but not that she might have been an active participant.

“Did anyone have a grudge against Kinney?” Jack pushed. “Has he sent out a bad batch of candles, gotten in the middle of any disputes—”

Clem shook his head before Jack finished. “He’s… he was… nobody—a useful nobody. There’s no reason for anyone to kill him.”

“Maybe he had something they wanted,” Jack said, careful of how much information he gave out. “He sold his soul. It had to be for something. You’d kill a man for a scrying crystal, wouldn’t you, Clem?”

Clem didn’t bother to look offended. “I would, and I wouldn’t have waited this long to do it. I’m telling you, Kinney had nothing. Nobody cared about him.” Reluctantly Jack believed him. He stood up and stepped back. The minute the weight was gone from his arm—the treads of Jack’s boot bruised livid and blue in the pale flesh—Clem scrambled awkwardly to his feet. He poked gingerly at his teeth behind mashed lips. “Unless you count that cop.”

Jack felt a chill drip down his spine like a goose had just walked over his grave.

“What cop?”

Clem picked a clot of blood out of his nose and shrugged. “The cop. The one who gets all the weird, creepy cases.”

“Ambrose?” Jack asked. “Tall man, thin? Tired?”

“That’s him. He had a real hard-on for ‘the candlemaker’ for some reason. Maybe he thought the Infernal couldn’t do anything if it didn’t have candlelight to work by.” Clem chuckled at his own joke. “Even willing to pay the going rate for information.”

Jack hadn’t thought his stomach could sink any further, but it could.

“Goddammit,” he muttered.

“Look around you,” Clem said bitterly. “He already has.”

5

“THE DEVIL made me do it” is what people say when every other justification has fallen by the wayside. The truth is, the devil never coerces anyone to do anything. It’s more fun to let us get there on our own. And we do.

THEY WERE miles and years apart, but somehow the Craven and Jasper police stations smelled the same—blood, fear, and a whiff of Hell worked into the mortar like blood. It was always one of the last places that Hell blossomed in a town—creepy slaughterhouse stories are urban legends, but if all the police in town suddenly murder their families, that’s national news—but it was always the quickest to succumb.

Too many bad things soaked into the walls—the seventy-two hours a murderer spent behind bars while he replayed every squeal of his victims in his head to get to sleep, the tears of an innocent man in the wrong time at the wrong place, a crooked cop’s lust as he unlocked a door and made a scared drunk girl a sick offer. None of that ever went away, and it was like compost for Hell’s bloom.

Jack slouched back against the wall in reception, a crumpled “See Something, Say Something” under his shoulders, and tried not to think about the last time he was there. It was a fool’s game, of course. The more he tried not to think about something, the more vivid it was. He was still the only one who knew why Detective Jenny Stillman had killed herself and that it hadn’t made much difference. None of it had gone away.

The desk sergeant on duty looked up as though the bleak turn of Jack’s thoughts had made him uncomfortable. He checked the time and reached for the phone.

“…still here,” he muttered as he swung his chair away from Jack. “I don’t care. If Ambrose isn’t here yet, send someone else. Just get rid of him.”

He hung up and swung back around, a fake smile on his narrow face. “Someone will be with you shortly, sir.”

Jack crossed his arms. “Don’t worry,” he said grimly. “I’ll wait.”

The desk sergeant stared at him for a second and then made another call. This time he took the phone into the back office. Jack only caught the stressed words of the conversation, “fuck” and “now” and “creepy bastard.”

Jack would have been offended, but there was no point. No one liked someone who reminded them of things they worked so hard to forget. Everyone in the Craven PD, except the rankest of rookies, had seen things their sanity depended on explaining away.

Five minutes later a fat man with a detective’s badge clipped to his belt came down to reception, halfway into his jacket. Detective Harris Elroy had been fifty pounds lighter and a lot happier before his die-hard skepticism had, well, died. He stopped in front of Jack without looking at him and glanced sidelong at the desk sergeant.

“I’m going for lunch,” he said stiffly. Sweat stained his shirt, and dark crescents were visible under his jacket as they crept down toward his waistband, and perspiration beaded on the back of his neck.

The desk sergeant kept his eyes on the computer, fingers jerky as he jabbed at the keys and grunted.

Harris finally looked at Jack and grimaced as though he’d just stepped in something nasty. He gave a mute jerk of his head and headed to the doors. Jack pushed himself off the wall and followed. He knew not to look back—every story in every culture told you not to—but he did anyhow, once he was in the parking lot.

Behind the glass door, Jenny Stillman watched him leave. Her face was twisted with hatred. Lines that she’d never had before were worked into her skin, and her face was twisted with hatred—what was left of her face.

It wasn’t her, not really. Haints were never the person you mourned at the funeral, just the worst bits of them glued back together. That never made it any easier to see the rags that were left of them.

She smacked her bloody wet hand against the glass until it was stained like a church window.

“Your fault” she scrawled in the blood with a cold, white finger. Then again. And again.

It was what the haints always told him. They weren’t wrong….

“What are you waiting for?” Harris asked impatiently. “You said this was important.”

Jack glanced at him and then back at the station. She was gone. That early in the day, with the Witching Hour a whole turn of the clock away, she’d been lucky that even Jack could see her.

He reminded himself—again, a mental Post-it added to the shrug of others in front of his guilt—never to come to the station after dark.

“Nothing,” he said as he walked over to Harris. “And it is.”

Harris grunted and pulled his egg-stained tie loose from his neck. “Come on then,” he said. “We can talk on the way to the food van. I have enough trouble without people thinking we’re friends.”

Despite what Harris had said, they were halfway down the block before he finally broke his silence.

“Did it smell like blood to you?” he asked absently. “Back there?”

Jack glanced at Harris’s shoulder, at the wet red prints that stained his beige jacket on the shoulders and sleeves. They faded with each step. “No,” he said.

“Doctor says it’s my imagination,” Harris said. “But I swear, it’s like something got in my nose and is rotting there.”

He pulled a tissue out of his pocket and sneezed into it.

“Ambrose didn’t come in today,” Harris said as he wiped his nose. He balled the tissue up in his hands and shoved it back in his pocket. The handprints had almost faded off his shoulders, and there was a sharpness to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “I covered for him, but I don’t want to know what’s going on. Not after what happened with Jenny. I can’t face the… the bad cases anymore, Jack. I can feel the pressure in my head, like a fault line.”

He stabbed a blunt finger against his temple and screwed it around until his nail dug grooves into the skin.

“You should leave,” Jack said.

People always put it off too long. Hell was slow when it rooted down into a neighborhood. The good, the kind, and the pious usually had enough time to find new jobs, to break their lease, to head out of town. But cities went under quickly, and no one got out of Hell.

You did.

“It’s not that easy,” Harris said. “I have a house. My wife is a Realtor, and business is booming. Maybe in a year or so.”

Jack shrugged. “Up to you. Do you know why Ambrose didn’t come in?”

Harris took one of those sidelong looks at Jack again, as though the fault in his head could cope with things seen in the periphery.

“He caught a bad case last night,” he said. “A dead woman washed up in the river. She was all cut up, like the other one a few months ago. Like, you know, sacrificed.”

Jack missed a step. He stumbled and tried to remember the last call he’d gotten from Ambrose. It had been… a while. Until Math had crawled into the dead man on his bed, it had been quiet—no call about a sacrificed girl, and there should have been.

“What girl?” Jack asked.

Harris shrugged as they reached the food van. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, the leather creased and stained with long use, and thumbed out a couple of dollars.

“He didn’t call you?” Harris joined the end of the small line. “He said he was talking to a consultant about it. I didn’t ask much. Maybe the good Father is doing better.”

Jack thought of Colm’s eyes, mismatched in a rare agreement as he denied prayer, and he doubted it.

“Do you remember anything about the case?” he asked. “Any detail?”

A muscle in Harris’s jaw twitched hard as he clenched it. “Didn’t ask.”

The line cleared, and he stepped forward to ask for a pastrami sandwich and a bag of chips. Inside the van a bony man with burns up and down his arms laughed and winked as he grabbed the money.

“Extra sauce,” he promised as he wiped sweat on the back of his sleeve. “Since you’re one of our best customers.”

He grabbed a massive knife from the wall behind him to sliver off long, wet, red strings of pastrami. The blade chunked into the wood with an almost hypnotic steadiness. Harris, shoulder still turned to Jack, said something to the server, and the bony man laughed.

“The secret sauce is blood,” he said conversationally as he turned away to wrap the sandwich.

Harris flinched and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Sorry, what?”

“Good,” the man repeated genially as he turned around. His smile was set below the cheekbones and his gums showed red. It looked painful. “The sauce is good. Everyone says so.”

There was a pause, and then Harris laughed nervously and took the wax-paper-wrapped sandwich. It crinkled under his fingers.

“Yeah, it’s great,” he said. “Sorry, I umm… I misheard.”

He turned away, and the bony man winked broadly at Jack and went back to slicing pastrami. The sound of the blade hitting the wood was off-beat now.

Jack grimaced and went after Harris, who sat down on a low wall to unwrap his sandwich.

“I thought he said something else,” he said absently. “My wife keeps putting me on these diets, but the only time my head feels clear is when I get out of the station. I need some excuse.”

“What happened to the woman pulled from the river last night?” he asked. “Did Ambrose say anything about—”

Harris clenched his hands, and the edges of the sandwich tore under his fingers. Mustard squeezed out, wet and brown between his knuckles.

“I. Didn’t. Ask,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “I can’t. I won’t. Maybe I’m a coward, but what good does any of this do? What good has it done anyone? It just keeps happening, and we keep getting broken. Just ignore it, Jack. Ignore it, and maybe it will go away.”

The words rattled out of him, and for a second, it seemed as though it was all that was holding him up. He sighed and hung his head, preoccupied with wiping the mustard off his fingers on the stiff paper.

“You don’t think I tried?” Jack braced his boot on the wall and leaned on his knee. “If you want rid of me, Harris, you need to tell me where the dead woman is now and where Ambrose lives.”

Harris scratched his jaw and finally looked up at Jack. He shrugged. “She’ll be at the morgue. And I thought you and Ambrose had… ah… you know.”

“He moved.”

“After?” Harris asked as he raised his eyebrows. There was a flicker of old almost-cruel mockery in his tired eyes as Jack nodded. “Ouch. Look, I don’t know his address. I can check back at the station. Say I want to check in on him. That all?”

Jack plucked the sandwich out of his hands. He ignored Harris’s startled “hey” and balled the sandwich up roughly in his hands. Red-stained grease dribbled out of it and smeared the pavement.

“Get me into the morgue,” Jack threw back over his shoulder as he walked away. “Then we’re done.”

He tossed the dripping sandwich into the metal can chained up next to the food van and pulled a fresh handkerchief out of his pocket to fastidiously wipe his hands.

Harris caught him up with him, red-faced and white-eared with anger. He grabbed Jack’s shoulder and yanked him back onto his heels. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Harris demanded. “You’re not my wife. You don’t get to—”

Someone screamed, high and shrill with horror. Then other lower voices joined in, full of stunned fucks.

“Holy fuck!”

“His hand. Jesus! His fucking hand!”

Jack and Harris turned. The bony man in the truck grinned that fixed smile at them and raised his mutilated left hand. The fingers were chopped down to the knuckle.

“Did you enjoy your sandwich?” he asked. “Sweat, blood, and tears goes into every one.”

Harris retched and pressed the back of his hand against his mouth. The high color had seeped from his face and left him a greasy gray. A woman threw her half-eaten sandwich down and ran to shove her fingers down her throat and puke into the garbage can.

“Lost your appetite?” Jack asked. The cruelty in that caught him by surprise, but maybe Harris wasn’t the only one tired of losing. He rubbed his hands on the handkerchief again and then handed the grease-stained linen to Harris. “You should probably deal with this before we go to the morgue.”

Harris turned, retched sour bile into the gutter, and then fished his phone out of his pocket as he stood up.

“I’ve given up on it going away,” he said miserably and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “All I want is to just not look at it. Why can’t I just do that?”

“Sometimes they look at you,” Jack said. “Leave town, Harris. The boom won’t last.”

THE PATHOLOGIST led the way into the morgue. Jack’s footsteps echoed loudly off the blue-green tiles as he followed down into the sunken lab. Harris had walked him in through the door and blustered his way into a viewing, but he wasn’t willing to go any farther. Jack hoped the big man would take his advice and leave town. There were things that had an independent interest in him now, and it wouldn’t get better.

Craven County Morgue had started its life as a public swimming pool and then been repurposed after a train accident just outside of town filled the small local hospital with too many dead.

More dead, the pathologist at the time had remarked in his notes, than seemed reasonable for a small passenger train on a little-used line.

With no one to claim the dead, most of them were buried on the grounds. After that, no one in town much fancied a swim there, so the building was deeded over to the hospital. Before he died, the pathologist funded a small plaque to be set into stone in the makeshift unhallowed graveyard—We know where we put you. An odd turn of phrase, but a nice thought.

The pathologist wheeled herself across the deep blue lane markers toward the long stretch of low silver cabinets on the far side of the room. They looked like filing cabinets, but with only two wide drawers in each.

Doctor Maguire reached back to pull a clipboard out of the bag on the back of her wheelchair. After a quick check, she maneuvered herself to the side, stuck the brakes on, and hauled the drawer open. The cold came out with it, a chilly draft that eddied around Jack’s legs as though there were still water in the pool.

“Ah, good, she’s still here,” Maguire said. She pushed her glasses up her nose and her pen into her hair and then twisted around to shoot a glance at Jack. “Do you need me to hold your hand? There was a pileup on the road out of town. Five dead so far. I’m swamped.”

Jack stepped back out of her way. “I’ll be fine. Not my first corpse.”

She snorted as she took the brake off the chair and headed toward the ramp out of the pool. “That sounds weird coming from someone who’s not a doctor. Let one of the techs know when you’re leaving. They’ll tidy her away.”

The chair squeaked as she leaned and pushed her hands along the wheels in quick, brisk strokes to propel her up the ramp. Jack stepped forward to look at the body.

She was definitely dead and probably Dale Kinney’s missing wife. Death had taken the definition from her nose and jaw, and the water had softened the skin on the bones, but underneath was the woman who’d smiled at her first husband as though he were the sun.

Someone had opened her throat from ear to ear, a mirror of Dale’s injury. That would have been the final thing she felt. Without thinking about it, Jack crossed himself before he reached for the sheet that covered her from the collarbones down.

“Fuck,” Jack muttered as he rocked back on his heels.

Someone had laid…. Jack paused as he realized he didn’t know her name. He’d been so focused on the brass ring of his soul that he hadn’t even thought to ask. Now he didn’t know who to ask. Someone had laid the dead woman open from collarbone to ankle, a thorough filleting that had peeled her stomach open and pulled the meat of her thighs back from the bone. But what Harris meant were the pale ripe mushrooms that frilled the edges of the wounds like flowers and the bright capped toadstools that sprouted out of the deepest slice in the meat.

Whatever had happened to her had been where Hell had fully bloomed—probably not the Badends, or Clem would have heard, at least, a whisper about something going down. It hadn’t been a ritual either—she wouldn’t have lived through having her stomach sliced open like that, and there was no good reason to cut a corpse’s throat. So someone had cut her open postmortem to….

He blanked on why. Maybe it had just been brutality for brutality’s sake, a cultist whose rituals weren’t only dictated by the infernal’s hunger. Or they thought whatever she’d taken from Math had been inside her.

One of the fat toadstools popped with a soft, distinct sigh and the red cap went flaccid as it spat spores into the air. Jack covered his mouth with his sleeve and stepped back. Clem’s powder hadn’t worked on him, but he didn’t want to risk that this would. The spores settled on cold, dead meat and quickly sprouted tiny white nodules.

Jack took another step back. Maybe there was more to learn from the body. He had neither the tools nor the knowledge to pry it out from the bones. Some old habit raised his hand in benediction, although even the most generous interpretation of the rules would ban the dead woman from sacrament, since she was both dead and corrupted.

Before he could finish the gesture, the hook between his shoulders yanked tightly, as though it were going to unhook his shoulder blades. Jack staggered into the stainless steel of one of the mortuary tables. It rattled under the impact and rolled away. He hit the ground with the sharp crack of kneecap on tile, and the pain of it jabbed up his thigh and into his groin.

On the table Math wrapped himself around the corpse. The yellow ripples of exposed fat pulled back under the skin, and the stomach knit itself back together as shorn brown hair blanched into curdled-milk-pale curls and a cock rested pale and heavy on a thick thigh. There had been a time when Jack had wondered what it meant if Math used a female vessel, even if he remade it into his own shape. In the end, though, it was as irrelevant to Math as whether it was a steer or a cow that made Jack’s boots.

“Don’t bless my vessels,” Math said as he propped himself up on his elbow. He was naked, and Jack felt the breathless pull of last night’s pleasure in his gut. “It’s like putting down ant poison in your own ant farm.”

He stretched. Despite the implausibility of it, he still wore Jack’s borrowed clothes, even though the original versions were probably sealed up in an evidence bag somewhere nearby. As he sat up, he looked down at Jack on the floor and licked his lips.

“I like the kneeling, though,” he said. “I should put you on your knees more often.”

Jack stubbornly forced himself back onto his feet. His back felt raw, as though his shoulder blades had sliced through his skin, but his cock still stirred with its usual disregard for common sense.

“How did you…. You said you did a deal with Dale,” he said. “You didn’t mention his wife.”

“Mallory.” Math smiled slyly when Jack didn’t hide his surprise quickly enough. “Contracts need signing, Jack, and a successful demon remembers debtors’ names.”

“You should have told me that.”

Something dangerous sparked in the back of Math’s black eyes. He raised a finger and wagged it at Jack in a mute warning that Jack had gone too far and reached the end of the leash that Math allowed him.

Jack ignored it.

“This isn’t a game, Math,” he said harshly. “There’s a little girl out there. With people who murdered her parents.”

Math hopped off the table and stalked over to Jack. His bare feet slapped against the tiles with each step, and he grabbed Jack’s chin in coarse, cold fingers to tilt his head down.

“Get back what was taken from me,” he said slowly, his voice dry as ashes, “and you won’t need to worry about the girl child.”

“Fuck you.”

Math kissed him with quicksilver tongue and lips that tasted like rubbing alcohol. “Maybe next time,” he mocked into the seam of Jack’s mouth. Then he kicked Jack’s feet from under him and put him back down on his knees. “What did you do in the Badends, Jack? Rumors are flying like nightjars, and my name is on the tip of everyone’s tongue. In case I wasn’t fucking clear, I wanted to keep a low profile.”

The hard tiles were not kind on the knees. Jack wasn’t getting older, not anymore, but he wasn’t getting any younger either. He grabbed Math’s wrist and dug his fingers in as he pulled his chin free.

“Do any of the rumors say you’re weak?” he asked.

Math folded himself down in one smooth movement until he knelt with Jack, their knees pressed together and their eyes almost on a level. He left his wrist in Jack’s grip, fingers relaxed and muscles loose.

“They say you faced down a bar full of demons with nothing but a whiskey bottle and a foul mouth.”

Jack snorted. That was rich coming from a demon. They swore like profanity was their first language.

“Do you feel the call to the priesthood again?” Math ran his hand up the inside of Jack’s thigh and traced the seam of his jeans all the way up to his cock. Math cupped it and squeezed. “Want to put this back under lock and key? Seal me away somewhere I can’t… tempt you?”

Jack laughed with a crack of bleak humor. “I didn’t feel like a priest. I felt like my dad’s son, all bluff and bastard. But it got the job done.”

Math’s smile was wild and bright and pleased. That ridiculous, reckless smile had made Jack do… everything.

“You know where it is?”

“Not yet. I know who does.”

Math gave a delighted crow’s croak of laughter and leaned in toward Jack. He casually pulled his arm free, curled his hand around the nape of Jack’s neck, and stroked down the tight tendon in Jack’s throat with his thumb. In the chill of the morgue, his breath was warm against Jack’s jaw.

“Is that why we’re in this corpse palace? Who?”

Jack thought about Ambrose. He probably should have done more of that all along. He’d known Ambrose was in trouble, seen it in his nervous hands and sleep-bruised eyes, and he’d done nothing about it. Maybe there was nothing he could have done. Like Harris, some people just saw too much to go back. But he could have tried.

Instead he’d fucked Ambrose because he needed something, and he ignored what Ambrose… not needed—because it would ruin him—but wanted. The motivation might have been different, but Ambrose had wanted to touch the Infernal just as much as Janey and her grabby hands on a demon’s street corner.

Or Clem.

“Let me deal with them,” he said.

Math tilted his head to the side and tightened his fingers.

“You don’t want me to hurt them?”

“No.”

“You care about them? This ‘who’ whose name you won’t tell me.”

Jack shrugged. “I’m human. Still. I guess. We care about lots of things.”

Math tightened his hold enough to pinch. “I’m not. I don’t,” he said, and Jack hated the clench of lust in his balls at the possessive rasp. “You’re mine, Jack. Signed and sealed.”

“He’s my friend,” Jack said, but it wasn’t true, not really, and Math could smell the deceit on Jack’s breath. He narrowed his eyes, and Jack felt the itch of the contract scrape against his spine like something solid. He sucked in a quick, harsh breath and admitted the truth. “He’s my fault. I needed his help, and I didn’t help him back. Math, please? Let me deal with him. I know—I think—he’s involved, but I could be wrong. If I am, I don’t want to break him.”

Math kissed him again. It was slow and thorough and drew blood as Math bit ownership into Jack’s lips with sharp teeth. Even the thought of the assembled dead behind their stainless steel doors couldn’t stop Jack’s cock getting hard.

“If he tells us what I need to know, I’ll let you handle him,” Math promised finally. “If he doesn’t, I’ll reach under his fingernails, spool out his veins, and make him eat them.”

Jack winced. It wasn’t that it ever slipped his mind what Math was, but some reminders were particularly effective. He cupped Math’s face in his hand.

“He will,” he said. “He’s a good man.” Although Jack wasn’t really sure of that anymore.

Math shrugged. “He’ll tell you.” He stood up, all fluid, boneless grace as though someone had just pulled a string attached to his skull, and strode toward the ramp out of the pool. “Or he’ll tell me. That’s his only real choice.”

Jack scrambled up off the tiles with a great deal less grace. The bruises he’d collected over the day hurt, and the ache of his cock under tight jeans didn’t help.

“I thought you wanted me to handle this myself.” Jack’s brain nudged him that he’d missed something, and he glanced up at the windows and the blue, daylight sky. “How are you even here? It’s not the Witching Hour, and the morgue is nowhere near Hell.”

Math didn’t look back. His voice echoed off the high tiled walls as he said, “It’s always closer than you’d think. But Mallory brought Hell back with her.”

Jack shuddered as he thought of the frilled mushrooms rooted in wet red meat and the eager, fruiting toadstools seeded generations in the tangle of guts. For lack of a better recourse, Jack grabbed a liter bottle of ethanol and doused the empty steel table and the crumpled ball of fabric with it. He didn’t know if it would do any good, but hopefully it wouldn’t hurt. The smell was sharp and heady—on the verge of familiar, just a few distillations away from the moonshine his dad used to drink when money was tight—and he grimaced as he tossed the empty bottle away and jogged after Math.

As Jack fell into step next to him, Math glanced over at him. “You know there’s not enough disinfectant in the world to stop Hell’s bloom. Eventually we’ll take this town and then another and then everything.”

Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Not today.”

“Not today,” Math agreed. “But we can’t wait too long. We aren’t the only ones with an interest.”

6

THE PROBLEM with going to good people for help with Hell is that they’ve banked so many hours of good works in their souls. They don’t want to risk that for your much shittier soul. Ask a sinner to lend you a hand—we’ve got nothing to lose.

JACK’S STOMACH sank as he turned onto the street mentioned in Harris’s text, and the last hope that he’d been wrong about Ambrose gave up and sank. It wasn’t as bad as Badends or even Kinney’s blighted neighborhood, but someone on this long avenue of old Queen Anne-style houses had dealings with Hell. The shadow of it lay along the street, in the pods of crows that expectantly lined rooftops, bikes that rusted against the sides of houses because the kids didn’t want to play outside anymore, and the dead trees that wilted—stricken—in the middle of lushly watered lawns. For Sale signs poked up on long white poles from a good five houses.

And the abscess that generated the infection was the tall, thin, blue house on the corner that Harris had said to look for. The paint on the layered wood shingles was covered with dry raised blisters that wept black fluid down the side of the house. The round windows in the sharp-edged tower were filled with shadows, and a dead ring of grass spread out from the house.

“You have to remember,” Math said in Jack’s ear, “we like good people. The evil are a pound a penny.”

It was hard to tell, but Jack thought Math might have meant to be kind.

They got off the bike and crossed the sidewalk to the low, rusted iron fence. It creaked like an injured dog as Jack pushed it open and it stuck in a crack in the pavement. Something skittered across the lawn, under the shadow of the half-dead shrubbery, and up a tree. It screeched at them from its safe perch until Math turned to look for it, and it shut up and retreated to avoid his black-eyed gaze.

“Ambrose, you stupid bastard,” Jack muttered under his breath as loped up the short flight of steps to the front door. The mailman had started to leave letters and catalogs on the porch in dirty mildewed piles, as though he was worried about putting his fingers through the letter box. “What have you done?”

The door wasn’t locked. Jack pushed it open and stepped inside. Boxes that still needed to be unpacked were stacked up in the hall, damp had stained into the corners, and the space felt vaguely unclean—a spiritual miasma that was basically imp piss.

“Ambrose,” Jack yelled. His voice sounded louder than he expected as it bounced off the bare walls and high ceilings. It sounded like the house was still basically empty. He moderated it slightly as he tried again. “Why didn’t you tell me about the dead girl?”

Math hissed in irritation behind Jack. “Ambrose,” he mocked in a not-bad impersonation of Jack’s half-dead drawl. “Why did you fuck off out the back when you heard us coming?”

“He doesn’t want to run,” Jack said. “That’s why he asked me for help. He just didn’t want to admit what he’d done.”

In one of the rooms off the hall, a bottle tipped over, and glass rattled against a wood floor. Jack followed the noise into a narrow, high-ceilinged drawing room. As in the hall, unpacked boxes lined the walls beside an Ikea desk stacked with old cracked-spine books.

Ambrose might have started on the couch, but he was on the floor now with an empty bottle of whiskey next to him and a full bottle freshly opened in his hand.

“Jack,” he said as he raised the bottle. “And Jack’s new friend.”

“Old friend,” Math corrected precisely as he crossed the room. He stepped over the graceless sprawl of Ambrose’s legs and to the desk, where he idly ran his finger along the broken leather-and-canvas spines as he added, “His oldest friend.”

Jack offered Ambrose his hand. But Ambrose glowered at him and braced his elbow on the couch cushions to lever himself up.

“Why didn’t you ask me for help?” Jack asked.

Ambrose laughed, and his voice had the same rusty creak as his gate. He slouched back into his sofa and rubbed the heels of his hands roughly against his eyes. “Because you’d have said no.”

Jack opened his mouth to argue, but Ambrose flung his arm out impatiently. There was blood on the cuff of his sleeve, as though he’d dip-dyed it. Jack didn’t know if something else had happened, or if he was still in the clothes he’d worn the day before.

“I didn’t want to know who killed that poor girl. I didn’t care. She was dead, Jack, and that wouldn’t change just because I knew who did it.”

Math glanced up from his study of Ambrose’s books. “It might, depending on who you ask.”

“I wanted to know why they’d done it,” Ambrose said. “Who they’d done it for. You never would have told me that, Jack. You never would before.”

“For your own fucking good,” Jack burst out in frustration. “You could have just walked away one day.”

Ambrose looked up at him with bitterness on his lean poet’s face. He jabbed his finger against his temple. “Walk? Or be dragged out? Like Jenny.”

Your fault. Jack remembered the jaggedly angry message scrawled in blood in the window. She’d written the same thing the day she’d killed herself, her last message to Jack.

“So instead?” Jack asked. “Who did you ask for help? Colm?”

“He turned me down too. No, I found the people who killed that girl myself, and I….” Ambrose hesitated and had to gulp before he could get the words out. “I made a deal with a devil. If they brought me in, if they taught me everything I needed to know about what we’re facing here, I’d protect them. I’d cover for them.”

His hands had been uncommonly still, but now they stuttered to life again. He rubbed at the blood on his sleeve and picked at a loose thread on his jeans.

“I knew it was wrong, but….” He clenched his hands into fists and then spread them out in a helpless gesture. “I needed to know, and it wasn’t too bad at first. Most of the sacrifices are cultists themselves. Did you know that? Others are sick, and the cult pays for them to just… die a little early. It was still… murder… but it didn’t seem that wrong, not compared with what they taught me.”

Math touched one of the books. The gold lettering was almost worn bald, and he winced as he pulled his finger away. Then he walked around behind Ambrose and looked over the scruff of messy hair at Jack.

“You,” he mouthed and then brushed a finger down Ambrose’s spine. “Or me.”

Ambrose flinched away from the cold finger on his neck and jolted to his feet. His legs wobbled under him, but strain seemed to have gotten him halfway to sober.

“Then, once you were in too deep,” Jack said, “they stopped pretending.”

“Something like that.” Ambrose fumbled at the hem of his shirt and pulled it up. Raw gashes, long and pus-filled, crawled up his stomach until they disappeared under the shirt again. “They sent something last night, after I… after the woman was pulled out of the river. I think I’ve served my purpose for them.”

“And what purpose was that?” Jack asked.

Ambrose let his shirt fall back over his stomach. “You already know. The Kinneys. They knew him as the Candleman, but they wanted to know his real name, his address.”

“And you gave it to them,” Math said. There was a cruel edge honed to his usual rasp—almost an emotion. Jack raised his eyebrows in question, but Math just smiled at him, all edges and a glimpse of sharp teeth.

“I didn’t know.” Ambrose gave Jack a pleading look. “I swear to God, Jack, I didn’t know what they were going to do. When they asked me to find him, I thought they were just going to shake him down. Not…. But then it was too late.”

Jack grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him in. The twisted cotton dug into his fingers as he glared into Ambrose’s morose, tear-stained face and felt a bleak, black sort of contempt. He’d given Ambrose a chance to hold on to his soul. He’d pretended that keeping the cop in that stained-glass glaze of sanctity made up for Jack’s own sins. But Ambrose had spat on that and trampled his soul into Hell’s shit of his own volition.

Different from you how? a small voice in the back of Jack’s head asked. Just because your damnation was beautiful, it was better?

He slammed the door on that and gave Ambrose a short, vicious shake. “They killed Mallory Kinney yesterday. After we spoke in the church. You could have saved her. That wasn’t too late, until it was.”

Ambrose angrily shoved him. His shirt tore out of Jack’s fist, and the scabs that clawed up over his shoulder split and wept with infection. Jack felt a pinch of guilt.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” he spat back at Jack. “I was there when they dragged her out of the fucking river. I saw her face, but it was done.”

“The kid….”

It was Ambrose’s turn to give Jack a pitying look. “She’s five. The body will wash up any day now. It’s done, and all that’s left is to decide if I can live with that.”

Jack punched him. His fist caught Ambrose on the point of his chin with a brutal clack of bone on bone. The impact knocked Ambrose back a step, the whiskey bottle turned under his foot, and he fell back onto the couch. Blood welled from the corner of his mouth and ran down the side of his chin to drip onto his collar. He looked too shocked to fight back if Jack punched him again.

It would have been nice if it had been Jack’s memories of being a punching bag, of being hunched in the corner of the couch as his ears rang and his kidneys bruised, that made him hold back. But it wasn’t. It was the expression of raw, delighted hunger on Math’s face as he leaned in over the back of the couch.

“Get up,” Jack said flatly as he made himself step back. He took a deep breath of musty, vaguely damp air and glared at Ambrose as he wiped his mouth and got up. “You’re going to take us to these people, Ambrose.”

Ambrose shook his head. “You don’t understand. They’re the real deal. The things I’ve seen them do… call up from Hell. You have no idea, Jack.”

“Idiot,” Math spat in contempt. He grabbed a handful of Ambrose’s hair and yanked his head back. The tufts of coarse brown hair that stuck up between his knuckles blanched and withered. “You stole from me. Find it, or I’ll take everything precious to you and soil it. Every sweet memory, every friend, your dead father’s grave—I will shit on all of it so it will never give you comfort again. Understand.”

Ambrose wrenched himself free, and his brittle, blighted hair snapped off at the roots. His face was gray and slack with shock as he rolled off the couch and kicked his feet against the floor to shove himself as far away from Math as possible. He bumped against Jack’s legs and stretched his hand up for help.

Jack rebuffed him and stepped away. “Not this time, Ambrose. If anything happens to that child, I won’t try to stop him. I’ll hold his fucking jacket.”

“What is he?” Ambrose asked as he scrambled back to his feet. “What is it?”

Math gave him the finger from across the room.

“He’s your new nightmare,” Jack said as he scruffed Ambrose and shoved him toward the door. “If you don’t help us, he’ll be your last one too.”

FEAR AND fresh air had burned through the last of the whiskey. Ambrose slouched in the passenger seat of his own car, stole the occasional nervous look in the rearview mirror at Math, and muttered directions. The setting sun, low and orange in the sky, gilded Ambrose gold and bronze through the window. It made him look less like a painted saint and more like a tarnished statue.

Maybe that was just based on Jack’s own feelings about Ambrose as they leaked through.

“Left here,” Ambrose said as he leaned forward, the infected wounds on his chest suppurating under the seat belt. His eyes creased anxiously at the corners as he blurted out a quick correction. “No. Wait. There was a bridge just after the turn. It must be the next road.”

Jack yanked the wheel straight again, and the car shimmied under him as it skidded on the cracked asphalt. They’d left Craven town limits behind them half an hour before, and as the sun set on the heavy, fall-tinted woods around them, every road started to look the same.

“Be more useful,” Math said coldly from the back of the car, “or you’re no use at all.”

The unarticulated threat made Ambrose wince and raise his hand to absently rub at the shorn, white shock of hair behind his temple.

“The next one,” he said with nervous confidence. “It’s definitely the next turn.”

Jack scowled at Math in the mirror. If they ended up driving in circles because Math had terrified Ambrose into bad directions, Jack was going to be pissed off. He took the next turn, and the car bounced as the wheels hit the ruts the last bad winter had blown out of the road.

“Who do they serve, these cultists?” Math asked. “What mange-assed se’irim thought he could crawl out of his bolge and take what wasn’t his?”

Fear twitched across Ambrose’s face as he glanced in the mirror again. His mouth trembled around the “what is he” question again, but he swallowed it in time. Jack wondered sourly if he’d finally learned that sometimes it really was better not to know.

“The leader? He calls himself Zachariah, his real name is Zachary Harrick. It’s his house we’re going to,” Ambrose said, and a smile twitched briefly at his mouth. “I got his prints off the sacrificial dagger and ran them through CODIS. He’s a doctor. Just a month ago, that seemed awful, that a doctor could kill someone.”

Math hissed in annoyance. It sounded more like a snake than anyone with a human tongue should be able to manage.

“Not the priest,” he said. “Their patron. Their demon.”

For a second, Ambrose looked like Ambrose again. He straightened up in the chair and tugged at the lobe of his ear as he explained, “No, see, that’s what I didn’t realize. They don’t worship one demon. It’s a pantheon. Like Ancient Greece—a demon for every day and one for every need.”

Jack swore and put his foot down. The car coughed in surprise at the sudden acceleration and then lurched forward. He hit the bridge at speed, and the car nearly lifted off as they hit the hump. In the back seat, Math blurred away and the dead, ruined corpse of Mallory slouched forward against the back of Ambrose’s seat. Her wet, boggy flayed arm dropped over his shoulder.

“Fuck,” Ambrose shrieked as he tried to squirm out of his seat belt to get away from her. When that didn’t work, he slapped her arm off him and half turned in his seat to shove her away. The dry, fungal remains of her insides spilled out over the back seat. “What the fuck? He’s… that’s Mallory. What the fucking hell?”

“Water,” Jack said flatly. “The Infernal don’t cross it well. He’ll be back.”

“He was a… he was a fucking demon?” Ambrose spluttered. He scrubbed at his shirt and hair with frantic hands, as though he could brush Hell off if he just tried hard enough. “They can’t come into our world. It’s anathema to them.”

Jack veered hard around a pothole and bumped the tires down into the gutter at the side of the road. The wheel hit something hard that bounced up into the undercarriage with a dangerous-sounding rattle. Jack steered through it. Cultists were bad, but they had souls, even if they’d been promised to Hell when they died. Warlocks were a different breed. They tore out chunks of their souls on order, served them up like sweetmeats. And what was left… festered. Look at what Clem had done to himself, and his soul had always been a raisin of a thing.

“You should have damned your soul for better information,” Jack said grimly. “There was a demon there that night. Your half-assed friends left the gate open when they left.”

Ambrose couldn’t decide what should demand his attention—the fruiting corpse behind him or Jack’s breakneck speed on the rutted road.

“There was a demon in the back seat of my car!” Ambrose pointed out with a hysterical edge to his voice. Jack wondered if he’d taken it this badly the first time Math peeled back the world and let him peek through at all the hidden stuff.

“Answer the question,” Jack snapped.

Ambrose took a shaky breath, let it out, and rubbed his hands briskly up and down his face. “Zachariah—Zachary—a deal with the Candleman. We were—I’d been told—that we were going to take over his business and pay him off. That’s why Zachary summoned the demon—to bring the money across, but something Zachary said made Candleman change his mind. He told Zachary to stick the dowry up his ass—”

“Dowry?” Jack interrupted.

“That’s what he called it,” Ambrose said. “He probably meant tithe, just didn’t know the word.”

Jack didn’t think so, but he held his tongue and concentrated on the road as Ambrose finished the story.

“That’s when it all went to shit.” Ambrose shoved his hand through his hair and shuddered as his palm brushed the short brush of burned-white hair. “Candleman called Zachary a liar and tried to push him out of the diner. Except Zachary had a knife, and he just, he just cut Candleman’s throat, right down to the bone. Then we just left him there with the money, and we got outside, the others were there with the wife and the kid.”

“You could have told someone then,” Jack said, “told me.”

“Jesus, Jack, and then what?” Ambrose asked. “My life would have been over. I’d be in jail. Everything I did, all the stains to my soul, would be for nothing. I wouldn’t be able to help anyone.”

Jack checked the rearview mirror. The corpse on the back seat remained a corpse. There was no blood left to spill, but something dark and wet oozed out of the cavity of her stomach.

“You could have helped her.”

Ambrose hunched in on himself as though he thought he could put enough distance between him and the corpse to not be disturbed.

“I swear, Jack,” he said. “I didn’t think they’d hurt her. Candleman was… it wasn’t really murder. Candleman had sold his soul years ago, and if you don’t have a soul, you’re not really human, are you?”

A grim smile folded Jack’s mouth. He’d asked himself that question, off and on, but it didn’t make it feel any better to hear it from someone with a soul.

“Dale Kinney didn’t have a soul, but he tried to protect his wife and child,” Jack said. It might not be entirely true. Maybe Zachary had just tried to short-change Kinney on the deal, but Jack wanted to believe otherwise. “You and Zachary have one, and you did that.”

He took his hand off the wheel to jerk his thumb into the back.

Ambrose didn’t have an answer. They drove in silence for a while, but for the occasional “left” or “watch for the abandoned truck” from Ambrose. The smell of Mallory’s corpse grew riper—not like rot, but dark and heavy. Ambrose twisted the rearview mirror up so he didn’t risk a stray glimpse of her.

“Stop,” Ambrose said abruptly. “We’re here.”

Jack braked. The road was empty with trees clustered close to the sides. The sun made the dying leaves glow with color. It was a pretty spot, but there was no sign of life, and it was silent except for the muted mutter of the country. Jack tightened his fingers on the wheel in frustration.

“Ambrose—”

The shriek of a distressed child sliced through the air. The pitch of it drilled into Jack’s ears and hooked there with a staunch refusal to be ignored.

Ambrose flinched as though the wails were a personal accusation. He deserved it.

“We usually park along here,” Ambrose said as he gestured to the muddy ruts along either side of the road. “No one else ever comes out here. Zachary’s house isn’t even on Google Maps. You can’t get out here by GPS.”

The miserable hitch and fall of the kid’s voice tried to drag Jack out of the car. He quashed the instinct, threw the car back into drive, and crawled around the corner. The road ended abruptly—as though someone had cut the road off with a hot butter knife—and turned into dirt. Jack pulled in there and turned the engine off.

“Give me a hand,” he told Ambrose as he got out of the car.

“With what?”

Jack opened the back door, gritted his teeth, and grabbed Mallory’s outflung arm by the wrist. She had a tattoo just under her thumb, and the killer had started his cut at its base. But the arm was more or less intact. He pulled her out of the car… most of her, and Ambrose spun away to puke noisily into the bushes.

The back seat behind her was covered with desiccated loops of gut decorated with spindly, frail-looking toadstools and puffballs. Jack got his arms under Mallory’s shoulders and dragged her around to the back of the car.

“Open the trunk,” he said.

Ambrose spat into the grass. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Well I’m not sticking the kid in the back seat with her dead mother,” Jack said. “So if you want to, I can put her back.”

For a second, it looked as though the thought were going to make Ambrose retch again. Instead he lurched over to fumble the trunk open and spread an old gray tarp over the carpet. He dry-retched as he pulled his sleeves down over his hands and got Mallory’s ankles to lift her up into the trunk.

Jack folded her in and looked down at her. Muddy strands of light brown hair twisted over her face and cut into the water-softened skin. Her milky eyes were open, and a wet, inky-black mushroom sprouted from the corner of her mouth like a piercing.

“It’s for your daughter,” he told her. He hoped that mattered to her. “I’ll make sure you get buried properly. Holy Ground, so they’ll leave you in peace.”

He slammed the lid down on her and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Do you have your gun?” he asked Ambrose.

After a reluctant pause, Ambrose leaned back into the car and fumbled under the ruined back seat. Jack twitched with nerves as he came up with a shotgun and a handful of shells that he pushed into his pocket.

“You trust me with it?” Ambrose asked.

The wails had trailed off, but the faint sound of sobs still carried on the air. Jack shrugged and started up into the woods. “I want to believe I’m not that bad of a judge of character.” He shoved a low-hanging branch out of his way. “Even if you aren’t a good man, I hope you’re smart enough not to want Math as your personal enemy.”

It took a long minute before footsteps crunched on the ground behind him.

The farther Jack hiked through the trees, the quieter it got. The birdsong died away first, and then the sound of their footfalls was cushioned against the thick mat of spongy, fibrous moss that carpeted the forest floor. The trees turned skeletal, the leaves gray instead of brown and the trunks scoured with wet, black wounds that stank of honey and a hint of death.

The back of Jack’s neck prickled as he shied away from the heady sugar stink of an open trunk.

Hell bloomed in cities and towns. It needed the congestion, the weight of all that old, bad history to pull the place down. Jack had never seen Hell in the wilderness before. It unnerved him.

“How long has Zachary been here?” he asked.

“I… not long,” Ambrose said. “He moved back here a few years ago. The house was his grandfather’s, I think. Or great-grandfather’s.”

If there were a bookie who’d put odds on it, Jack would bet money there were corpses buried all over this property—more than one generation’s worth of victims.

The doubt picked at the back of his head that he should have risked a longer trip and not crossed that bridge. He pushed it down with the rest of his regrets. If it turned out he had made a mistake, it could torment him later. With all the rest.

A sudden shriek, full of astonishment as if no one had hurt her before, cut through the trees. It jolted Jack into a run, and he scrambled through the last bank of dead skeletal trees… and into a trap. Five men in bloody aprons, sigils burned deep into the leather, stood with grins and guns aimed at him. In the center stood a sixth man—young, red-haired, and ugly in a way that went beyond rat eyes and a lack of chin—with a bloody rock in his hand and a little girl’s hand trapped under his foot.

Jack staggered to a stop and turned to look at Ambrose. A horrible weight of guilt was scored into Ambrose’s face like the Mark of Cain.

“We couldn’t stop them alone,” Ambrose said as he lifted the gun to point at Jack’s chest. His eyes flickered to the redhead—Zachary, probably—and back to Jack with a mute plea for understanding. “I swear, Jack, I thought the kid was already dead. I just wanted to save you. They promised me they’d let you live.”

Jack bared his teeth in a slow, nasty smile. “You better fucking hope they don’t.”

The lines of guilt deepened, and Ambrose opened his mouth to try and come up with an excuse, but something cracked into the back of Jack’s head, and he missed it.

7

THE DEMONS say there are more exorcists in Hell than in Heaven. The exorcists say that it was worth the sacrifice. Nobody from Heaven has anything to say.

JACK AWOKE chained to a dirt floor in the dark. He groaned as he sat up. It was hard to pick what was worse, the pain in his head or the nausea that retched bile up into the back of his throat.

“I thought you were dead,” a small voice said.

“You’d think you wouldn’t get headaches when you’re dead.” Jack shifted around until he could see the little girl, small and hunched in the far corner of the room, her hair a pale-blonde glimmer. “Hey. I’m Jack.”

“Tracy,” she said after a pause. “You didn’t rescue me very well.”

He scratched his jaw. The stubble was at the point where he was going to have to shave, call it a beard, or—under the circumstances—stop worrying about it for a while.

“It could be worse,” he offered. “And I have a plan.”

The one small window was behind her, high on the wall, so it was hard to tell, but he thought she looked dubious. Jack held his hand up and wriggled his fingers at her. “Is your hand okay?”

Tracy sniffed hard and shook her head. “He hurt it real bad.” Her chin wobbled, and she scrubbed the grubby blue sleeve of her anorak over her face. “I wanna go home.”

To what, Jack wondered bleakly. Poor kid. He reached down and checked the chain wrapped around his ankle. It was tight enough to dig into the leather of his boot and padlocked in place. The other end was two feet away and embedded into the stone wall of the cell.

Jack pulled his leg up and unlaced his boot. He cupped his hand around the heel and started to work it off.

“Do you know how long I was out?” he asked.

Tracy scrambled to her feet and padded over. Her hair was matted and dirty, one side still braided and the other loose. There was a bruise on her jaw and the hand she cuddled protectively across her body was swollen and bruised blue.

“They killed my mommy,” she said, almost matter-of-factly, despite the tears that welled up in her huge blue eyes. “They told me it was my fault.”

“That’s because they’re lying bastards,” Jack grunted as he wrenched the boot off. His ankle was red-raw where the leather had chafed over his ankle bone and the top of his foot. “Bad people will always want to blame you for what they do wrong. You don’t have to listen.”

Tracy took his boot from him and held it as he worked the chain down over his skinny, bony foot. It took some skin with it and raked off the top of his foot, but he was still free… for what it was worth.

He took his boot back from Tracy and yanked it on. The first time he tried to stand, he ended up right on his ass, with the bile and the sour chicken taste of his lunchtime sandwich on the back of his throat. The dark little room swam sickly around him.

“Here.” Tracy grabbed his hand with her good one and pulled. “I’ll help.”

Jack scrambled onto his knees first and steadied himself against the wall. For just a second, it felt like broken teeth and raw flesh, and then like old, damp stone. Whatever was in there didn’t hate him enough to manifest before the Witching Hour—not like Jenny—but the Witching Hour was nearly there.

“Do you really have a plan?” Tracy asked suspiciously. “Dad always says he has a plan, but he doesn’t really.”

Jack got to the window and peered out. It was moon-dark and the sky looked black. Only the occasional star was bright enough to wink between the clouds. Still, he could feel the itch of the Witching Hour in the wind. It wouldn’t be long.

“I do,” Jack said with an ache of regret for being right. He’d wanted to trust Ambrose, but he’d already done that once. “Whether it’s a good plan or not, we’ll find out soon enough. Come on. It won’t be long until they come back to get us.”

He went back over to the discarded chain and lowered himself gingerly to the ground. His head swam dully as he leaned forward to drape the heavy metal over his leg so it looked as though it was fastened. It would pass, he told himself as he leaned back against the wall.

Tracy sat down opposite him, her back against the other wall, and watched him warily over her knees. The minutes ticked by in time to the pulse of pain in Jack’s head, and he closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, his foot was cramped and Tracy had crawled into his lap like a puppy.

She was cold—cold enough that Jack wondered sickly if she was dead. Then she sighed heavily and jabbed a restless elbow into his ribs. Jack awkwardly tucked an arm around her shoulder and rubbed her arm through her grubby, shiny jacket. Then he heard the frantic rattle of chains echoing off the walls.

“Nearly time?” he asked aloud.

Something hit him in the side hard enough to make him grunt. On the wall, mute shadows writhed and struggled. Nearly time.

He shook Tracy gently. “Wake up, kid. It’s time to go.”

She mumbled denial under her breath and tucked herself down tighter into sleep, her eyes squeezed shut. Jack reluctantly shook her again.

“I need you to wake up, Tracy.”

Finally she stumbled drowsily to her feet. She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand and shuffled over to stand under the small window.

“I’m scared,” she said in a loud whisper.

Jack smiled at her. “Hey, kid, we’re in this together. Okay? I won’t leave you.”

“That’s what Mommy said.”

The distant squeak of poorly tended hinges echoed through the still air, and wood creaked under someone’s weight. Jack put his finger to his lips and gestured for Tracy to lie down. She stared at him for a second as she chewed visibly on the inside of her cheek.

“Promise you won’t leave me behind?” she begged him. “Promise.”

“Cross my heart,” Jack said.

She took a huge breath and flopped bonelessly, dramatically onto the ground. Jack would have told her that she didn’t need to hold her breath, but it was too late. Keys rattled in the door, first one and then another, as two voices argued harshly. Jack held his breath in sympathy and urged the men outside to hurry up.

The door finally scraped open, and Zachary stepped through the door with one of the men in butcher’s aprons.

“Hey, Zachie,” Jack said viciously. “Hope you didn’t need the kid alive.”

A twitch plucked at the corner of Zachary’s eye as he looked over at Tracy’s boneless sprawl. The high color in his face drained and left him fish-belly white with anger except for two swipes over his cheekbones.

“You wouldn’t,” he said.

“I figured it was a better death than any you’d give her,” Jack said bluntly. There was no hint of lie in his answer. It would have been kinder than whatever Zachary had planned. “Sorry. Did I fuck up your night?”

Zachary gave him a lipless, vicious smile and took a step forward. “If you’ve ruined this for me, I will fuck up your afterlife, Mr. Jack.” He glanced at his aproned minion and jerked his head toward Jack. “Get him up and shackled while I check on the girl. If nothing else, we can offer him up to something.”

“I’m not willing,” Jack spat.

Apron laughed nastily as he unhooked a set of cuffs from his belt and walked over. “You will be.” He palmed his crotch through the heavy leather. “Eventually. Like you said, it just has to look better than the alternative.”

He bent down to grab Jack’s ankle, and the chain slithered off with a cold rattle. Apron looked baffled for a moment, his mouth open to say something. Before he could get it out, Jack kicked him in the jaw. Apron’s mouth snapped shut with a crack and he staggered backward, hands clutched to his mouth.

“Stupid bastard,” Zachary spat. He dragged Tracy to her feet as she gasped noisily for air. “Do you think that’s going to set you free? We are the heirs of Dee, and tonight I’ll walk through the obsidian mirror to take my rightful—”

Jack braced himself and reached out into the shadows. He’d been there once, in the cold disapproval between Heaven and Hell where the unavenged and suicides lingered, and he knew the way back. It wasn’t a good idea, the dead and the living weren’t meant to see eye to eye. He still grabbed the cold, slimy wrist of one of the haints. Ice dug under his fingernails and shot up his arm. It punched into his armpit and settled there with a dull throb. He pulled, and the dead woman crawled up his arm, out of the dark, and into the living world where neither of them should be.

She had acne and the round doll-like cheeks of the painfully young. Her eyes were missing, and her smile was a nightmare. She grabbed his jaw with nailless fingers and dug in hard until the bone hurt.

“Your fault,” she slurred with what was left of her tongue.

“And them?” he asked.

She swung her empty eye sockets around to Zachary and bubbled behind the ruin of her teeth as she gargled out a scream. With a rough shove, she pushed Jack away from her, and she stuttered across the room in a stop-motion run as she slid in and out of the world as he slapped casually into a wall.

Tracy yelped as she was sent flying as well, but she managed to scramble to her feet and dart to the door. Then she stopped and swung around to look for Jack.

“Go,” he yelled as Apron wrapped a brawny, gore-stinking arm tightly around his throat. “I’ll catch up. Go.”

Tracy bolted with a stifled sob.

“Call the bitch off,” Apron spat in Jack’s ear. Gritty blood spluttered over Jack’s jaw and slid down as Apron shook him. “Fuckin’ do it!”

Jack smacked his head back, and his skull cracked into Apron’s boot-ruined face with a wet smack. It would have been better if Jack hadn’t forgotten about the knot from his earlier nap. Pain fractured blackly through his head, and for a second, he was blind with it, but Apron did let him go. Jack staggered away from him and squinted through a floating mosaic of pain.

“I wouldn’t worry about her if I were you,” Jack said. “I’d worry about the others.”

He’d been right. A lot of people had died badly at this little cabin out in the middle of nowhere, and Jack had dropped them a rope. A man, his smile fixed with razors and two nails through his cheekbones, reached over Apron’s head and dug his fingers in under his eyebrows.

Jack left them to it.

He staggered out the door and up the steps. Tracy was at the top. She’d waited for him despite what he’d told her. Jack nearly fell over as she lunged for him and buried her face against his hip.

“You promised,” she reminded him, voice muffled against his shirt. “You’re not supposed to leave me.”

Jack peeled her arms off him and picked her up. He had to do it one-handed. His other arm was still numb and throbbed with the cold. “You were supposed to leave me,” he reminded her. “I need you to hold on to me. Okay? Tight as you can. And don’t look. Okay.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck even tighter than Apron had managed and buried her face in his shoulder. Jack could actually feel how tightly her eyes were screwed shut as her knuckles dug in under his ear.

The cabin was old and run-down, all cracked walls and dust-covered old-fashioned chairs. There were clothes hung on a rack—oddly nondescript suits and unassuming shirts—and a laptop set up on a cracked old dinner table, but it didn’t seem like a place where someone lived.

Apparently people commuted to sin.

Jack dodged through the rooms as the pissed-off dead came crawling out of whatever crack or crevice held their last scream. He covered the back of Tracy’s head with his hand as he scrambled over the frantic kicking legs of one of the Aprons. The man didn’t deserve any sympathy, but Jack thought a little girl didn’t need to see what the haints were doing to him.

He hit the door with his shoulder, and the lock tore out of dry-rotted wood.

The haints’ advantage wouldn’t last long. They had surprise and viciousness on their side—nothing good ever stayed behind to harry the living, just the worst of people—but once the Aprons rallied, they would have every trick they’d traded their scabbed souls for.

“If anything happens to me,” Jack said to Tracy as he scrambled down the steps, “just run. Okay? Get to the road. There will be someone looking for you there.”

She shook her head against his shoulder. “No. You’re to take care of me.”

Jack didn’t know how far she’d get anyhow. He hitched her up on his hip as he broke into a run across the clearing. Halfway there, one of the Aprons roared and smashed his way out of a knot of dead women. He trampled them underfoot—underpaw—as his clawed-away skin revealed slime-wet fur and mad wolf-yellow eyes. Skinned hands flapped from his wrists like a child’s mittens as he tore the haints off him and tossed them aside.

It wouldn’t be easy to put his human skin back together, but for now the haints couldn’t touch him. He tore them apart, dry limb from dry limb, and pointed a knobbled black claw at Jack.

“Ours,” he screamed. “Bought and paid for her.”

It kicked the last haint out of the way and lurched on crooked, half-shifted legs toward Jack.

The thing was built for a chase through the forest. Jack’s advantage had bought him less time than he’d thought. He ran anyhow. Flight gave him slightly more of a chance than fight. Jack could brawl well enough—all it took was a mean streak and a willingness to come out only slightly better off than your opponent—but if the haints couldn’t slow the wolf down, he couldn’t.

He focused on a tree that still, in spite of all the Aprons could do, had a few green leaves sprouting on it. There was a chance that—as big as the wolf was—he could keep ahead of it in the thick shrub.

Six feet away—five… four…. Something grabbed the back of Jack’s jacket and yanked. His feet went out from under him, and he crashed to the ground. A booted paw with claws poking out through once-expensive leather trainers kicked Jack in the side.

“I’ll take the little bitch,” the wolf slurred as he reached down and closed his fist around Jack’s head. He squeezed, and Jack felt the loud, painful pulse of blood in his ears over the creak of bone. “Then I can go through the mirror. I won’t need a human skin then.”

Jack barely heard the blast over the pain in his head. He saw what was left of the wolf’s head spray over his chest. Its teeth scattered like dice and bounced off the hard, blighted ground. For a moment Jack just stared blankly, and then, just in time, he realized what would fall next. He rolled, tucked awkwardly to protect Tracy, and the headless, heavy body of the wolf clipped his shoulder as it crashed to the dirt.

He glanced from it to Ambrose, who stood with a shotgun braced against his shoulder. Bruises stippled the sides of Ambrose’s face, and the leather apron he wore was ragged and singed. Jack pushed himself clumsily to his feet.

“Whose side are you on now?” Jack asked.

Ambrose looked hurt as he lowered the gun. “I killed him. I saved you.”

“Why?” Jack asked sharply. “So you can be the one to go through the mirror?”

A muscle twitched in Ambrose’s jaw, and he flicked the gun around. The barrel had to scorch his hand, but he clutched it as he extended it to Jack.

“I’m already through the mirror, Jack,” he said bitterly. “If you don’t trust me, I can’t blame you. I got it… everything… wrong, and it wasn’t even for the right reasons. I love you, but we can’t stay here.”

Jack glanced at the gun and grimaced. “I can’t hit the broadside of a barn. Keep it. We need to get back to the car.”

Ambrose flipped the gun around again and gripped the stock. They headed into the trees, and the ground was uneven and untrustworthy in the dark. It slowed them down to a nervous jog.

Jack glanced down at Tracy. “You okay, kid?”

Her eyes were still screwed shut despite the tears in the dirt on her face. “I think there’s a slug in my hair,” she sniffled. “I can feel it.”

Jack picked the bit of wolf off of her scalp. “It’s just a leaf,” he lied.

She whined and clutched him tighter.

In the dark it was hard to tell if they were headed in the right direction. Downhill, Jack told himself as he staggered and tripped over thick roots. As long as he was headed down, they’d get to the road.

They ran through thin dead trees until their legs hurt and Jack’s shoulder was soaked from Tracy’s sobs. The screams behind them faded, but the normal sounds of the woods didn’t leak back in.

“I wanna go home,” Tracy whimpered.

Ambrose shot one of the haints who’d gotten bored of the Aprons and come in search of easier prey. She screamed through a perfect face as her flayed, stingray-splayed body dissolved in a red mist. The parched, skeletal trees sucked the liquid in as though it were water.

“We should be at the road by now.” Ambrose panted as he cracked the shotgun open to reload. “I’ve come up and down this hill a dozen times. More. It never takes this long. We’ve taken a wrong turn.”

“Just keep going,” Jack said. “Unless you have any idea where we should go?”

Ambrose looked around, exhaled raggedly, and ran.

Finally the trees thinned ahead of them, and dark, thick foliage sprouted to what faint light there was from the stars. Ambrose gave a relieved sigh and pushed his jog into a limping run.

Jack hesitated. He reached up and plucked one of the leaves from the tree. It was thick and leathery to the touch, and its thick veins pumped wet liquid over his fingers.

“What is it?” Tracy asked. He looked down into eyes that were so pale a blue they looked like water.

Dale Kinney had been Black Irish. Under the glaze of death, Mallory had hazel eyes.

“Just a leaf,” Jack said as he dropped the leaf and forced himself into a run. “Ambrose, wait. Ambrose.”

Ahead of him Ambrose looked back, his shaggy hair tossed in a foul wind, but he didn’t stop.

“Ben!”

That did it. Ambrose stumbled to a stop just a few feet from the edge of the trees and turned back, so at least he didn’t see it coming.

A black briar, thorned with pale hollow needles, stabbed through his back and out of his stomach. It curled around him and yanked him backward, out of the trees.

Tracy gave a shrill, terrified scream and pounded on Jack’s shoulders with her one good fist. “I don’t like it here,” she wailed. “I don’t. I wanna go.”

He hugged her tighter. “I don’t either. But hey, I’ve still got a plan.”

She didn’t look more convinced than the first time he’d told her, but she nodded shakily. Jack put her down on her feet and held her hand as they walked toward the light—torchlight, not headlights.

Zachary had lost one of his beady rat eyes, and the haints had clawed away enough skin to uncover his hidden chin. He still smirked as he stood on a large polished disk of black stone. A huge gray creature lurked behind him—mostly a horse but with the jaws and feet of a dog—as blood dripped sticky and infected down its back legs from its shorn, never-to-heal sac.

Bits of haint were caught in its jaws.

“Looking for someone?” Zachary asked. He had to hold his bottom lip in place when he spoke. A crook of his finger dragged Ambrose into view, the vine wrapped around him red-thorned as it pulsed and sucked out his blood. “Give me the girl. I’ll give you the detective.”

Tracy started to step forward, but Jack tightened his grip and pulled her back. “Go fuck yourself.”

Zachary clenched his hands into fists and huffed down his nose. It took him a second to gain enough control to actually speak.

“How do you expect to stop me?” he asked as he limped forward. One hand gestured to the castrated demon-steed behind him. “I could get the niver, Hell’s own steed, to kill you. Command the trees to take her.”

A briar whipped and gave Tracy’s braid a cruel yank. It made her yelp and shrink closer to Jack.

“If you think I harbor unclean lust,” Zachary said, “you can unburden yourself of the fear now. The price to command the niver is considered… steep.”

He reached down and lifted his apron. Jack covered Tracy’s eyes just in time. Blood and pulp was all that was left between Zachary’s legs. The sharp teeth marks of the niver were raked into his thighs and up onto his stomach.

“So give her to me,” he demanded as he dropped the leather again. “Her father sold her to me—a dowry of silver for his own child.”

“He didn’t,” Tracy screamed. “My daddy didn’t!”

“No,” Jack said. “He didn’t.”

Zachary spat and nearly lost that loose bit of lip with the gesture. “So he changed his mind. A qualm struck the Candleman. He probably realized the power she has. You think I haven’t heard of you, Jack? Jack in the jacket, always there to stick his nose in. So you know the rules well enough to understand that seller’s remorse gets you nowhere in Hell.”

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t tell him the truth.”

Zachary winked roguishly with his empty eye socket. “I didn’t tell him the girl had power. I didn’t tell him I was going to kill him anyhow. But I told him no lies.”

“A good defense,” Jack said as he lifted his wrist to his mouth. “Except Dale Kinney isn’t her father.”

Jack wished he didn’t knit back together so quickly. It would have been convenient if he just had to pick off a scab. Instead he had to bite down into the meat of his thumb until his fingers went numb and blood filled his mouth.

He spat it on the ground. One of the briars snaked over to dip into it and recoiled.

“Was he, Math?” Jack asked.

That was all it took. Zachary and his family had single-handedly done something that usually took a midsized town generations of horror to achieve—they’d rotted their way right down to Hell. The black disk rippled under Zachary’s feet as Math climbed up out of it.

He’d discarded his human face. There was no need for it there. Gray horns curled back heavily from his temples, the ends buried in salt-pale curls, and his lips were the same color. Smoke trailed from the ends of his blackened fingers. But he still wore Jack’s clothes, and the cuffs of the jeans were still caught under his bare feet.

Tracy tightened her hand on Jack’s and whispered a startled, familiar, “oh.”

“Took you long enough,” Math said as he looked over at Jack. His smile was just as sharp and cruel as always. “I started to worry you were dull.”

Zachary spluttered some incantation, but he struggled with it as he tried to hold his lip in place between gestures. Math let him finish and then caught him by the throat. He pressed a sharp, smoke-edged nail against Zachary’s raw lip and stitched it closed with scabs of seared cautery.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” Math told him as he let him drop. “Do you really think we’d tell you something that would compel any of us here? Or me anywhere?”

Zachary staggered back. He scrabbed at his lips with bloody fingers and tore the scabs and most of the meat of his lips off.

“Kill him,” he screamed at the niver. “Rip him apart.”

The niver lunged forward with a rough, metallic screech, his massive jaws gaped open all the way back to his ears. Zachary mustn’t have had much faith in it, because he ran, and he was right not to. The niver twisted at the last second and rubbed around Math like an affectionate cat, and Math slapped its bloody hide with one hand.

“You can feed a dog treats,” Math taunted as Zachary disappeared into the trees. “He’ll always come back to his master.”

He snapped his fingers. The briar whip dropped Ambrose, who flopped bonelessly against the black stone. Only a low groan betrayed he was still alive. It took a second, but then the briar whiplashed Zachary back into the clearing, dangled from a bloody noose around his ankles.

Jack covered Tracy’s eyes again as the leather apron flopped down.

“Who told you about my daughter?” Math asked. He touched his finger to the raw wound and blood sizzled like fat on a skillet. “Who betrayed me?”

“I didn’t know,” Zachary whined, “not that she was your bastard. My family has been loyal for centuries, my lord. We brought the mirror here, we guarded it, we fed it. All I wanted was our reward, what we were promised—to be like you. I was told some demon had given the child power, that they’d hidden it down in her marrow like her bones were a bank.”

Another nerve end sizzled, and Zachary howled.

“Not what I asked.”

Zachary made a wet, broken sound. “I can’t tell you,” he whined. “They’re greater than you, more terrible.”

Math smiled. “But not here.”

He snapped his fingers, and the vine let go. Zachary struggled back to his feet. He backed up, one clumsy step after the other, and then ran again. This time Math didn’t follow him. He stroked the niver, its gray hide burned black under his touch, and looked down at Ambrose.

Jack crouched down on one knee and turned Tracy to face him. “Tracy, can you stay here for me? Just for five minutes. I’ll be back.”

Her big blue eyes flicked between him and Math. “I dreamed him sometimes. Is he really my daddy?”

Jack gave her braid a gentle tug. The bauble on the end matched the one he’d found around the Candleman’s ledger. “He’s why you’re so good at magic. He’s that part’s daddy, and he cares about you very much. Can you stay here for me?”

She licked her lips and tugged at his hand until he leaned closer. “I… I think I went toilet,” she whispered. Fresh tears squeezed out her eyes as she clutched at the familiar, understandable horror of wetting herself as though she weren’t a big girl.

Jack stripped his jacket off and tied it around her waist. It dragged on the ground behind her. “There. I’ll be back.”

She gave him a solemn look and stuck the end of her braid in her mouth. “I know,” she said around it. “You promised.”

Jack left her there and limped over to Ambrose. The ugly apron had been torn off, and without it, Ambrose looked almost like the man Jack used to know.

“Ben,” he said as he pushed his hands over the sucking wound. Why he didn’t know—there was a matching injury on the back. “Just hold on. I can—”

“I love you,” Ambrose said almost pleasantly. He smiled wanly at whatever he saw on Jack’s face. “It’s okay. I just… I wanted to say it. I don’t want… I don’t want to be just the traitor.”

He reached down and squeezed Jack’s hand as he pushed it away from his stomach. Blood welled out in two great gouts, and Ambrose’s eyes fluttered as he passed out again.

“Ahhh,” Math said. “How sad.”

“Don’t,” Jack said. He stood up and looked at Math, who was still shorter than Jack. “Save him. Please?”

Math curled his lip. “Because you love him? Does he make you feel… soft.”

He poked a sharp finger Jack’s crotch. It burned—not with heat, but with a bitter chill. Jack flinched back from it but held his ground.

If Jack could have loved Ambrose, he would have. He’d tried to harder than he wanted to admit. Maybe he could have tried harder, but it still wouldn’t have made a difference. His soul had been Math’s for decades, but Jack’s heart had been his since the first time they’d seen each other. Guilt could bite deeper than grief.

“Because if he dies now—an oathbreaker twice over, a coward—he’s damned,” Jack said. “He was my friend. I want him to have a chance. Please.”

Math looked away for a second and then back. “Nothing is free,” he warned.

Jack raised his chin. “You can keep my soul.” At Math’s raised eyebrow, he dragged a wry smile from somewhere. “I wouldn’t know what to do with one now anyhow.”

There was a pause as Math considered it. Finally he shrugged and kneeled down gracefully next to Ambrose’s body.

“It seems that Jack forgives you,” he said as he tapped a finger against Ambrose’s temple to jolt him back to life. The faint peace that had settled on Ambrose’s face faded as he stared up into Math’s bright, cruel face. “I do not.”

Math thrust a long finger into the open wound. It sizzled and smoked, the smell of burned meat foul even in that foul place. Ambrose couldn’t even make a noise. He writhed, his heels battered against the back stone, and his throat was swollen with a scream that never made it out.

Eventually he passed out again, and Math let him sleep.

“He’s alive,” he defended himself when Jack glared at him. “He’ll stay that way now until I change my mind.”

“You could have been….”

“Kind?” Math mocked. He reached out and hooked his finger in Jack’s T-shirt to pull him close. His kiss surprised Jack with how gentle it was. “Stay away from your warlock. I don’t care who you fuck, but I won’t share you with someone who loves you.”

That would probably be best for Ambrose. His addiction to the Infernal and his… feelings… for Jack were probably more connected than he’d like to admit.

“Salvation is easier to find away from the damned,” Jack admitted.

Math smirked and kissed him again. This time he sucked the spilled blood from Jack’s lip and added more as he chewed a bruise onto the tender skin.

“I have business to attend to with our new friend,” he said as he finally leaned back. “Take my daughter and your friend home. I’ll see you later.”

Jack would have protested at being cast as the little woman, but Math was already gone. So was Hell.

Jack, Ambrose, and Tracy were back at the road, next to Ambrose’s car.

Epilogue

NO ONE wants to go to Hell. Not even the Devil.

THE CANDLEMAN had been buried three days before. It had been, by all accounts, a nice ceremony, if empty. The fate of Dale Kinney’s soul had already been decided. His brother had attended—and reopened the diner that had reverted to him—but his daughter hadn’t. Officially she was still missing.

Jack didn’t know what to do with her yet. He couldn’t just hand her over to the authorities—a demon child with a knack for the Infernal—but she was still too human for Hell. God knew, it was bad enough she was stuck with Jack for now. His parental examples had been… lacking.

She held Jack’s hand as they looked at the grave. Her other hand was in a neat white cast. She didn’t let anyone write on it.

“He wasn’t really my dad,” she said. “Is it okay to be sad?”

“I think so,” he said. “He raised you. He loved you. Just because he wasn’t the only one who made you, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t your dad. It’s always sad when someone who loves you dies.”

She nodded solemnly. “I’ll be sad, then.”

“I’ll leave you with him for a minute,” Jack offered. “I’ll be over by the angel.”

Tracy nodded, and Jack wandered away to the hooded angel that brooded over an ivy-cracked tomb. He leaned back against it and tiredly rubbed his eyes.

“Does she ever ask about me?” Math asked.

Jack flinched and banged his shoulder against the angel’s wing. He gave Math an annoyed look as the demon leaned against the tomb next to him.

“It’s been a month,” he said. “She’s asked everything. I have fuck-all answers.”

Math shrugged. “The little warlock was very afraid of someone. It took a while to make him more afraid of me.” He put his arm around Jack’s waist and leaned against him as though he wanted to warm up. “What do you need to know?”

“Why?” Jack asked.

Math snorted. “I told you that already. I was bored. Kinney wanted his brother’s wife, so I set them up but made sure she’d resent him. Mallory wanted a child and her husband was infertile, so I told her to fuck her brother-in-law. Only when Tracy was born, it was obvious she wasn’t either brother’s. Everyone got exactly what they wanted, and it made them miserable.”

Sometimes Jack forgot what Math was. Not today.

“Why couldn’t you go to Hell? Get her back yourself?”

Math shrugged. “Until she’s old enough to harvest her own souls, I have to feed her from my power. Usually it doesn’t matter. She’s part of me, after all. However, once she passed out of my control, out of Dale’s custody, that power went with her. I was weak, and if I’d gone into Hell, they’d have known that. Oh and, technically, I should never have made her. Not here. Not yet.”

A chill ran down Jack’s back, but he had grown used to it. He leaned back against Math and watched as Tracy crouched down in front of her dad’s grave. She dug a little hole and dropped something into it that flashed silver.

“Could Zachary have done it?” Jack asked. “Used her power to cross the mirror, to become a demon?”

Math bit his lower lip. It was rare he didn’t have an answer, right or wrong, on the tip of his tongue.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “For a while, maybe.”

“What are you going to do with her?” Jack asked.

Math shrugged. “She’s my child, not my pet,” he said dismissively. “She’ll be fine. You just need to keep her alive until she rips the soul from someone and leaves forever.”

Jack spluttered. “What?”

Math leaned in and kissed him roughly. “You promised,” he said as he sat back. “Remember?”

He pushed himself off the angel and walked away. His feet left dead patches in the grass. Just before he turned the corner, he stopped and looked back.

“Tell her I… am fond of her,” he said stiffly.

“First time I’ve seen you lie,” Jack said. “You love her. In your own way.”

Math tilted his head to consider. Whatever he decided surprised him. “I suppose I… might. Not the way I love you, but… more than I should.”

Then he shrugged, rounded the corner, and was gone. Jack leaned against the broken grave and stared after Math. Demons weren’t meant to love. He didn’t know what it meant if one could, if one even wanted to enough to pretend it did.

A cold hand tucked into his. “Can we go see Mommy?” Tracy asked.

Jack breathed out. His breath was colder than it should be from Math’s lips. He supposed it made no difference to him. He’d never been meant to love Math, and he always had anyway, even when he hated him as well.

“Sure,” he said.

They walked through the cemetery together, the dead man and the demon child.

It started there.

TA MOORE genuinely believed that she was a Cabbage Patch Kid when she was a small child. This was the start of a lifelong attachment to the weird and fantastic. These days she lives in a market town on the Northern Irish coast and her friends have a rule that she can only send them three weird and disturbing links a month (although she still holds that a DIY penis bifurcation guide is interesting, not disturbing). She believes that adding “in space!” to anything makes it at least 40 percent cooler, will try to pet pretty much any animal she meets (this includes snakes, excludes bugs), and once lied to her friend that she had climbed all the way up to Tintagel Castle in Cornwall, when actually she’d only gotten to the beach, realized it was really high, and chickened out.

She aspires to being a cynical misanthrope, but is unfortunately held back by a sunny disposition and an inability to be mean to strangers. If TA Moore is mean to you, that means you’re friends now.

Website: www.nevertobetold.co.uk

Facebook: www.facebook.com/TA.Moores

Twitter: @tammy_moore

Counterfeit Viscount

By Ginn Hale

When Prodigal devils begin disappearing, Archie Fallmont, Viscount of Granville, finds himself in the unenviable position of being required to investigate. He has, after all, sold his soul to the handsome devil—and flashy dresser—Nimble Hobbs. Now Archie must join Nimble, sleuthing out the knotty secrets of noble families and an infamously exclusive club.

But as bullets fly and top hats fall, Archie begins to fear he and Nimble are up against much worse than just dreadful poetry recitals. Not only is a murderer on the loose, but Archie is growing disturbingly fond of having a devil around.

Chapter One: The Counterfeit Viscount

THE VAST majority of days came and went for Archibald Lycrugus Granville, Viscount Fallmont, with the genteel luxuries of fresh-cut flowers, boots polished to a razor gleam, suppers served on gilded plates, and night after night of card games, at which he never lost more than he won.

Butter upon bacon, as Nimble would described it.

Archibald owned a stable of high-strung racehorses and retained a vast staff at each of his estates—though he rarely strayed from his elegant townhouse to visit either. From time to time, he pretended to woo the latest foreign heiress released into the staid waters of the peerage, and on occasion he indulged the expenses of a handsome artist or pretty actress.

Aside from the wide red shrapnel scar hidden beneath the snowy breast of his shirt, he appeared wholly unmarked by hardship. Fair, tan, and slim, he passed for a blithe youth even now at twenty-five.

His could’ve been a carefree life, except for the one day every third month when he descended to the pits of Hells Below and paid his devil.

March 21st, he woke before daybreak and slipped away from his attentive staff and current houseguests. He walked through the wan blue light, alongside herb girls and the last of the night patrolmen. Somewhere to the west, men called out the wonders of their coffee carts, and Archibald imagined that he could smell the aroma of the bitter black stuff rising on the clouds of steam that drifted from the river and blanketed the streets.

Sunlight burned through the fog by the time he reached the cold, clean room he rented at the Briar Hotel. There he exchanged his fashionable sable coat, his glossy top hat, and his silver pocket watch for the oilcloth cloak and worn cap common to the multitude of vagrant war veterans he’d once numbered among. He took up his bludgeon of an ironwood walking cane and traded his calfskin shoes for the battered army boots that had been far too big for him when he’d first been issued them at fifteen.

The brass mirror on the dresser door cast him in golden tones, but he certainly didn’t cut the figure of Viscount Fallmont anymore. Just plain old Archie now, and not so important that it would do anyone any good to mind where he went or what company he kept.

He departed the Briar by a back door and clipped through the bustling streets, leaving the realm of marble facades and large green parks far behind as he passed through blocks of modest brick businesses, and tramped on across the Crown Tower Bridge. Out in the less seemly section of the city, he picked his way through narrow alleys of cramped tenements, roaring factories, and sparkling gin palaces already filling up with shadows of human beings seeking bright oblivion. Here a few people knew him as Archie—an apple seller and a cat’s-meat man. They exchanged friendly greetings and a little news, then went their separate ways.

At last he reached the towering granite arch that rose over the worn stone stairs leading down to Hopetown—much more commonly known as Hells Below. Archie descended into the humid shadows slowly, admiring the ornate, soot-stained beauty of the mosaics decorating the walls on either side of him. Even through the ages of dirt and in the dim light, he made out bright shards of color and fantastically graceful figures. The mosaics supposedly chronicled the glorious day, hundreds of years ago, when the terrifying and beautiful armies of Hell had ascended to accept salvation and conversion at the hands of the church. Gleaming serpents and winged lions numbered among the burnished gold figures of fallen angels and towering warriors. Satanel, Leviathon, Sariel, Rimmon. Archie traced his finger over the surface of the inlaid metal-and-glass tiles, admiring the magnificence of those beings who’d once claimed dominion over lightning, raging seas, and the souls of the dead.

Not that anyone like them persisted in the vast ghetto beneath the sprawling city of Crowncross nowadays. Their descendants were called Prodigals, and most labored in dark, hard, and hazardous industries, where their natures supposedly lent them resistance to poisons, smoke, and exhaustion. Many weren’t too easy to recognize at a distance, though up close their yellow eyes, black fingernails, and jagged teeth tended to give them away, as did the citric scent of their sweat. But beyond those superficial traits, most Prodigals had as much in common with their preternatural ancestors as Archie had in common with Lord Bottham’s pet macaque. There were the exceptions, however.

As had become his habit, Archie paused, studying the mosaic. One devil’s familiar figure always held his attention. Broad and bronzed, with black hair and eyes as yellow as lemon drops. Even obscured within a procession of infernal dukes and damned princes, that single devil seemed to gaze back at Archie with an unreasonably amused and assured smirk. That was the face of a devil who knew he possessed rare and wondrous powers.

Archie could have sworn it was his own Nimble Hobbs, just about to say, “One day every three months, you’ve sworn to be mine, body and soul. So, haul your pampered ass down these dirty stairs and pay me what you owe me, Archie.”

There were far worse ways to pay a debt than in Nimble’s arms.

Archie took the steps by twos and soon reached the vast cavernous catacomb that spilled out beneath the city. It seemed to burrow deeper yearly, as more and more sewer pipes and gas lines invaded from the city above. Churches and storefronts leered out of the stone faces of the walls, and chipped gravel studded the tracks of mud that passed for streets. Yellow gaslight flickered from the occasional streetlight, and oily droplets of condensation dribbled from the pitted stone ceilings high overhead. The air smelled like grapefruit, piss, and burning shoes.

Archie drew his kerchief up over his nose and mouth before they started to burn. A pair of goggles offered his eyes some protection as he strolled along the wooden walkways, greeting crews of miners, dyers, tanners, and hatters as they passed on their way back from working long night shifts.

A gray-haired, legless Prodigal soldier on a street corner hailed him, and Archie stopped to hear a little of his story; he’d defended Sollum Hill as Archie had, but hadn’t been lucky enough to have Nimble stand over his bloody body, safeguarding him through the last night of cannon fire and cavalry charges.

“We held that damn hill, though, didn’t we?” The soldier’s yellow eyes looked as faded as old newsprint. He gazed past Archie into a remembered distance.

Archie nodded and shuddered as a droplet of condensation from the cave ceiling spat down the back of his neck. “You fellows in the Prodigal battalions won us the hill and the war,” he said, and that was the truth. The Nornians had possessed better steel, more deadly bombs, and enormous cavalries, but hadn’t had Prodigals. They’d been utterly unprepared for the monstrous ferocity and inhuman endurance of those few Prodigal forces.

“If it hadn’t been for your lot, we’d all be speaking Nornic, using paper for money, and eating dry fish for every meal,” Archie added.

A flush colored the old soldier’s sallow cheeks. He studied Archie. “You must have been one of them infants they conscripted to drive the guns and carry the silver crosses. You kiddies did right by us, hauling up fresh water and ammunition.”

“Third Children’s Brigade.” Archie managed a smile, though the memories made his skin feel cold as clay slip. He’d not been called up in a lottery, like so many of the Prodigal children who’d been taken from their weeping parents. No, his uncle had handed him and his brother over, like pennies proudly tossed into a collection plate.

“Rifleman in the Fifth, me.” The soldier scratched at the stump of his left leg, then glanced away to glower at a fat black rat. He picked up a pebble and flung it hard enough to stun the rodent.

While the soldier appeared distracted, Archie slipped a generous contribution into his beggar’s canteen—enough to keep him through this year at least. Then he wished the man a good day and went on his way, up the wooden walkways and over the slate roof of the Blessed Medicine Distillery and through the doors of Mrs. Mary Molly’s Boarding House.

Inside the warm, well-lit establishment, Nimble stood strangling a plump little man dressed in a priest’s frock coat.

Chapter Two: A Ruffian and a Gentleman

NIMBLE GLARED over his shoulder but, seeing that it was only Archie who’d walked in on him, gave a nod and returned his snarling attention to the flushed, gasping pastor.

“You tell Reverend Eligos that I don’t abide trespassers on my turf. He sends you around here to poach my kiddies, and it won’t just be Tillie Pistol and Bastard Jack busting up his services. Nimble Knife will cut him right out of the living business, yeah?”

The plump man made a jerking motion that passed for a nod, and Nimble all but tossed him to the floor. The pastor struggled up to his feet, swaying and gasping. The purple color faded from his face, but his eyes still bulged like he’d spent too many afternoons playing dickey games with a noose.

Archie moved away from the door.

“Off with you, you letchwater toad!” Nimble’s voice was always rough and rumbling, but now his words came out like a mastiff’s growl. The sharp teeth he bared would have done a dog proud as well.

The pastor bolted past Archie and raced down the wooden stairs like a teakettle bumping and bouncing off every corner. Archie half expected to hear the planks crack and then shouts as the man crashed through the distillery roof. Nimble strode to one of the three circular windows and studied the pastor’s descent while glaring murder down on the man. Then, all at once, he let the yellow curtain fall back over the green glass window and turned to Archie. He offered a broad theatric smile that seemed to light his yellow eyes to gold.

“Archie, what a pleasure to see you here so early. I wasn’t expecting you before ten. And certainly not looking so clean as this. Don’t tell me you’ve found an honest trade, my bantling.”

“Still employed in the family business of doing nothing for no one at no particular hour, I’ll have you know.” Archie pulled the kerchief down from his mouth and pushed the goggles up to better see his surroundings. The entryway and small parlor appeared as tidy and colorful as ever. Bright wallpaper spilled a riot of floral patterns across the walls. Mismatched chairs stood around the hearth, and gold light glowed from two gaudy orange lamps.

Archie expected Nimble to throw his arms around him and pull him close, as was his habit. Then he would offer Archie a tot of blue gin, or some other alcoholic paint thinner, to ease him up for the inevitable backgammon they’d get up to in Nimble’s private room. But this morning Nimble stood a little too straight, with his big hands jammed into the pockets of his red corduroy jacket. He wore the heavy canvas trousers and tall black boots that he preferred for tramping through muddy streets, instead of the dog-velvet dressing gown he normally donned on the days Archie came calling. His broad, handsome smile looked like it had been slapped on with wallpaper paste and tasted bitter.

At once Archie knew they weren’t alone. He noticed a shadow flitting back and forth where the door to the kitchen stood slightly ajar. Alarm shot through Archie, but he held his nerve.

“And I’m hardly early. The clock on the mantle says ten after, old boot.” Archie sauntered past Nimble and dropped down into one of the worn chairs next to the small fireplace. He held his hands out to the flames. It wasn’t ever biting cold down in Hells Below, but the constant damp made him feel the healed seams that webbed across his ribs and shoulder blade. If it came to a brawl, he wanted his joints loose and ready to move.

“Right you are.” Nimble laughed, and it almost sounded natural. “I suppose I lost track of time, being so caught up in the joy of the moment.”

Archie smiled inanely and watched the kitchen door. If there were Inquisitors there, he and Nimble were both of them likely to end up swinging from nooses. Sodomy had been largely decriminalized, but demonic conjury was still punishable by death. The Queen’s Inquisition might have turned a blind eye to the practices during the war, but they were years past that now. Recently they’d made a very public show of policing trade in magics as seriously as they investigated thefts and murders.

It occurred to him that he should have turned right around and slipped away, instead of sitting his ass down. But if Inquisitors lurked behind that door, then he couldn’t leave Nimble alone to face them and their torture chambers of prayer engines. He’d take as many of them down as he could.

Even as the thought occurred to Archie, he discounted it. Not only would Inquisitors have frowned on Nimble strangling a brother pastor in their presence, but Nimble would never have allowed one of their number so deep into his home, not unless he’d already chopped them up into pie filling.

So that left the options of new client or a Prodigal tough attempting to strong-arm or sweet-talk Nimble into joining a crew. Archie wasn’t particularly taken with either possibility.

“It’s all clear,” Nimble called.

The kitchen door opened slowly. White-haired and stooped, Mrs. Mary Molly poked her deeply wrinkled face out like a shy owl. She gave Archie a craggy smile, and he offered her a friendly wave. He’d only spent a few months in her company, and that had been seven years ago, but Archie had liked her sense of humor and appreciated the small kindnesses she’d done for him while he’d still been recovering the use of his right arm.

As far as Archie could tell, she left it to Nimble to secure the rent for her property and didn’t question his methods or means so long as he was prompt with the payments. All her energies and income went to running a charity school for orphaned Prodigals. The school taught them the manners and skills to land work as clerks, secretaries, and servants in noble houses.

Mrs. Molly snaked her hand back and seized someone on the other side of the door. Then she yanked a gangly redheaded Prodigal boy out. He looked all of thirteen, clutched a half-eaten sausage roll in one hand, and wore the satin livery and silk stockings of a nobleman’s page. From the emblem on his jacket, Archie realized the boy hailed from Lord Umberry’s house. And from the startled expression on his gob, Archie suspected the lad was halfway to realizing where he knew Archie from.

Archie wasn’t close with Umberry, in part because Archie’s uncle, Silas Granville, was. However, Archie had seen a good deal of the man and his household while halfheartedly courting Umberry’s glacier of a sister, Agatha Wedmoor. Archie and Lord Umberry also frequented three of the same clubs and had sat across from each other many times at card tables.

“This is Archie. He’s a friend of mine from the army. Not a Proddie, but you can trust him.” Nimble indicated Archie with his thumb, then flicked a long forefinger in the boy’s direction as he glanced to Archie. “The lad is Thom Chax. He comes to us by way of Mrs. Molly’s Improving School. And as I understand it, two years back Reverend Eligos arranged a post for Thom with some toff. But now, I’m guessing from the pastor coming after him, there’s been tribulation that’s obliged our boy to hightail it back to Mrs. Molly’s protection. Yeah?”

The boy nodded. His gaze shifted to Archie, but then returned almost worshipfully to Nimble. “It’s true, Mr. Nimble, sir. I’ve come into real trouble.”

“Oh! If there’s trouble in your life, the man you need is Nimble the Knife.” Mrs. Molly said it like a proverb. “That’s what it says on your card, isn’t it, Nimble, dear?”

“The old card, my love. Nowadays it reads ‘Reliable and Discreet. Nimble Solutions to Intractable Problems.’ Sepia ink on the prettiest cream paper. But I digress.” Nimble’s grin relaxed, and he gestured to the seats near the fire. “Why don’t you both have a sit-down?”

“That would be a relief.” Mrs. Molly steered the boy to a footstool and took the seat nearest the bright coals herself.

Nimble glanced to the remaining empty chairs but stayed on his feet. “I’ll bitch the tea for you all like a proper host, shall I?” he offered, and his language made the boy grin in delight. Then Nimble sauntered into the kitchen, and the three of them sat in silence. Archie pointedly kept his head down as if his mud-caked bootlaces were the most engaging sight. He considered making an excuse and taking his leave.

But he had a bargain to keep if he wanted to retain his title and the power it gave him to have his revenge. The terms of the conjury had to be met. And—though he’d die before he admitted it aloud—he’d been anticipating and waiting for this day all the last three months. There was an ache in him like a drunkard’s hunger for gin, or an ophorium addict’s longing for the needle. The whole of his body trembled with an almost feverish anticipation. Archie clenched his hands together and scowled at his ugly boots.

He used to resent Nimble for putting this eager need in him, but the older he’d grown, the more he’d come to recognize that it was his own nature that roused and responded to such desires. Nimble was the best and most ardent, but not the only indulgence he’d known since he’d become a viscount.

Archie sighed and almost reached for the deck of cards lying on Nimble’s shelf. What did it say about him that he, a man who could hire the hardest steeds in the city, could sulk in his chair because the needs of an old woman and some sad little lad might delay his pleasure an hour or two?

He’d allowed himself to get spoiled, he had. Somewhere between his racehorses and vast mansions, he’d forgotten that he’d never done a thing to deserve the easy life he now led.

Across from him, Thom gnawed down the remains of the sausage roll while attempting to appear subtle in his uncertain study of Archie’s profile. His weirdly intent expression reminded Archie a little of himself as a lad, and he felt a pang of sympathy for the boy.

Mrs. Molly, in the meanwhile, closed her eyes and sighed in that soft rhythm that made Archie think she was about to drift off to sleep. The stairs must have been a hard slog for her to climb at her age. Archie noted that her boots were missing a few buttons and looked recently scuffed.

What sort of trouble had the boy gotten into, that it had inspired the reverend to send a pastor after him and made Mrs. Molly feel the need to shelter herself and the child with Nimble? What could he have possibly done?

Or was it what he’d witnessed being done, Archie wondered suddenly.

Umberry’s lewd humor had always left Archie feeling slightly oily after an hour of his company, but until just this moment, he’d not considered that there could be any genuine substance behind all the talk.

Just as Archie began to formulate a way to ask the boy, Nimble returned with a brass tray and a very colorful, if eclectic, tea set. Archie decided to leave the questions to Nimble, but he found he did want to hear the answers.

Mrs. Molly straightened in her chair and smoothed the patched fabric of her white apron and gray dress. Nimble served them what had to be the finest floor-sweepings on offer in Hells Below, and even made a little show of embarrassment over the quantity of cream he could offer and the quality of his rough brown sugar cubes.

“I snitched white sugar from a table once,” Thom commented as he stirred a dollop of cream into his cup. “But I like the brown better. Suppose it shows my breeding. Thanks for this!”

Nimble offered the boy the sort of noblesse oblige nod that Archie still couldn’t pull off. Then he kicked back into a high-backed chair with his own cup.

“Well, let’s hear your tale of woe, lad,” Nimble said. “And then we’ll have a think on what good I can do you. Aside from sending that grasping pastor packing.”

“It’s murder. That’s what I think.” Thom added three lumps of dark sugar to his creamy tea and slugged it back like he was downing blue gin for courage. Then he launched into the meandering history of how Reverend Eligos had secured him a position as a page to Charles Wedmoor, Lord Umberry. He’d served the lord for two years now, and aside from swiping a white sugar cube and ogling his lordship’s collection of dirty postcards, he’d kept his nose so clean, it practically gleamed.

Halfway through explaining that he’d spent more time this last year running letters all across the city for Lord Umberry’s sister than he had trailing his lordship to brothels and dogfights, Thom interrupted himself to say, “But my point is that His Lordship is a founding member of the Dee Club.” Thom cast another speculative glance at Archie. “You might have heard of it….”

Archie wasn’t a member, but he did know of the exclusive club. It and several others like it had popped up over the last fifty years, ever since grand old Lord Foster had made a point of patronizing and keeping company with the renowned Prodigal painter B. Sykes. Some of the clubs seemed to genuinely promote equality between their Prodigal and natural members; the Grenfell Club even championed changes to the laws that relegated Prodigals to life in Crowncross City. But the majority had far more in common with kennel clubs, where the rich went to be seen with their latest exotic acquisitions. Dee Club had a particularly dangerous reputation, which ensured it attracted nearly every young blood who imagined himself to be a worldly rake.

“Yeah…. Dee Club.” Nimble paused in thought. “That one’s set up over the south bank of the White River. A fancy jade establishment where snobs gather to watch their pet Proddies recite poems and then tear out one another’s throats, yeah.”

“It’s Sundays that they have the fights.” Thom nodded. “I didn’t used to work Sundays, you see. So I had thought it was all just dances and recitals and—excuse my language, Mrs. Molly—frigging behind the curtains.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of folk doing far worse behind curtains, my dear,” Mrs. Molly assured him.

Archie stifled his laugh behind his teacup.

Thom nodded in all seriousness and went on. “Well, eight months back I got shifted over to Sundays. The lad who’d worked at the club before me had left all sudden-like. Only now I think maybe he didn’t leave. Maybe they done him in.”

A desolate, ill look came over Thom.

Archie’s amusement evaporated. He remembered how he’d felt the first time he’d seen a friend’s corpse, and then how sick he’d been the first time he’d driven a bayonet into a living man’s body. The soldier had died on top of Archie, his hot blood soaking through Archie’s uniform.

But this wasn’t the same. Thom faced only a suspicion, not the fly-infested, bloating reality.

He shook off his uneasiness quickly and went on with his story. “So I worked Sundays at the Dee Club and got an eyeful of the fights. They were so bloody, so mean. My first night, I was sick out in the garden. But I got… used to it. I mean, as much as a soul can. I started to know some of the fighters. Then I noticed something wasn’t right.”

Mrs. Molly gave a sour snort and mumbled under her breath, “Sounds like a lot isn’t right with that place, Thom, my dear.”

Thom nodded and stared down at the cup in his hands.

“But the fights alone weren’t what put the pastor after you or brought you to me, are they?” Nimble prompted.

“No. Nancy is the reason I come here. Nancy Beelze. She is—was—one of the best of the lady fighters. And the kindest women I ever known. She brought me sweets and snuck me storybooks as well. Real pretty, and red-haired like they say my mum was. Nancy always put on a good show. The gents like to see the girls tear each other’s clothes and the like, you know. But Nancy, she’d worked on stages and in genuine theaters, so she was real clever about keeping the gents entertained without losing an eye doing it. See, she’d chat with the other girls, and they’d work it out between them, so none of them got too hurt. Of course, sometimes someone would set a dog on her or bring in some brute from the boxing circuit. Then Nancy’d have a bad night. If that happened, then Nurse Fuggas would give me her keys and send me down to the infirmary rooms to deliver medicines to Nancy and the other girls. Most times Nancy asked me to stay and chat with her till she fell asleep.”

Thom’s expression shifted from nostalgic to troubled.

“A month back, she had one of them bad fights. Up against some slavering wolf of a dog. Afterward, I went down. She was bloody and black and blue from head to foot, but she still wanted to chat with me. Told me all about how she’d seen a map of the whole world and how there were all kinds of cities other than this one. There are places where trees grow all the way up into the clouds, and cities where the streets are paved with gold and copper. That’s when we both realized she’d lost her lucky copper ring in the arena. So I raced back up to fetch it for her. I searched around in the sand, and it took me a little while to find. But when I took it back down, she was gone.”

“Gone, as in… dead?” Nimble asked.

“Just gone. Her bandages was strewn across the floor, her nightgown in a wad on the empty bed, and me standing all alone in her room, holding her copper ring.”

Archie frowned. He’d expected something a little more dramatic than a woman walking out. He glanced to Nimble.

“You don’t suppose she just upped and fled from the whole business?” Nimble asked.

“She couldn’t have,” Thom replied. “The infirmary room doors lock up tight when they close. It’s so as none of the gents could come down and take advantage while the girls were too beat up or dazed to fend them off. Most of them got draughts that helped them sleep. And I’d made sure that the door locked tight behind me when I went out.”

“But surely the lock wasn’t made to keep Nancy from opening it from within the room?” Archie asked.

“But they are, mister. They’re supposed to keep patients from wandering off and falling in the river after they’d had a hard knock on the head or after a dose of ophorium for their pain.”

Thom sounded like he believed the excuse, but it struck Archie as deeply disturbing. A place could be called a sanatorium, a nursery, or an infirmary, but if the person within didn’t have the freedom to leave, then it was a prison.

“When I realized Nancy was gone, I raced upstairs and told Nurse Fuggas. She’s the one that mixes their draughts and does the surgeries. She sat me down in her office with a cup of warm milk and then fetched Lady Umberry—”

“You don’t mean Lord Umberry’s wife?” That Archie couldn’t imagine. Not only did the willowy blonde deem the slightest argument as an opportunity to succumb to vapors, but Charles went to noticeable lengths to distance her from his more indecorous interests and affairs.

“His sister.” Thom pulled the pained face of a young man who’d felt the bite of the lady’s riding crop across his knuckles. Archie didn’t have nearly as much trouble picturing the marble-faced Agatha Wedmoor coolly looking on while any number of men or women scrapped for pennies.

“Lady Umberry serves as hostess in her brother’s club. Even Sundays,” Thom explained. “She marched right down told me not to be a little ninny and claimed Nancy had been moved to a more comfortable room. But when I asked to see Nancy so I could return her lucky charm to her, Lady Umberry held out her hand and said she’d give it to Nancy. She looked at me with them cold blue eyes of hers, like I was a rat she was about to set her dog on. And I knew right then that she wasn’t being straight with me.”

Having courted Agatha, Archie recalled exactly the expression Thom described. He’d once made the mistake of laughing at a comment that had not amused Lady Umberry in the slightest. Later in the evening, she’d accidentally driven her fork into the back of his hand.

“So, instead of giving her Nancy’s ring, I turned over my own lucky penny. Then Lady Umberry and the nurse sent me off. The next day, I asked if Nancy had got her lucky charm, and Lady Umberry assured me that Nancy had been very happy to have it back. Then I was told I wouldn’t be required to work Sundays at the club.”

“You were sacked?” Nimble asked.

“No. That would have been Lord Umberry’s prerogative, since I was his page. As far as I could tell, Lady Umberry didn’t snitch to him that I’d gotten suspicious. She just wanted me away from the club. And she treated me nice enough the weeks after. Had me deliver letters just like before. And I started to think maybe I had been a ninny. Maybe Nancy had changed rooms. Maybe she thought I hadn’t been able to find her ring and that I’d handed over my penny instead. I started hoping I’d got it all wrong that night, but then I was scared that I hadn’t.”

Thom dropped his gaze down into the pale hollow of his empty teacup. “I figured that if I could just see Nancy for myself one time, then I could stop worrying and be able to sleep easy at night again. So this last Sunday evening, I snuck out to the club….”

Archie thought he could see a glassy gleam welling up in the boy’s yellow eyes.

“But she wasn’t there?” Nimble guessed.

Thom nodded and wiped at his tears. Nimble handed the boy one of his bright red kerchiefs. They waited as the boy pulled himself back together and then miserably stuffed Nimble’s sodden kerchief into his coat pocket.

“One of the other girls told me that she hadn’t been back since that last night I’d seen her. More than that, Nancy’s beast of a husband—Doug the Dog, they call him—had come around looking for her and gotten beaten down and driven off by the Inquisition for annoying the fine gents and making a nuisance of himself during one of their poetry recitals. After I heard that, I knew for certain that I’d been right that night. They’d done something to Nancy, and she wasn’t coming back, not ever.”

Thom pulled out the kerchief again and spent a few moments with his face buried in the damp red cloth. Mrs. Molly leaned forward from her chair and put her arms around the boy, and he leaned into her. His breathing grew steadier as she whispered kindnesses into his curly red hair.

“What was it that got the reverend and his pastors involved?” Nimble addressed the question to Mrs. Molly.

“Thom went to him and told him the whole story. But I don’t know that he exactly believed Thom—”

“He believed me all right!” Thom straightened up. “He didn’t look surprised or nothing when I told him that I thought them gents were making magic potions from the corpses of murdered Proddies. Just like I read about in my penny blood books. The reverend knew just what I meant! But them gents have bought him off. Because instead of telling me that we should press charges and warn off other Proddies, he slaps me upside the head and calls me a liar. He tells me that he’ll turn me over to the Inquisition for extortion if I mention this to anyone again! Then he takes hold of me by the hair to hand me over to Lord Umberry! So I put a knee to his bollocks and pelted straight to Mrs. Molly.”

“Kneed him. No wonder the reverend couldn’t come running after you himself, eh?” Nimble grinned at the boy, but then he shifted his gaze to Mrs. Molly. “Will Eligos cause you trouble if the lad stays with you?”

“Oh, I doubt the pious old miser cares a fart so long as Thom doesn’t show up in his church spouting accusations.” Mrs. Molly shrugged. “It’s his own reputation he’s worried about, not the facts of the matter one way or the other.”

“I ain’t stepping foot in his church ever again!” Thom declared. “He ain’t getting half a penny more of my pay in his collection boxes.”

“Ah, a lad after your own heart there.” Nimble winked at Archie and then added for Thom’s benefit, “If you ever make the mistake of dragging our Archie to a sermon, you’ll hear him muttering words that’ll blister your ears, and he’ll even sing filthy ditties to the tune of the hymns.”

Thom gazed at Archie with an expression somewhere between horror and awe. Like the vast majority of Prodigals, the boy had no doubt been brought up on a constant diet of piety and deference to church authority. Even Nimble, for all his impropriety and conjuring, still carried a wooden cross as a pocket fob. Archie, on the other hand, had been born a bastard in a noble house and witnessed firsthand who truly benefited from church doctrine. He’d lost his last shred of faith in the goodness of God while watching his brother slowly die that last week on fucking Sollum Hill.

“Can we leave it with you, then?” Mrs. Molly lifted her amused gaze from the boy to Nimble, and her expression turned grim. “You know the Inquisition won’t take this disappearance any more serious than the last ones.”

Last ones? Archie raised his brows.

“Yeah. I’ll take it on.” Nimble offered Mrs. Molly a half smile. “It can’t pay worse than the last job you brought me.”

“Oh, it only took you a minute to get the cat up from that ash pit,” Mrs. Molly responded.

“Nearly lost an eye in that minute, though.” Nimble turned to Archie. “Claws like a lion’s on that fat little kitten. And not so much as a two-penny for thanks from—”

“I’ll pay you, Nimble! Just don’t let them get away with what they done to Nancy.” Thom shot to his feet. “I ain’t got money, but I got a strong body and a baptized soul. I know you conjurers trade in souls—”

“Don’t—” Mrs. Molly cried out, but it was already too late.

Archie’s horror probably showed as plainly as Mrs. Molly’s. He knew damn well what such a bargain entailed, and it revolted him to think of a child Thom’s age entering into such a pact. But the words had been spoken aloud and of the boy’s own volition, same as Archie himself had blurted them out to Nimble so many years ago. They couldn’t be retracted, only answered—just as they had been in the ages before when Nimble’s ancestors answered from their kingdoms in hell.

Mrs. Molly shook her head in a silent plea, and Archie glowered at Nimble. But Nimble didn’t pay either of them any mind. Instead he crouched down in front of Thom and studied him with a hard, intent expression.

Revulsion snaked through Archie. This was an aspect of Nimble’s trade that he had never before witnessed and had deluded himself into thinking was something rare and somehow special between the two of them. He’d not wanted to know if Nimble took other men, much less boys, but if he witnessed it with his own eyes, he didn’t know if he could stand it—if he could forgive it.

“Nah. That’s too bright a light burning in you, Thom. You’d blind me, you would.” Nimble stood, though he still held Thom’s gaze. “I tell you what, lad. Why don’t we strike this bargain. I’ll look into what was done to your Nancy and see that justice is got for her, one way or another. In return, you’ll apply yourself to finding good work somewhere solid. When the occasion arises that I need to be let in the back door of your swank establishment, or if I need to know a few names or addresses, well, you’ll be in a position to do me the favor.”

Mrs. Molly melted back against the cushions of her chair, her benevolent smile rising like cream through milk. Archie, too, felt relieved but then slightly confused as well. He realized that as much as he’d been horrified by the thought, he’d also expected Nimble would snatch up the child’s soul—wouldn’t be able to resist doing so.

“You just want me to find a posh job?” Thom appeared rightly skeptical, Archie thought.

“Correct, my lad.”

“Nothing more?” Thom asked.

“There’ll be more. Like I said. The day may well come that I want a favor from a fellow in a first-rate position. I could need information concerning accounts or comings and goings. I might require an introduction or the copy of a key.” Nimble sounded serious now. “It’s not so little as you might think, lad. A bit of knowledge can be as powerful as blood and conjuring if you know how to use it. And I believe this arrangement would suit us both. Yeah?”

Thom appeared thoughtful. Perhaps this was the first time he’d considered the information and access his employment in a powerful institution could confer. He nodded.

Absently Archie wondered how many others had struck this deal with Nimble.

“Shall we have a shake to bind it, then?” Nimble extended a big hand, and Thom grasped it with his own much more delicate fingers. They shook three times.

After that, Mrs. Molly and Nimble traded gossip and news, all while she gathered up her shawl and Thom’s cap from the kitchen. As they discussed the latest attempt of the Good Commons Association to repeal the Prodigal Restriction Codes, Archie picked up a deck of Nimble’s playing cards. He shuffled and flipped through them, absently drawing the ace of diamonds over and over. Nimble cleared away the tea and cups and then bid Thom and Mrs. Molly a good day. Archie folded the ace back into the deck of cards and waved the two of them a farewell.

Nimble locked the door behind them and then went to the window to observe their descent down the wooden stairs.

Archie wondered how much of Thom’s story had been truth and how much a boy’s imagination. The detail of the infirmary locks and the excuses for them bothered him. That wasn’t something a child thought up. Of course, the entire affair was Nimble’s concern, not his; still, he felt curious.

“Anyone waiting at the bottom to thump them?” Archie asked.

“Nah. They’ve just popped in to Britcher’s Ragstand. Probably selling that blue satin livery and picking up something a little more subtle for the boy to walk around in.”

Archie nodded and drew his ace again.

Nimble glanced back in time to see him do it and grinned. “You’ve gotten better with the cards than I ever was.”

“Practice, old boot. It’s just practice,” Archie replied.

“Doesn’t hurt to have a fortune to practice with, though.” Nimble leaned over the tall back of the chair Mrs. Molly had abandoned and watched Archie cut and shuffle. He wore a flatteringly attentive expression.

“There’s not much that having a fortune doesn’t make easier,” Archie agreed. “I don’t suppose you’re going to offer me a sip of something a little stronger than tea, are you?”

“I’m getting to it, my bantling,” Nimble replied, but he didn’t move. “I’ve heard that your uncle lost two more ships at the card tables.”

Archie grinned. It had taken him years of gambling, bargaining, and bribery, but he now possessed the majority of his uncle’s debts and assets. He would soon be in a position to ruin the man completely.

“Must be true to put such wicked smile on your lovely face.” Nimble strolled to the little side table where his yellow bottles of blue gin and pine whiskey stood. “A dash of easy drops?”

Archie shook his head. He’d found it a challenge to wean himself off ophorium after the war. Now he felt wary of the painless languor the drug so easily provided.

“The arm’s not hurting, then?” Nimble commented as he poured their drinks.

“Not today. Suppose that means we won’t be seeing rain.”

“We never do down here.”

Nimble brought Archie a generous tot of blue gin in a fat little glass. Archie accepted it with a nod of thanks. An excited hum seemed to awaken in his belly, even before he swallowed his first mouthful. Nimble swirled the pine whiskey in his own glass. The waters dribbled into the liquor produced milky streaks that reminded Archie of smoke. Nimble, too, studied his glass. His expression struck Archie as unusually thoughtful. As a rule, Nimble maintained an air of glib, grinning confidence. Even while he slept, his lips often curved in smug satisfaction.

“You aren’t far from having all you wanted, are you?”

Nimble caught Archie off guard, lifting his gaze as Archie stared at him. Archie felt an absurd heat rise in his face and covered it by taking a swig of blue gin. The stuff tasted like it could strip stains from sheets. It burned down into his stomach.

“I mean to say, you’re well in now. Accepted as Archibald by all and sundry, set up with the title and posh tracts of soil. Not even your sly uncle Silas suspects—”

“Sure.” Archie wasn’t certain why they were discussing this now. It made him uneasy. “And I know that’s all thanks to you, old boot. I’m not trying to back out—”

“’Course not. Your word is good as gold with me. Always has been. But the thing is….” Nimble swirled his glass again, turning the entire drink milky white. “The thing is that we struck our bargain ages back, when we were both still wet. Since then… since then, I’ve started to….” Nimble scowled at his untouched drink like it could be blamed for his difficulty in making his point.

The tremulous sensation fluttering through the pit of Archie’s belly turned from butterflies to spiders. He drained his glass just to kill the feeling. Whatever it was that Nimble needed to say, Archie felt certain it wasn’t anything he wanted to hear. There was too much seriousness and finality to Nimble’s expression.

Suddenly Archie wondered if somehow time had run out. Did Nimble need to collect his soul from his body now? Would that leave him an inhuman wreck? Would it simply kill him? Archie gripped his ironwood walking stick but then forced himself to release it. He’d been the one to make the proposal to Nimble. Whatever fate awaited him, it was his own responsibility.

“Well, here’s the thing.” Nimble dropped down into the seat across from Archie and slouched back so his knees pushed Archie’s tense legs apart. “That Thom boy isn’t the only one willing to pay me to have a go at the Dee Club. All put together, I stand to make quite a haul, but I need an in to the club, don’t I?”

The question fell so far from what Archie had been contemplating that it took him a moment to absorb Nimble’s words.

“You need a nobleman to sponsor you?” Archie said.

“That I do, my bantling. That I do.” Nimble sipped his pine whiskey. “And we both know that there’s only one nobleman I’d be willing to trust with a venture like this, yeah. So, that puts you in a perfect position to secure the properties that you previously sold to me.”

“I don’t—” Archie just caught himself from speaking ruinous words. “I’ve not yet avenged Archibald. I’m close, but it’s not done yet.”

“But you will have hung Silas out to dry in less than three months, won’t you?” Nimble gazed at him with congratulatory knowing. And Archie wondered how many bankers and debt collectors kept him informed. Archie didn’t want to admit as much, but he couldn’t deny it. When his uncle’s end came, it would be splashed across broadsheets and shouted by newsboys on street corners. A tremendous scandal of bankruptcy, debtors’ prison, and with any luck, suicide as well.

“He can’t last more than two months,” Archie said. “But I still need those two months, Nimble.”

Nimble nodded. “But after that, you’ll want to be free of… this.” He gave a wave of his hand. “And I… well, I need a way into the Dee Club. You do me that favor and we’re square. That’s fair, ain’t it?”

Archie nodded, feeling weirdly stunned, almost as dazed as he’d felt the first moment searing hot cannon shrapnel had torn into his chest—so wounded that it seemed beyond comprehending. The pain came later and lasted for years. He was going to want another drink.

He lifted his gaze to Nimble’s strangely solemn face and realized Nimble was doing him a kindness. Probably at some cost to himself. Souls didn’t come all that easily. He wasn’t hurting Archie purposefully; he just didn’t know. And if he didn’t know after all these years, then Archie wasn’t about to tell him. He still had that much pride.

“Shall we go upstairs?” Archie asked.

Nimble grinned and then tossed back the rest of his whiskey. “One last time, then, my bantling.”

ARCHIE FOLLOWED Nimble up the narrow, worn staircase. The first time they’d done this, Archie had just turned eighteen and had been filled with anxieties of nearly every kind, from the dread of selling his soul and taking on the uncle who’d terrified him as a child, to worrying over the freshness of his breath. At the time, Nimble had seemed so much more experienced. Though now Archie realized they’d both of them been little more than boys.

Nimble had been all of nineteen and still hadn’t quite mastered the light steps that he now employed to disguise the immense weight of his iron-dense bones and heavy muscles. These days, floorboards didn’t squeal nor did the steps groan like they strained under lead feet. Just looking at him, no one would have guessed that he weighed nearly twenty-one stone and swam about as well as a cannonball. Archie had discovered as much for himself on maneuvers, when he’d nearly drowned hauling Nimble out of the dank waters of a flooded bog.

Certainly strangers wouldn’t have imagined that such a jaunty, light-fingered fellow could ever have numbered among the half-starved, barefisted Prodigal Chargers, who’d held Sollum Hill for three weeks against cavalry and heavy guns. Nimble wouldn’t have wanted them to know. He liked being thought of as a flashy tough without any particular history beyond the tall tales that sprang up throughout the back streets of Hells Below.

Nimble seduced every novice in the Sacred Heart Convent and even knocked up the sixty-year-old Mother Superior.

Knife turned that skinner, Fatty Braggs, into a pig and sold him to his brother, Butcher Braggs, for sausages.

Nimble the Knife once killed a snitch, dressed in his clothes, and ate his entire body before the Inquisition captains could arrive on the scene to investigate.

Archie gave a quiet snicker at the thought of that last one.

Nimble looked back at him with a raised brow.

“Just having a laugh at myself,” Archie replied.

“And here I thought you might be having a chuckle at how wasted my fine ass is, dressed in these dull togs.” Nimble took the last three steps up to the narrow landing, then fished his keys from his pocket and opened his bedroom door. Archie’s pulse picked up, and words seemed to evaporate from his mind.

“The trousers look good, actually,” Archie managed to get out, though it was hardly sparkling repartee.

Again Nimble looked back at him, this time with a sharp grin. “I thought they did. Glad you noticed.” Then Nimble beckoned him into the warm dark room. A single Argand lamp rested on the nightstand, throwing circles of soft gold light across the room and adding the scent of olive oil to the air. The modest necessities of a washstand, dresser, and rag rug edged the space, while two small framed prints hung on the far wall—reproductions of Sykes’s famous studies of Adonis in Repose. But it was the four-poster bed that took pride of place and truly revealed Nimble’s love of lavish color and too-bold patterns. Even in the faint light, gold threads gleamed along the length of the bolster. Lush green pinstripe pillows spilled across the scarlet artichoke patterns of his throw. A rainbow of poppy designs enveloped the plump curves of his duvet cover. The silk sheets beneath all that would reveal an indigo sky studded with mauve and yellow stars, Archie recalled. Gilded apple blossoms wound up all four of the bedposts, and the dark violet canopy above displayed hundreds of crescent moons.

Nothing could have been further from the tasteful pearl-gray elegance of Archie’s own home, and yet the sight of this mismatched extravagance flooded him with a feeling of happiness. He didn’t want this to be the last time he ever visited this room or lay spread across that bed.

Hating the melancholy turn of his own thoughts, Archie turned his attention from the bed to the prints on Nimble’s wall. The studies captured a handsome man, but with such an empty expression and flawless body that he might as well have been a polished stone.

Nimble strode to his wardrobe and brought out the three big red candles that he always burned for their ceremony—one for each month. They were no longer the tall, grand columns they’d once been, but now looked short and fat, almost enveloped by the streams and beads of their own melted wax. Nimble muttered some low growling incantation over each one and used his hard black fingernail to gouge a symbol into the wax. He set them in a row and looked well pleased with himself.

Then came his precious blue vial of blessed oil. He added a single drop to the wick of each candle before placing them on the bedside table. Nimble scratched a match to life and then set the candles burning. The familiar scent of camphor wafted up on a ribbon of pale smoke.

Archie drew in a deep breath. The perfume filled him with a bittersweet anticipation. He couldn’t wait, and yet he knew it would all too soon be over. And the next time he caught the fragrance of camphor, it would only fill him with loss.

“Come on, Archie. Don’t look like that.” Nimble walked to him. He reached out and put his arm around Archie’s shoulders, offering him the comforting sort of hug that his father had bestowed upon him on the single occasion that he’d nearly acknowledged their relationship. Coming from Nimble it felt too cautious, too apologetic—like they were visiting a grave, not taking to bed. “You know I won’t hurt you none,” Nimble said quietly.

“’Course I do. You’re a sweet bugger, you are. That’s all anyone says of Nimble the Knife—‘sweet as treacle, and he hardly ever tosses a pastor across the room.’” Archie forced a laugh, then shrugged off Nimble’s heavy arm to toss his cap onto the washstand. He hung his oilskin cloak up on one of the three brass hooks that studded Nimble’s bedroom door. Nimble added his own red sack coat to the hook beside the one holding Archie’s cloak.

“Well, as far as buggery goes, I haven’t had any complaints.” Nimble cast Archie a quick, sly glance as he slipped his galluses off his broad shoulders. His trousers dropped to the floor, leaving him dressed in just the white linen shirt that Archie had brought him six months ago. Nimble’s trimmed black fingernails stood out starkly against the abalone buttons. He stripped his shirt off quickly, but took a few moments to fold everything away, neat as a pin.

Naked, Nimble was quite a sight. Muscular enough to rival the framed sketches on his walls, but far more affecting than those idealized images. A mole in the shape of a sloppy heart sat a few inches above his left asscheek, and fine indentations marked his waist, where the leather of his knife belt had dug into his skin. He bore far more scars than Archie. Saber scars, bullet scars, knife scars, along with the common history of scraped knuckles and skinned knees that marked most of humanity. Unlike Archie, he wasn’t self-conscious of any of them. In fact he seemed completely at ease standing there naked and already half-hard. Archie admired and envied that self-confidence.

Then Nimble lifted his gaze to Archie. That jagged, delighted smile lit his face, seeming to wash away the fine lines that edged his eyes, and all at once, Archie forgot the insecurities that made him so awkward. Here with Nimble in this small room, there were no lies to maintain. He felt appreciated as the man he truly was.

“I can’t believe you still wear these foul old boots. I ask you, is that anyway to dress when you’re coming to such a fine bed as this one? Ugh. The entire kit’s got to go, Archie.” Nimble winked at him, and Archie laughed. Archie’s attachment to his army boots—and his nickname for Nimble—was a long-standing joke between them.

He swung onto the bed and lay back to stare up at all those moons spilled across purple velvet. Nimble knelt and unlaced Archie’s boots, then pulled them off his feet and set them at the bedside. He stripped away Archie’s clothes with a kind of care that would have done Archie’s valet proud. Though he paused when he got Archie’s shirt off. He frowned at the yellow-blue bruises mottling Archie’s abdomen.

“Got it fencing at Green’s, I think…,” Archie said, but then he remembered. “No. It was at the Prince Joseph Boxing Club. Punch-ups are all the rage just now.”

Nimble made a disgusted sound and shook his head.

“Next time, send them rich harecops down here to Hells Below. Plenty of us would gladly give’m thrashings for half the cost of the membership to their clubs.”

“You are generous to a fault, old boot,” Archie replied.

Nimble continued to frown at the large bruise. He looked like he wanted to say something more about the scrapes and bruises Archie had acquired while keeping company with the kind of spoiled men who made hobbies of violence. But Nimble only shook his head, then folded Archie’s shirt and set it aside.

He leaned over Archie, both of them naked, exposed in their anticipation but not yet touching.

“Do you freely give yourself to me, Archie?” Nimble asked softly and seriously. This was the one thing he never tried to turn into a laugh.

“Body and soul, I do,” Archie replied without even considering the words anymore. He used to wonder why he trusted Nimble so much more than other men; he’d never been able to decide if it was because Nimble didn’t bother to hide what he wanted, or if it was the result of Nimble’s hold over his soul.

Nimble leaned in and kissed his mouth, sweetly, almost modestly, then straightened and gazed down at Archie’s naked body.

“In return, all I am, any power I possess, I give to your service.” Nimble knelt and bestowed Archie’s stiff prick with a far less chaste kiss.

Pleasure shot through Archie, and when Nimble took him deep in his mouth, he couldn’t help the low moan that escaped him. Nimble knew his way around, and he worked Archie to a bucking, arching, wild thing. Archie ran his fingers over the curls of Nimble’s hair and whispered his pleasure in inarticulate gasps. All of his being seemed to ride between Nimble’s lips and dance on his clever tongue. Ecstasy built and built, until at last it burst from Archie’s body and left him gasping and dazed.

Maybe Nimble truly sucked his soul right out of his body along with that geyser of spunk. It certainly felt like it.

Nimble wiped his mouth and rose to his feet, all the time admiring Archie with a proud expression, like Archie was an instrument he’d played particularly well. The thought made Archie grin.

“You’re having that joke with yourself again, aren’t you? The royal presentation of my grand performance.” Nimble sat down on the bed beside him. His thick erection jutted up at a jaunty angle not too far from Archie’s arm.

“I am,” Archie admitted. “If you will, imagine the royal family and all the noble holy men gathered in their velvet seats. The curtain rises, and there you are, in the midst of an orchestra, performing an astounding solo upon my skin flute.”

Nimble laughed, but there was still a fierce need in his gaze.

Archie reached out and ran his finger along the length of Nimble’s cock. He was rewarded to see Nimble’s breath catch and watched his amused expression give way to helpless pleasure. Archie spent a few more moments stroking Nimble and catching a second wind for himself. Then he rolled over and invited Nimble to lavish his attention and oil upon his ass.

Even shaking and breathing hard, Nimble took his time. When at last Nimble slid into him, Archie was already quivering and truly ready for a second run at staining Nimble’s sheets with his mettle. Then they both went at it like hammer and tongs, shaking the bed till it groaned. Pillows fell and the floorboards squealed. Archie broke first, but Nimble didn’t outlast him by more than a moment. He came with a powerful thrust. For just an instant, Nimble’s full crushing weight drove into Archie as fiery spunk flooded him. Then Nimble rolled off, sweat-soaked and panting like he’d sprinted a mile.

And it was done. Their bargain sealed for the final time.

BEFORE PARTING ways, they agreed to stage the first public encounter between Viscount Fallmont and the Prodigal war veteran, Nimble Gamigin Hobbs, in St. Christopher’s Park in three weeks’ time. For the sake of easier communication and less travel, Nimble would take up residence in Archie’s rooms at the Briar Hotel. A bank account in Nimble’s name already existed and had been steadily filling with funds for years, though the information came as a surprise to Nimble.

“What? Why would you do that?”

“Just in case my ruse went tits up and I needed to make a hasty retreat. It never hurts to have a little fortune tucked away under another name.” There was more to it, but Archie didn’t feel like exposing the maudlin plan he’d long ago conceived for the days after his uncle’s downfall. Days he’d always assumed would be brief and end with Nimble taking his life and soul from him forever.

Now Archie had no idea what he would do with all the weeks, months, and years ahead of him. He ought to be relieved, he knew that—ought to be overjoyed by the opportunity to live the long, pampered, pointless life that had been stolen from the real Archibald. He didn’t feel ready to think too hard on why he wasn’t. Instead he focused on this last endeavor with Nimble.

It gave him a small satisfaction to inform Nimble of the high-end shops he’d need to patronize in the coming days, so as to become recognized by the most informed of gossips and so he could dress himself in a manner that might catch the eye of the Viscount Fallmont.

“Discerning, is he?” Nimble angled a meaningful glance to Archie’s ugly cloak and battered army boots.

“An absolute snob when it comes to clothes and horses,” Archie said. It was true; even as a boy, Archibald had been very particular and vocal about his tastes. Though Archie did sometimes wonder if he would have changed, perhaps grown in his ideas of the world, if he’d lived past seventeen. “I probably do him a disservice, playing him as such a dandy—”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think he would have liked the way all the papers make such a fuss over his latest choice of cravat or spats. Not to mention all the breathless speculation over which fair heiress will be so lucky as to catch his heart.”

“I had no idea you followed the social pages so closely, old boot.” It was Archie’s turn to tease, and surprisingly, Nimble seemed a little flustered.

“Of course I pay attention to what you’re doing up there in all that sunshine and fresh air, Archie,” he replied quickly, then added, “And it’s not just you. Even as rough a fellow as me needs to know what laws those noble harecops are passing over us down here.”

“True enough,” Archie agreed. “I’m voting to rescind the travel restrictions on Prodigals again this season. I think we’re close to winning the reform.”

“Yeah? It would be nice….” Nimble’s expression looked distant for a moment, but then his attention focused back on Archie. “Best not hold my breath. Particularly not when we have more pressing business to think on just now.”

After that, they worked out a few more details of their plan, but all too soon, Archie had to say goodbye and make his way back up from Hells Below to the resplendent south side of Crowncross, where he once again costumed himself in the costly silk and privilege of the Viscount of Fallmont.

Chapter Three: A Terribly Beautiful Place

THE VERY next day, Archie contrived to bump into the dark-haired, pale-eyed person of Charles Wedmoor at the Prince Joseph Boxing Club. He was a fit thirty and nice enough to look at, in that characterless way of so many men who’d done nothing to earn their privileges: healthy, washed, well-fed, and largely untroubled by the lives of people deprived of those favors.

In the ring, Archie allowed Charles to jab past his defenses often enough to make them seem equally matched. Though he couldn’t bring himself to lose to the other man, he behaved as a scrupulously good winner.

Later at Wright’s Gentlemen’s Club, in the company of Charles’s two blandly blond friends—Lupton and Neet—Archie conceded that the boxing match really should be considered a tie. They all drank to that and then kept drinking, each at their own rate. Archie lost a few hands of cards and won several more while observing the other men. Soon enough he secured Charles’s sympathy when he confessed to a lingering heartache over the man’s icicle of a sister.

“Agatha’s not actually so unfeeling as people think. It’s only that she’s difficult to get to know,” Charles assured him. “She gets damnably shy when she’s in the company of fetching men like you, Archibald. I think the things she says come out a bit more sharp than she means them to. That’s all it is.”

“Really?” Archie schooled his expression into one of hopeful delight. Either Charles entertained serious delusions about his sister’s character, or he didn’t know what the word shy meant. Agatha Wedmoor could deliver unflinching criticism of a man’s capabilities on the dance floor, the cut of his jacket, and his grasp of classic literature, all while looking him straight in the face. And Archie still hadn’t forgotten the sensation of silver fork tines biting into the back of his hand.

“Lady Agatha’s shy?” Neet sounded rightly skeptical. He was taller than both Charles and Lupton, but also candidly youthful; he still sported the blemished complexion of an eighteen-year-old, and at times his voice seemed about to crack.

“Well… she is… reserved.” Lupton sounded remarkably sober for the astounding number of brandies he had disappeared down his hatch. Archie wondered just how much it would take to actually inebriate the stocky fellow. Or was he one of those rare birds who hung on to their diction right up to the point of falling down in the street?

“I thought she was a Bible-banger. Those looks she gives when she don’t like a fellow’s jargon…. Reminds me of one of those dried-up old nuns—” Neet cut himself off just a little too late.

Offense darkened Charles’s face, and Archie actually thought a little better of the man for showing a care for what was said of his sister. But for the sake of keeping the conversation moving in the direction he wanted, Archie broke in.

“Yes, I know what you mean, Neet. There is something about her that seems holy, isn’t there?” Archie lifted his gaze upward. A plump cherub leered at him from the painted ceiling. “How can a man even hope to win the affection of such a divine creature? I almost feel that I’m standing before an angel when I see her.”

“Oh, you have got it bad, Archibald.” Lupton laughed. “Must be a family weakness.”

“How do you mean?” Archie asked.

“Well, your uncle has been… em… paying her a great deal of attention at the Dee Club.”

“Has he?” Archie didn’t try to hide his displeasure. Agatha Umberry’s dowry was speculated to be immense, certainly large enough that it might reverse Silas’s fortunes. That, Archie would not abide. Not after devoting seven years to engineering the man’s downfall. And it wasn’t as if Silas’s previous rich young bride had lived long past their honeymoon. All at once the urgency to win his way into the Dee Club doubled.

Archie bought several more rounds of drinks and steadily won more and more cash off Charles and his friends, but he didn’t hold them to their wagers. He smiled and listened to their woes: Charles’s father had refused to advance him any more cash this year, Lupton resented the trade tariffs limiting him from the importing all the Nornian brandy he wanted, and Neet despaired of ever growing a proper mustache, much less the full flowing beard so many elder statesmen possessed.

Archie made commiserating sounds, offered his sympathy, and even granted Charles a small loan to ensure he could snap up the latest orchid for his collection. He offered Lupton a bottle of prewar brandy from the case that remained in the wine cellar of his northern country house. A little later he assured Neet that court fashion currently favored the clean-shaven man for facing the world with a more hygienic and honest visage, according to the Royal Consort, Prince Joseph. Archie had shaved off his own mustache three years ago and hadn’t regretted it.

Hardly a day later, Charles and his friends extended Archie a membership into the Dee Club. He accepted, forked over the steep membership fee, and stifled an idiotic impulse to race down to the Briar Hotel to inform Nimble of their quick success. Instead he accompanied the three noblemen on a riverside ride to take a tour of the place. Their route was not a dangerous one to follow by daylight, but it led into an area of docks and piers where few gentlemen—and certainly no ladies—would wish to find themselves alone at night.

The building the Dee Club occupied had been painted brilliant green and gold, but neither the costly colors nor the Gothic facade and columns were quite enough to distract from the fact that the rambling edifice teetered over the White River, like a man crouched to shit down into a boghole. Thick wooden piles rose from the river like the supports of a fishing pier, and a large portion of the back of the building seemed to spill across them. As he rode closer, Archie noted that someone had even tethered a small boat to one of the wooden braces beneath the overhanging house.

“The place was originally built by smugglers. Generations of them used it,” Charles informed him. “The last sod fell afoul of the monks in the Queen’s tax office and had to relocate immediately. So I was able to pick the entire place up rather cheap, if I do say so myself. And its history endows the place an amusing ambience. Don’t you think?”

Archie nodded. The stench of chamber pots and rotting kelp rose off the river, imparting a rank pong to the pretty cherry trees and rose bushes planted all around the building. On either side of the club stood large warehouses, and dozens of merchant vessels plied the waters surrounding it. Archie wondered if the sailors and stevedores might have witnessed anything the evening Nancy disappeared. Perhaps it would be worth the effort to chat up a couple of the night guards who patrolled the nearby warehouses as well.

“Of course, the heap was ugly as sin when I got hold of it six years back. Bloody giant holes in the floors and walls where the Inquisition had ripped open all the trapdoors and smugglers’ passages,” Charles went on. “But Agatha took it on as a pet project. She worked absolute wonders. A woman’s touch, as they say. And now the place is pretty as a picture inside.”

He wasn’t wrong. The interior of the Dee Club neatly erased any hint of disgorging sewer pipes, surrounding warehouses, and noisy workforces of sailors and longshoremen. Very thick, beautifully papered walls displayed large paintings and smaller studies by a number of Prodigal artists. Sykes’s startlingly lifelike painting Dragonflies Amidst Water Lilies held pride of place among them. Marble sculptures, exotic potted plants, and side tables boasting huge vases full of flowers kept the large rooms and long hallways from appearing cavernous.

They also appeared to partly conceal the seams of sliding doors, through which servants came and went with drinks, newspapers, and cushions. Once he started looking, Archie realized that a warren of back passages and secret doors riddled the building. All the soft footsteps and whispers reminded him a little of mice skittering behind walls.

Huge windows, which should have looked out onto commerce and sewage, instead displayed stained glass vistas of rose gardens, summer glades, and pristine blue waterfalls. Brightly colored sunlight filled every room Archie strolled through. The club members he passed were all of natural heritage and mostly men. Archie recognized many of them, including a dowager princess and an earl from the Lords Pavilion of the Royal Races. By contrast, every single servant he encountered appeared to be of Prodigal descent. Gloves hid the black fingernails of the footmen and butlers, but their yellow eyes and pointed ears stood out. The single maid he spotted through a distant doorway possessed a formidable set of sharp teeth—though the smile she turned on a young footman struck Archie as truly affectionate.

The Prodigals sponsored into the club were distinguished from staff by large gold medallions hung around their necks—the sight of which reminded Archie disturbingly of the ornate collars that were currently fashionable to bestow upon favorite pets.

As they strolled through sitting rooms and winding galleries of more artistic works, Charles presented Archie to several members, but Archie had to ask before anyone thought to introduce the lanky sponsored Prodigal who stood silently alongside their group. The young man was a composer, and his whole countenance seemed to brighten when Archie admitted to enjoying the foreign scales employed to compose both Nornian and Hamiri songs.

“If that’s the case,” the young Prodigal told him, “you must hear ‘The Nightingale’s Lament’—”

“Dining room, I think!” And just like that, the Prodigal’s sponsor cut their fledgling conversation off. The young composer’s face drained of excitement, and he immediately bid Archie good afternoon. Then he turned and trailed his sponsor out through an arched doorway.

“That was rather abrupt,” Archie commented.

“Well….” Charles shrugged. “Some members can be a little possessive, particularly of their newest discoveries. It doesn’t do to seem too interested, lest they suspect you of poaching.”

“Poaching….” Archie scowled.

“Oh, don’t take it too seriously, Archibald,” Charles added hastily. “Once you’ve presented a discovery of your own, Reggie and men like him won’t fuss nearly so much. It’s only when a member is new and on the hunt for something spectacular that they get their backs up.”

“It’s true,” Neet added. “Soon as you have one of your own, everyone else will want to show off their prizes and give you endless pointers for your next acquisitions.”

Prizes? Acquisitions? These were people they were talking about, not exotic plants. Archie struggled to keep a neutral expression on his face.

Lupton offered him a sympathetic glance. “Don’t let all this talk of hunting and collecting worry you. No one is expecting you to bring down a bird-of-paradise on your first venture. It’s really not too hard to find someone to throw money at. And Lord knows there are plenty of Prodigals more than deserving of a little favor in their lives,” Lupton assured him.

“Oh, and if you haul in a complete dud, then that could actually give you an excuse to approach Lady Agatha!” Neet added. “You might implore her for advice on how best to present your find and encourage an artistic nature. She never tires of delivering lectures on the importance of a nurturing environment. And if you really flub it, well, she loves correcting every damned—” Neet caught himself again as Charles frowned at him. “I mean she likes seeing to it that men improve themselves! She’s very generous that way!”

Lupton nodded, but that appeared to be directed at a servant, because a moment later, a footman delivered a brandy to him.

Archie peered down the hallway that was exposed as the footman retreated through another hidden panel. Had that been a staircase he’d glimpsed? He recalled Thom mentioning infirmary rooms downstairs.

“So, anything to see on the lower floors?” Archie asked.

“The wine cellar and a little show arena, but that’s all rather dull until Sundays,” Charles told him, then added with a wink, “What you really came here to see will be in the library. It’s just a little farther.”

The circular library was impressive, and not just because of the sheer number of books decorating the two-story ring of shelves. Overhead a huge skylight made the heavens above into a constantly changing mural. Archie guessed that a good twenty men occupied the chairs and circled the tables beneath the skylight. A few claimed the solitary seats on the upper floor. Amid so many men, Agatha Wedmoor stood out in her periwinkle dress and extravagantly composed crown of ringlet curls. She wore a brooch of turquoise butterfly wings, and dozens more topped her hairpins.

“Agatha, my dear!” Charles called as they approached her seat.

Agatha looked up from her book with an expression of long suffering and set her reading on the half-moon table to her right.

“Look who joined our club!” Charles beamed as if somehow he could transmit his smile to his sister’s face. “You’ve already met, but just to keep things proper. Archibald Granville, may I present my sister, Miss Agatha Wedmoor, Lady Umberry. Agatha, my dearest, this is fine fellow is Lord Archibald Granville, Viscount of Fallmont.”

“It’s a pleasure.” Archie knew better than to attempt to take Agatha Wedmoor’s hand. He bowed to her.

Agatha Wedmoor’s expression was more puzzled than pained. “I had not expected that such a society as ours would be of interest to you, Lord Granville.”

Something in her tone made Archie wonder if somehow she’d imagined him too decent of a man to frequent such an establishment. But that didn’t make sense. More likely she’d thought him opposed to rubbing shoulders with Prodigals in any capacity.

“How could I resist any society that could boast so radiant a member as yourself, Lady Umberry?” Archie offered her his most besotted smile. Holding his breath, he even managed to pull off the appearance of a hapless blush.

Agatha seemed to blanch in response, which wasn’t an ideal reaction and inspired Charles to call for a servant to fetch a lemonade for her. Then he dragged chairs up beside his sister’s. He plunked himself down in the nearer of them and indicated for Archie to take the other. Neet and Lupton sat as well, grinning like they thought they were the audience in a darkened theater—all but invisible to the players on the stage. Men at the nearest table studied Agatha, some more discreetly than others.

Despite himself Archie felt a pang of sympathy for her. Even with her brother and a fleet of maids surrounding her, the club didn’t seem an ideal place for a woman to be at ease. He tried to think of a subject dull enough to bore their audience, and then his gaze fell on the volume beneath Agatha’s hand.

“A History of Medicinal Herbs?” Archie asked. “Anything in there for arthritis?”

Happily, that seemed to bring Agatha back into her element.

“Of course there is,” she replied as if Archie should have known as much. “Though the actual efficacy of that remedy—as well as most others in the book—seems highly suspect. Reading the thing is a lesson in the kinds of beliefs that can thrive when those practicing medicine are never required to support their prescriptions with any evidence of their effectiveness. It’s beautifully illustrated, however. I suppose that alone speaks volumes about the human appetite for superstition in pretty packaging.”

Archie wasn’t sure of where to go with that. He really didn’t want to spend the afternoon being informed of his ignorance about every herbal remedy under the sun. Though perhaps there was something worth sounding out when it came to the subject of ancient superstitions. Thom had asserted that the members of the Dee Club were distilling magic potions from the flesh and blood of Prodigals. Such horrors had been known to happen. Only three months ago, a grave robber had been hanged for selling putrid concoctions made up from the interred bodies of Prodigals. Most of the potions had reduced the people who took them to jabbering idiots, but it was rumored that one had actually granted a natural man the power to fly for a few hours.

It was hard to imagine Agatha Wedmoor stooping to such an enterprise—even if the potions could grant powers of flight, conjuring, and prophecy, like so many penny novels claimed.

He looked up at the sky and watched a seagull swoop through the white clouds. Should he ask about the Sunday fights, or was it too soon still?

“So, the thing is”—Neet addressed Agatha, but offered Archie a wink as he did—“Archibald here hasn’t a clue about how he should go about acquiring his first Prodigal, and he’s hoping that you might point out a few locations—”

“I’m not certain that I could help a man so ignorant as not to know where to find a single Prodigal, when the whole of Hells Below lies under our city streets and the entire Prodigal population is confined by law to the city limits.” Agatha narrowed her gaze, and Archie recognized contempt in her face. “Why on earth do the Granvilles of this world join clubs like ours when they know nothing of Prodigals?”

Neet blanched, and Lupton sucked a breath in through his teeth as if Agatha’s words had stung him. Even Charles appeared alarmed at her angry tone.

Archie returned her direct stare and nearly offered her a scathing rejoinder—then her actual words sank in. Granvilles… they know nothing. Her ire wasn’t aimed at him, or at least not at him alone. Instead she lumped him in with his uncle as yet another Granville. The thought tempered Archie’s feeling of offense. After all, his own antipathy toward Agatha and her brother stemmed from their associations with his uncle. He wondered suddenly what Silas must have done to Agatha to inspire such a smoldering hatred.

“I mean no offense, Lady Umberry. And I pray that you will forgive my ignorance.” Archie offered her a smile despite her glower. “I was lucky enough to have served with Prodigal men and women during the war. I would not be alive today if it hadn’t been for them. I’ve joined your club because I’ve become aware of the inequity those soldiers and nurses returned to after serving with such courage and—”

“Oh, don’t let’s bring up the war again! We will never hear the end of it.”

The mocking call came from the doorway. Archie turned to see that angular, pale face and silver hair he hated. His uncle favored him with a playful smile, and his teeth flashed fantastically white. It seemed like a cosmic injustice that Silas remained so very handsome and healthy at fifty while Archibald’s bones had filled a grave before he’d turned eighteen. Archie looked away from him to briefly take in the ruddy faces of the twin varlets who trailed Silas everywhere like hungry guard dogs—Mike and Nate Smith.

Then a dark-haired Prodigal girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, peered around from behind the two brutes and skipped into the room. An abundance of freckles peppered her tanned face, and though her patched gray dress and dusty boots lent her the appearance of a matchstick girl, her gold medallion proclaimed her a sponsored member of the Dee Club. Oily repulsion slithered through Archie’s gut as he watched his uncle extend an elegant hand to rest his long, pale fingers on the child’s thin shoulder.

How many times had Silas loomed over him and Archibald in just that manner?

Opposite Archie, Agatha Wedmoor’s entire expression brightened to a radiance that made her almost attractive. She rose to her feet. “My dear, do come here. I’ve a gift for you,” she exclaimed.

For just an instant, Archie felt flummoxed by the idea of anyone addressing his sinister uncle in such a rapt tone, much less Agatha Wedmoor doing so. He’d nearly convinced himself that she despised the man. Then he realized it wasn’t his uncle whom she favored with that utterly doting gaze, but the Prodigal girl. And the girl appeared delighted by the sight of Agatha. She rushed to Agatha’s side, and they hugged.

A few men at the nearby table made disapproving noises, and Archie glowered at them. Then he realized Charles had actually stood as if to challenge any one of them who spoke a word against his sister. He might have a tasteless sense of humor, but Charles obviously possessed some gallantry.

Agatha stiffened but gave no other indication of paying the onlookers any mind at all. When she did release the spindly girl, it was only to remove her own brilliant turquoise brooch and placed it in the girl’s hands.

“A Hesperia lykofos just like the butterfly in your book,” Agatha told her.

“It’s so beautiful! Oh thank you, Aggie!” The girl spun around once in her delight. Then she pinned the brooch to her dress with a nearly reverent expression.

“It suits you perfectly,” Agatha said. “But now, Phebe, you must tell me what delayed you so very long. We had agreed to meet at seven, and I’ve been nearly frantic with worry for hours now, my dear.”

“I’m so sorry, Aggie! I wanted to send word, but I didn’t know how. Lord Granville decided to take me to the Royal Botanical Gardens himself—” The girl then launched into a childishly meandering description of the wonders of the displays of wildflowers, rose hedges, rhododendron mazes, lily ponds, and “—so, so many trees that I imagined I’d magically slipped past the city gates.”

The girl’s astonishment reminded Archie of the hushed wonder that Nimble had voiced when he described the first time he and his division had been allowed outside the city walls and actually seen the woods and sky stretching out endlessly before them. Was it any wonder that he decorated his home and filled his bed with all the color and splendor of nature?

“That was very generous of his lordship. Though I would appreciate it if he would inform me in the future if he changes our plans.” Agatha lifted her head, briefly acknowledging Silas, but then immediately returned her attention to the child. “I don’t suppose you made drawings?”

“Oh yes! Nurse Fuggas and I drew the roses. She has the sketches, and she brought my watercolors as well.” The girl took Agatha’s hand in her own. “Do you think there’s still enough time for the three of us to paint together? We could make studies of the stained-glass windows.”

“Of course, my dear. I’d be delighted.” Agatha’s expression hardened slightly as she lifted her head to address Silas. “That is, if you wouldn’t mind me whisking Phebe away for a few hours, Lord Granville. I would be much obliged.”

“If you wish it, then it is my most ardent desire as well,” he replied, and to Archie’s eye, he appeared far too pleased. He looked to the table where Archie sat, but it was Charles whom he singled out with a nod. “I’ll be upstairs in the card room availing myself of your port, Charlie. Do come along and join me when you have the time.”

“Of course,” Charles replied.

Silas left Agatha and the Prodigal girl—Phebe—without further ado. Mike and Nate tromped behind him, as always. Hardly a moment later, Agatha departed, still holding Phebe’s hand, though it didn’t elude Archie’s notice that Agatha cast a hard glance back in his direction before she went.

“Bad luck on the first go at her, Archibald. I fear I might have upset her myself….” Neet pulled a pained face. “But don’t lose heart yet. The game’s just begun. Isn’t that right?”

Neet’s glance to Lupton inspired an unconvincing “Oh yes. Still a long ways to go yet.”

Charles seemed hardly to have registered the exchange. He stared at the empty doorway. Belatedly he seemed to recall the rest of them in the room. “No. It’s certainly not over.” Charles sounded tired beyond reason.

A prim-looking prodigal footman arrived with the lemonade meant for Agatha. Charles borrowed Lupton’s flask, dashed a sizable tot of liquor into the drink, then downed it all in three gulps. He pulled a grimace of a grin. “Still plenty more to show you, Archibald!”

ARCHIE SPENT the rest of the week familiarizing himself with the Dee Club and its members. He saw a great deal of Agatha and Phebe, but only in passing. They were often accompanied by a Prodigal nurse who looked to be in her midthirties. Her neat white uniform boasted the three gold ribbons awarded for service throughout the duration of the war. She was the oft-mentioned Nurse Superior Fuggas, Archie soon learned—the same nurse whom Thom had described as doctoring Nancy Beelze the night she disappeared.

Seeing Phebe, Agatha, and Nurse Fuggas clustered together around their watercolor sets, painting one of the large stained-glass windows, Archie noticed how closely Phebe’s profile resembled Agatha’s. Having been born a bastard to a noblewoman himself, suspicion of their relatedness came easily to Archie, where it might be unthinkable for men like Lupton and Neet.

But an instant later, the light changed and what had seemed a striking similarity disappeared. In fact, the golden rays pouring over Phebe now lent her a far stronger resemblance to Nurse Fuggas, both in complexion and build. Another shift in the clouds outside and that too seemed to fade away.

Archie shook his head at his own readiness to assume the worst of everyone and everything in the club. There was no point in inventing plots and secrets when there was already a real mystery to set his mind to. Except that he could hardly go around asking questions about Nancy or inquiring if any of the club members were perhaps distilling potions from the bodies of the Prodigals they sponsored. Far more patience and tact was required of him if he was to be of any use in gaining Nimble entry into the club.

Charles came and went, often with Neet or Lupton. He obviously spent much more time gambling and boxing than at the club he’d founded. However, Archie noted that Charles always lunched there with his sister. Most days Nurse Fuggas and Phebe joined them. Charles fled nearly every evening after Silas arrived to court Agatha and drink and dine at Charles’s expense. Silas generally quit the club around ten, when an aged governess arrived to collect Phebe and escort her to the garret where Silas had installed her. Agatha and Nurse Fuggas always remained on hand to see the girl off. Afterward the two of them often withdrew to Agatha’s private salon on the third floor.

Archie attempted to lure Silas into a card game, but he declined the offer. When he trailed his uncle to one of his favorite gambling dens, he discovered Charles already there. Twice Charles covered Silas’s debts to other men before Archie could swoop in. And at a game of blind-man’s-hands, Charles appeared to purposely lose to Silas.

After that, Archie had no doubt that Silas was blackmailing the Wedmoors. He did wonder how Charles and Agatha Wedmoor had managed to placate his uncle with mere scraps of money in place of Agatha’s dowry. Considering how utterly ruined Agatha would be if it were discovered that she’d born a child—a Prodigal child—out of wedlock, it would seem that Silas had them completely in his power.

When Archie’s own mother, Minerva, had found herself with child, she’d used the excuse of a pilgrimage to hide away in a secluded cottage. She’d endured her labor alone, birthing him in secret. Then she’d trekked through five miles of wild forest to her family’s country estate. There, she’d left Archie in a mushroom basket, bundled in rabbit skins, for the cook to find.

But for all her secrecy, she’d not been able to save herself from disgrace. Ten years later a gentleman fitting Silas’s description had provided several newspapermen with evidence that she’d born the bastard son of her dashing cousin. The contents of the letter she’d penned to her married lover had been widely publicized, and it sealed her fate. She’d been cast out to the mercy of the streets. (For a short time, it had seemed that Algernon—heir to the Granville title—would be disinherited as well. But he had been a charming man and already married into the royal line, so he was soon forgiven; boys would have their youthful indiscretions, after all.)

Before then, Archie had cherished the sweets and small clockwork toys that Lady Minerva Granville had so often secreted to him. He’d adored her for her kindness to him, a foundling pageboy. He’d felt blessed to serve in the country house where she lived. Afterward, he’d been torn between missing her so badly that it made him weep, and feeling furious that she’d again abandoned him. Then his uncle Silas had charitably snatched him up to serve as a timid companion to his newly orphaned half brother, Archibald.

Remembering those years, Archie truly pitied Phebe for the deprivations and constant slights she no doubt endured daily. There was nothing Archie could do directly to better the girl’s existence other than continue to undermine Silas’s finances. Only two months remained before three huge mortgages defaulted; those would set off an avalanche of debts and carry Silas into debtors’ prison where he would find himself at Archie’s mercy.

But for now there was still the matter of Nancy’s disappearance to look into. And so Archie skipped his regular rounds of riding and card games, and dedicated his days to the Dee Club.

The poetry recitals held every Tuesday and Thursday were as uneven as Archie had anticipated. One plump old matron amazed him with her lyrical turns of phrase, while several of the younger Prodigal poets made him wonder if they weren’t having a joke while pocketing their sponsors’ coins. He truly hoped that they were, but feared at least one pallid youth was absolutely serious in his dedication to forcing painfully dignified rhymes upon the stage names of popular actresses. His paean to the beauty of Miss Sandy Butts had driven Archie to jam his kerchief into his mouth to keep from laughing aloud. Neet, on the other hand, applauded the man heartily and with a sentimental flush coloring his cheeks.

Archie found himself wondering how Nimble would fare and what sort of recital he’d have to perform. He felt absurdly nervous for Nimble and then quietly laughed at the idea of Nimble giving a fart for the opinions of these pampered coves.

However, he felt certain Nimble would actually appreciate the talent and bawdy humor of the troupe of Prodigals who put on the Wednesday evening musicals and variety acts. In fact Archie found them so marvelous that he anonymously donated a large sum to supplement the allowances provided by their sponsors. In doing so, he discovered that Agatha and Lupton numbered among their supporters. According to several elderly club members, Agatha had been so moved by Mister Pugg’s devotion to his three deerhounds, who now performed as “Doctor Dogson,” “Professor Pooch,” and “Inspector Barker,” that she’d sponsored his at once.

“Very tenderhearted toward animals and needy creatures, she is,” one stocky baron assured Archie.

“Oh, yes. I’ve noticed.” In truth, Archie wondered if Mr. Pugg’s good looks had been a deciding factor. He possessed the right build and freckled complexion to be Phebe’s father.

Though, under the influence of Archie’s brandy, Lupton suggested that Mr. Pugg was “a jolly poof who probably provides a couple of the Barons with backstage entertainment.” Lupton’s own money went to support a pert and extraordinarily talented soprano, as well as her rawboned, tuba-playing father.

A week of observing art and being constantly entertained muted the sense of urgency he’d experienced when he’d first heard Thom’s accusations. Archie’s awareness of sinister motivations and undercurrents came and went but didn’t ever settle on any single point in the genteel surroundings. He never forgot his reason for joining the Dee Club, but chamber music, mathematical lectures, and operettas felt far removed from dogfights and murder.

Then came Sunday evening.

To his surprise neither Charles nor Neet stayed at the club after tea. In fact, the character of the members who arrived as the day went on altered considerably from what Archie had grown accustomed to. The number of soft-spoken poetry enthusiasts, frail old music lovers, and amateur naturalists diminished as a stream of loud, rowdy young men flooded through the doors. The few Prodigals they brought didn’t wear gold medallions, and they obviously made their money with their bare knuckles or on their backs. Most bore the sunken tracks of ophorium addicts.

The fights took place downstairs where the house sloped over the riverbank. A half-moon of tiered velvet seats loomed over the amphitheater of an arena, but the crowd of onlookers far outnumbered the available chairs, and a vast number of them stood, shouting out their wagers as well as curses and encouragements. The air grew hot and rank as more and more people crowded into the space.

Everyone drank heavily, and Archie was no exception. The atmosphere of the place set him on edge, and soon he found himself draining brandy at a rate that might have done Lupton proud. In one foolish moment, he even accepted a glass of a nearly black liquor he didn’t recognize—compliments of the club, he was told—and tossed it back in the same careless manner as so many of the men around him. The sweet scorched taste of something like burned marmalade slid down the back of his throat, along with a wash of fiery alcohol. A belated alarm shot through Archie, but then he noted that all of the members of the club were being served the same dark drink. Archie rinsed the bitter flavor from his mouth with a watery beer.

He felt sluggish but not yet sloppy. Surrounded by parties of roaring drunk young bucks, he maintained a sedate composure that he hoped allowed him to appear almost sober. Or at least masked his agitation.

Drums rolled and red limelights flared across the fine white sand spread over the arena’s wooden floor. The same plump little Prodigal man who headed up the Wednesday theater troupe trotted out from behind the long black curtains at the back. He sauntered into a spotlight and lifted his large brass megaphone.

“Gentlemen and ladies, coves and chokers, dippers and dolly-mops, welcome! Tonight we are all met on the same standing to witness Fate in all her ferocious might and perilous whimsy! Place your wagers and give a cheer to the contenders for tonight’s golden jackpots!”

Applause, screams, and shouts thundered through the small space, drowning out the drums. Only after several minutes did the crowd quiet. The Prodigal fighters were announced, like horses at the start of a race, and the winners proclaimed and applauded as if bloody bodies and broken hands were mere showmanship.

And it was bloody. What began a barefisted boxing show soon turned to pure savagery as rounds dragged on and on. Blood streamed from split knuckles and broken noses. One hulking man cornered his spindly opponent in the corner and beat the boy against a wall till his face became a crimson stream of gore. Men and women all around Archie cheered. Another contestant won applause when he spat a hunk of his opponent’s ear into the surrounding seats. Archie’s stomach rolled.

Then a burly, bearded man wearing a wide-brimmed hat brought a slavering hound out onto the sand.

Archie didn’t know if another dog would be dragged out or some desperately poor Prodigal; either way, he couldn’t bring himself to stay and watch.

He turned and worked his way out from the crowd. One of the servants met his gaze, and Archie guessed that his revulsion must have shown plainly enough, because the young man looked alarmed. He quickly pointed Archie through a hidden door and down a back hall that led out onto a balcony.

A clammy breeze of rank air rolled up over him from the dark river some thirty feet below. Archie leaned over the banister and heaved up his beer and brandy. The waters carried his sickness away with so much more of the city’s filth.

He hung there, bent over the railing, for several minutes as his nausea passed. His eyes slowly adjusted, discerning shadows from forms lit by distant gas lamps and moonlight. Reflections of boat lamps and stars glittered over the water. The river was so much quieter during the night than in the day. Archie closed his eyes. The noise inside the Dee Club sounded very distant—miles away behind those incredibly thick walls.

He could almost forget it and lose himself, listening to the surge of the great river. A flutter of leathery wings rushed past his face as a bat raced up from the wooden pier beneath him to devour some unsuspecting moth. Archie started, then laughed weakly at himself. Of all people, he should’ve known that the tranquility of the night was an illusion—darkness a veil thrown over countless creatures prowling the city. Always had been, always would be.

Boards creaked behind him. Archie spun back. His uncle stilled only three feet from Archie. For an instant his handsome features remained caught in a murderous sneer, but then he pulled a toothy smile and dropped his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“Be careful not to tip over that banister,” Silas said. “If you went into the water, it would be terribly difficult to haul you out. People drown like that all the time.”

“Your concern is touching, dear uncle,” Archie replied. “I can only return my own ardent hope that no one stabs you to death in a dark corner this evening.”

“Is that a threat, Archie?” Silas scowled at him.

“Of course not. I needn’t lower myself to menacing you when so many debt collectors and loan sharks are already circling. A few of them seem keen on just breaking your knees, but I’ve heard it said that Bastard Jack would be well pleased to have your head in his hatbox.”

For perhaps the first time in his life, Archie thought he saw genuine fear on his uncle’s face. But a moment later, it sank beneath an expression of cunning disdain.

“Smile while you can, Archie,” Silas replied softly as if sharing a confidence. “I’ll be the one laughing in the end. I always have been.”

Silas spoke the truth, and it infuriated Archie. More than anything, he wanted to tear that assurance away from his uncle. He wanted Silas to feel the kind of loss that never seemed to touch him at any funeral. But neither the suffering nor the deaths of any other human beings ever disturbed Silas. Only a threat to his personal comfort shook him in any way.

“Oh, but you might be in for quite a surprise. You really think that I’m going to leave you anything to inherit from me other than your own debts?” Archie heard the slight slur in his own words and knew he wasn’t in any state to tell his uncle anything, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Witnessing Silas’s assurance slip filled him with a spiteful pleasure. His uncle’s gaze narrowed, and he took an angry step closer to Archie. “What are you talking about?” Reflexively Archie squared his shoulders, ready to fight. But Silas immediately retreated two steps. He’d attack a man with his back turned, drown his drugged wife in her bath, and hire highwaymen to murder his brother, but Silas had never been one to fight fair. Even when Archie had been a mere boy, his uncle had always looked on while Mike or Nate belted him.

A glance over Silas’s shoulder assured Archie that the two were there in the shadows, but so too were several women, who looked to be concerned nurses. Too many witnesses for Silas or his thugs to chance Archie raising an alarm.

“What have you done?” Silas demanded.

“Nothing you haven’t done to your own fortune,” Archie replied with a glib grin. The horror and rage in Silas’s face was a delight. Archie only wished the light were better.

“The Fallmont fortune is huge! How could you possibly have squandered it?”

“By any and every means possible. But the sweetest are all those charities that you so utterly disdain. You would be appalled, dear uncle, if you knew how many fallen women, Prodigals, and paupers the dwindling Fallmont fortune has benefited,” Archie snapped. “You will have nothing—”

“I can’t believe you’d do something so… so stupid! So selfish!” Silas had the gall to appear genuinely hurt. “Ruin our entire family? Why would you go so far?”

“Our entire family?” Archie shouted back at him. “Our family is dead. Murdered!”

All at once a look of realization—almost surprise—came over Silas.

“It’s Archimedes, isn’t it?” he asked.

Archie froze. It had been years since he’d heard his real name. Fear gripped him like frost spreading across his skin. How had Silas recognized him—after all this time and through Nimble’s spell? How was it possible?

That hateful sneer lit Silas’s handsome face with a kind of inner radiance.

“I always suspected that you cared for the bastard brat far more than was natural,” Silas stated. “Incestuous and a sodomite, eh, Archibald?”

Relief added to the laugh that escaped Archie. Of course he hadn’t recognized him. Silas would have had to have bothered to have really looked at him to do that. Never mind the conjury that Nimble had crafted to lend Archie his brother’s natural poise and confidence.

Another bat flitted past.

Archie shook his head.

“I’m not sure what twisted organ you’re using for a mind, uncle. But I daresay your lurid imagination speaks volumes more about your own impulses than it does of my love for my brother.” Archie strode past him and then added over his shoulder, “Thanks for the laugh.”

“I hate to imagine what he must make of the pair of you,” Archie said to Mike and Nate as he shouldered his way between them.

By the time he escaped the Dee Club and closed himself up in his carriage, his bravado had drained away. That had been close. Worse, he’d let on a little too much, a little too soon. Not everything was ready, and if his uncle secured Lady Umberry’s dowry, then there was a good chance he would have the money to find and seize the fortunes Archie had hidden away.

In his place on that pier, Nimble would’ve kept his trap shut in the face of Silas’s provocations. And Archie should have known better—did know better—yet he’d not been able to stop himself from speaking.

His mind was a mess of alcohol, fury, and horror. He didn’t want to admit it, but the fights in the arena had disturbed him far more than he’d been prepared for.

Even after he arrived home and washed, he couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, visions of old battlefields arose. The cheers and howls of the crowd in the Dee Club flooded his ears as he remembered the terrifying moment that a fragment of steel tore through his chest and threw him to the mud. His blood welled up in a great stream as Prodigal fighters collapsed into the filth surrounding him. Then the dogs came, slavering and hungry. Archie bolted upright before he could feel canine teeth ripping into his body. There was no point in even attempting to sleep after that.

Instead he sketched maps of the Dee Club’s numerous rooms and secret halls. When he grew too restless to sit in his study, he descended to his ballroom to pace and shadow box. By dawn his hands no longer shook. But when he closed his eyes, memories of the stench and pain of Sollum Hill still arose. When he opened his eyes, his thoughts filled with bloodied bodies of Prodigal combatants down in that pit of an arena. The gleeful howls of their sponsors haunted him.

He couldn’t bring himself to return to the Dee Club for two days after that. Charles and Neet both called upon him. He claimed illness and heartache; the cure for both being time. If it hadn’t been for his bargain with Nimble, he would never have stepped foot in the place again—to hell with the stained glass, music rooms, and breathtaking paintings.

Though even as he indulged in the thought, he recognized how weak and self-pitying it really was.

Witnessing the exploitation that ruled so many Prodigals’ lives was nothing compared to the actual hardship of being exploited. Hiding from the truth of it because it sickened and disturbed him would change nothing—would help no one. That was the same desire for ignorance that so many natural citizens of Crowncross indulged in when they disregarded the wretched living conditions and brutal labor endured by the miners and factory workers under their feet; all that buried misery kept the price of porcelain and steel cheap, after all. The same hypocrisy allowed people to celebrate the bravery of famous majors, generals, and colonels, but forget the Prodigal troops who’d fought and died in the thousands, carrying out the commands of those celebrated men.

Archie knew he couldn’t change the course of every wrong in the world, not even in this city. But he could make a difference for Nimble, and though it seemed a small matter, the thought allowed Archie to at last sleep soundly through a lonely night in his resplendent bed.

Chapter Four: Common Knowledge

WEDNESDAY, ARCHIE rose early and dressed as informally as his valet and costly wardrobe would allow.

“Taking that bicycle out for another go around,” Archie informed Raleigh, his disapproving valet. “They’re becoming all the rage. Saw a couple of young men racing down Sweeney Hill on them yesterday. Seemed rather mad, but fun as well. Might give it a try myself.”

Raleigh looked worried, and Archie guessed it was for the knees of his trousers when the inevitable crash came. But he wished Archie best of luck and advised him that a cap would serve him better than any of his lovely silk tall hats.

Archie thanked him, then packed up the maps and notes he’d made and sped off. He’d ridden the glossy black bicycle on several occasions previously, but the machine still felt odd to him in comparison to the alert, responsive qualities of his favorite horses. However, the great advantage of the bicycle was its growing popularity with the fleets of clerks, messenger boys, and the multitude of natural, middleclass folk who now regularly escaped the city for jaunts in the green hills of the countryside.

The bicycle required no stabling and drew little attention to Archie as he pedaled through the streets with his haversack across his back and his cap pulled low.

Ten other bicycles already leaned up against the back of the Briar Hotel when he arrived—property of both the staff and guests. Archie drew his alongside the rest. Ahead of him, the back door of the hotel swung open. A burly man dressed in a too-small plaid sack suit bustled out. His face was ruddy and his mustache waxed to the point of gleaming. Graying hair showed from beneath his yellow straw hat, and the buttons of his mustard waistcoat strained against both the muscular bulk of his chest and the softer volume of his potbelly. He carried a red paperboard briefcase emblazoned with bright orange images of musical instruments.

An aging boxer turned music-sheet salesman. Archie had seen dozens of his type throughout the city. It struck him as interesting that a man’s appearance could convey so much about his character and calling in an instant. But then Archie stilled and looked again at the fellow.

Behind the thick blue lenses of a pair of tinted spectacles, Archie recognized Nimble’s amused gaze. Archie gaped at him, and Nimble grinned in response.

“A week early, my bantling, but not a moment too soon!” Nimble walked to him and clapped him on the back. Up close, Nimble’s Prodigal nature was obvious; he hadn’t attempted to hide his black fingernails with bleach or gloves, but that only made the disguise seem all the more authentic. Here was an aging, sweat-stained Prodigal tough, trying a little too hard to make a new life for himself aboveground in a city of natural men. Archie wondered if Nimble hadn’t employed a bit of conjury to perfectly capture the balance of worn-down strength and garish bravado.

“Couldn’t keep away, old boot.” Strange how simply standing near Nimble, even in this disguise, lifted Archie’s spirits. “I recalled your fondness for maps and other intelligence, and thought you might want to take a gander at what I’ve sussed out about the club so far.”

“Got in already, then? I shoulda known. No one can turn you away when you stoke up the charm.” Nimble flashed him a wolfish grin, and Archie laughed at the idea of him charming his way into any private club. His access had everything to do with his family title and nothing at all to do with his character as a man. They both knew that.

“I’d love to look it over and have a chin-wag after that. But I’m working on something myself just now….” Nimble paused, cocking his head to study Archie, from his dusty trousers to his jaunty cap. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to….” Nimble scowled and shook his head.

“I’d certainly be happy to hear out the rest of the sentence, if nothing else, old boot,” Archie prompted.

“Well, all this last week I’ve been beating rugs to see what dirt shakes out. Mostly in the guise of this hymn hawker. But the next fellow I want to talk to already knows me. And we didn’t part on the best of terms, to put it politely.”

“Oh, yes?” Archie asked.

“Yeah. Doug ‘the Dog’ Beelze.”

“Husband of the missing Nancy Beelze?”

“The very one. Once upon a time, him and me got into a tussle over his failure to pay a lady friend of mine for services rendered. I took twice the payment off him, as well as couple of his teeth.” Nimble grimaced. “So even if he’s gotten over that, he’s not likely to open up to me about his missing wife. But you, on the other hand…. Well, you’ve got an honest face and that trick of blushing like a choirboy, which seems to make folks want to tell you all.”

“Ah, I see.” Archie considered the proposition. “I suppose the worst that can happen is that I get nothing from him. All right, I’ll give it a go. Any suggestions of an explanation to offer for my interest in Nancy? Or shall I just knock on his door, blush, and see how that turns out?”

Nimble laughed. “Take my hat and case. You claim that you’ve come to deliver the sheet music that his wife had ordered. When—if—he tells you she ain’t around anymore, you ask for her new address and such like. Then you offer to leave the hymns with him. If you can, get inside the house and look around to see if there’s any sign of her in the place.”

“You think he might be hiding her? Or holding her prisoner?” Archie asked.

“No. I’m pretty certain that she’s gone, just like the rest of them. But I’m very curious about what all may have gone with her.” Nimble handed Archie the paperboard briefcase, then proffered his straw hat. In return Archie handed off his cap and haversack.

The bicycle that Nimble employed to commute across the city turned out to be a rebuilt old boneshaker that probably weighed as much as a cart pony. But it held Nimble’s weight, and once he got going, Archie was at pains to keep up with his momentum. They panted and teased each other as they pumped their way up hills, then whooped and laughed as they sped down. They reached the run-down edge of the Theater District, where Doug “the Dog” Beelze resided, just after ten in the morning. They agreed to meet back up at the Fatted Cat chophouse after Archie called on the man.

“Try to keep him distracted and chatting for fifteen or twenty minutes, if you can.” Nimble took out his pocket watch and studied it briefly. “Yeah, twenty minutes will give me more than enough time, I imagine.”

“Time for what, dare I ask?” Archie inquired.

“I got a little lark that’ll let me in to the second story of the house. I’d rather Doug not come up while I’m having a rummage through his dresser and wardrobe.”

“In broad daylight?” Archie dropped his voice.

“He’s less likely to be upstairs in the bedroom then.”

“But won’t his neighbors—” Archie began.

“Nah. Who do you think is letting me climb across their balcony? Nice woman, actually, very fond of cats and liked Nancy. She’s worried Doug’s done something to her.” Nimble checked his pocket watch again. “And speaking of, I better go. Don’t fret, Archie. Worse comes to worst, I’ll turn myself into a pretty little butterfly and flutter out the window.”

With that he left Archie to cycle the rest of the block to a gray row of densely packed two-story houses. Archie leaned his bicycle against the side of the wooden steps and strolled up. His heart pounded in his chest as he knocked on the weathered door. No response came, and after a few moments, Archie wondered if Doug was out of the house. All these props and worry for nothing. Though it would make matters much easier for Nimble.

He supposed he ought to hang around and keep watch in case Doug came home.

But then he heard the faint squeal and creak of someone descending a staircase. A tall, gaunt man with stringy brown hair and a sickly pale complexion pulled the door open. He wore a nightshirt and sported an ugly black eye, as well as a scabbed gash across his forehead. Archie recalled Thom mentioning Inquisitors beating Doug—though the two missing upper teeth had probably been Nimble’s doing years before.

An air of sweat, alcohol, and old eggs rolled from the interior of the dark house like a sour breath.

“I ain’t buying nothing,” Doug told him in a forlorn tone.

“As luck would have it, good sir, I’m not selling anything.” Archie offered him a wide smile that seemed suitable for a salesman.

Doug leaned on his doorframe and stared at Archie in a sort of dazed manner that made Archie wonder if he was drunk.

“I’m delivering sheet music that’s already been paid for.”

Confusion slowly spread across Doug’s bruised face.

“By a Mrs. Nancy Beelze,” Archie added.

“Nancy….” And all at once, Doug appeared convulsed with sorrow. His lower lip trembled like it was about to boil over, and tears welled up in his eyes. Despite knowing the man was no friend to Nimble and remembering Thom calling him a beast, Archie felt a stab of sympathy for him.

“I’m sorry,” Archie said. “I didn’t mean to….”

Doug didn’t seem to hear him. He simply hung on the door, weeping for several minutes. At last, when he appeared to regain a little control of himself, Archie proffered him a handkerchief. Doug wiped his face.

“What… what music did she buy?” he asked. His words quaked as he tried to suppress another sob.

“Well… why don’t I come in and show you?” Archie suggested. Maybe he could buy Nimble some time by playing or singing some of the music. Perhaps that would offer Doug some comfort in his grief. Archie possessed a passable voice, and if Doug owned a piano, he could perform on that quite easily.

Doug nodded and stepped back to allow Archie inside the narrow, dark drawing room. No fire burned in the hearth, and the only source of light came from the few shafts of sunlight that shot in between the dusty curtains of the front window. Craning his head slightly, Archie made out the foot of a staircase far back and what must have been a tiny kitchen just beyond that. Definitely no piano. In fact, no real sign of any artistic, literary, or musical interests at all.

As Archie’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he noticed the shadows that he’d first taken for knickknacks, gimcrack, and vases were in fact assorted stacks of dirty and broken dishes. The single picture on the mantle was cracked, and there was a notable space where Archie guessed another framed image must have once stood.

There was only one chair in the room. It occupied the space between a cluttered sideboard table and the cold hearth. Doug dropped down into the chair and picked a whiskey bottle up off the sideboard. Light from the window cast his face in silhouette as he kicked a spindly footstool out to Archie.

“As you can see….” Archie opened the paperboard briefcase and peered in at the sheaves of sheet music. “Mrs. Beelze—your wife, I presume…?”

Doug nodded.

“She ordered a number of very lovely hymns and a few popular songs—”

“You probably think it’s funny,” Doug stated.

“I beg your pardon?” Archie asked.

“That little bitch running off and leaving me with a bunch of church songs,” Doug grumbled. The accusation seemed to come from nowhere.

“No. I don’t think it’s funny at—”

“She would have!” Doug took another swig from his bottle. “Bet she’s laughing her tits off right now.”

“I… I’m sorry, but I was under the impression from your… response at the door, that she’d passed away.” Archie wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard the faintest creak from the floorboards overhead. Was Nimble up there already? If so, Archie needed to keep Doug distracted and talking, even if he didn’t like the turn of the fellow’s temper. “She’s not dead?”

“Dead? I wish to God she were!” Doug snorted. “The pinchcock’s made a laughingstock of me. Took everything and ran off to get frigged up one end and out the other by every member of some dandy’s club.”

Archie struggled to think of a response, but fortunately Doug didn’t seem to need encouragement.

“Getting it from just one natural man is never enough for Proddie quims. Had to have ’em by the dozen, didn’t she? Liked it real rough too. She’d come home covered in bruises some nights. Hope they give her all the rough she can take and more.” Doug paused to drink from his bottle.

Archie resisted the urge to question Doug. Hadn’t he noticed that the bruises on his wife were from fights? Didn’t it occur to him that something might have happened to her, or did he have reason to suspect that she’d actually left him?

Doug lowered the whiskey bottle, almost dropped it on the floor, but then shuddered and pulled it back to his chest. “They better put her in the river when they’re done with her. ’Cause if I find her alive….” He shook his head. “Pigs won’t have her after I’m done with her. That’s a husband’s right.” Doug’s voice began to quaver again. “The whore took my medicine and poured it down the sink!”

“Your medicine?” Even as he asked, Archie realized he ought to have guessed from the man’s sallow complexion and gaunt frame, or from his abrupt swings of mood: ophorium.

“I got pain, like you couldn’t understand.” Doug snuffled into Archie’s handkerchief, and Archie guessed that he hadn’t been weeping for his lost wife earlier, but for the drug she’d deprived him of.

“I was injured in the war.” Doug sniffed.

Archie nodded. So many of them had been, and not always in way that other people could see or understand. It had spawned an epidemic of ophorium addicts, drunks, and thugs. Archie supposed Doug might count as all three. God knew, it wasn’t easy to come back from war and not bring any of the horror along with you.

“That sheet music,” Doug said. “You suppose it’s worth much?”

“Well, the print quality is rather nice.” Archie really had no idea but did his best to stall for a little more time. “Hymns aren’t in the highest demand since most people already know them, but you might be able to sell the four music hall songs—”

“What’ll you give me for them?” Doug demanded.

“I’m hardly an ideal buyer,” Archie replied. He took a step back to ensure he was well clear of Doug’s long reach. “Being a hymn hawker myself, I already have first pick of all I could possibly use.”

“I fought in the war. Wasn’t for men like me, soft little boys like you would be on your knees for them Nornian sods.” Doug surged up to his feet, with the whiskey bottle still gripped in his hand. “You’ve had it easy—I can tell just looking at you! A pretty little boy who goes around chatting up men’s wives and selling them songs!”

“Sir, I can assure you—”

“I know your type! Half the women in the city giving you free trips up cock lane, as well as their husbands’ money. You here laughing up your sleeve at a man like me.”

“I’m not laughing at anyone,” Archie replied, but Doug wasn’t listening.

“Those ain’t cheap rags on your back. Bet they was bought with other men’s money.” Doug stepped closer. And out of the corner of his eye, Archie thought he glimpsed a shadow moving slowly down the staircase.

The last thing he wanted was for Nimble to get dragged into this—whatever this was about to become.

“Bet my wife liked you plenty! Gave you money she wouldn’t spare for me!” Doug swayed so close that Archie could smell the stale odor of his breath. He glowered at Archie, lips quivering. His hand shook as he raised his whiskey bottle like a club. “You pampered boys owe men like me everything! Now you’re gonna pay up, or I’ll shove this bottle so far up your—”

Archie slammed his right fist into Doug’s gut and then hooked his jaw with a fast left.

Doug fell back. The whiskey bottle bounced across the floor and spilled the last of its contents into the dark hearth.

Archie glanced quickly to the stairs. If Nimble had been there, he was gone now.

Doug moaned from where he lay sprawled on the floor. “You dirty little shit.” His voice broke in another self-pitying sob. “I fought in the war. I was out there—”

“So was I!” Archie snapped. “And so were thousands of other people, and a lot of them never came back. You and me were the lucky ones. We get to live our lives. So if you’re going to wallow and weep for anyone, it shouldn’t be yourself.”

Archie hurled the sheets of hymns down on the floor and left Doug whimpering and moaning to himself.

“REMIND ME never to get into a punch-up with you, Archie,” Nimble commented. “Your knuckles all right?”

“Not too bad.” His left fist was a little red and sore, but nothing felt broken. His hand certainly didn’t give him any trouble as he cut his meat.

All around them, boisterous groups of actors, playwrights, musicians, and costumers filled tall box seats and crowded around narrow tables. Voices boomed, as players—many dressed in costumes and makeup—ran their lines and waiters shouted orders into the steaming back room of the kitchen. The air sizzled and clanged with the sounds and scents of beef and onions searing in hot pans.

Their waiter had recognized Nimble, not on sight but by the sound of his rough voice. He knew Nimble as a character actor who regularly ascended from Hells Below to search for roles. He and Nimble took a moment to discuss the padding Nimble had used to fill out the potbelly under his yellow waistcoat.

That briefly drew the attention of an actor seated at the table to the left of them. The young man wore a fabulous scarlet gown and a towering red wig, and sported a rather convincing bust; he offered Nimble an approving nod. Then he returned his attention to trading fantastically comical dialogue with the two handsome brunette girls opposite him.

The men on the other side of Archie and Nimble appeared even less interested in them. The paunchy middle-aged fellows drained pints of ale and scribbled on what little empty space remained of the many manuscript pages that they passed back and forth between them.

Once the waiter departed, Archie went ahead and described the week he’d spent at the Dee Club. Nimble listened, and every once in a while, asked a question or penciled a note onto the pages that Archie had given him. After Archie had said his fill and their food had been served, Nimble leafed through the sheets of paper.

“You say the building used to belong to a smuggler?” Nimble studied Archie’s map with the intent expression of a man plotting a prison break.

“That’s Umberry’s story, but I’m not certain it explains why he kept all those passages intact.”

Nimble nodded. Absently he picked up one of the golden fried chips from his plate, but he didn’t eat. Archie, on the other hand, polished off his six-penny serving of beef and peas, as well as his chips and lump of cheese. He’d hardly eaten the three days before and felt relieved to regain his appetite. He sipped his beer and considered what, if anything, he’d learned from his encounter with Nancy Beelze’s dissolute husband.

“He said that she took everything,” Archie said.

Nimble looked up, his eyes flashing bright yellow as they rose over the blue lenses of his spectacles. “There weren’t any women’s clothes or toiletries in the bedroom or bath.” Nimble remembered the chip and ate it quickly before turning his attention to his peas and beef.

“You were expecting as much,” Archie guessed.

Nimble nodded. “Like I said, I’ve been asking around about the twelve others who went missing from the club. They share a number of commonalities.”

“All Prodigals.” Archie knew that already. “All took part in the Sunday fights at the Dee Club.” Normally he would have lowered his voice, but in the cacophony of the Fatted Cat chophouse, his words hardly carried. Besides, so many of the surrounding discussions revolved around the murders, affairs, and treasons of stage plays that their conversation could hardly compete with the surrounding drama and scandal.

“Right. Also all but one of the twelve are women. And every single one of them was living with a man, whom my dear departed mum would have referred to as a shit-with-fists.”

“Violent?”

“Oh, definitely. But most deep in debt too,” Nimble said.

“So these missing people would all have had good reason to run away.” Archie considered that. “And if they disappeared, that would be the first thing anyone would think, right?”

“Righto. One girl’s mum told me that she didn’t search for her daughter at first because she was scared that she would lead her daughter’s husband to her.” Nimble leaned forward a little. “I don’t think it would have taken much talking to convince Nancy or any one of the others to pack their belongings and come away. Show a little kindness, lure them in with the offer of shelter. Then when he’s got them alone, do them in.”

The thought struck Archie as horrible, cunning, and manipulative in all the worst ways. What kind of person chose a victim like Nancy—a person in desperate straits—and exploited her anguish to make her take part in her own murder?

That was like something his uncle Silas would dream up, Archie thought in disgust. Then he considered the idea more seriously. Could Silas be involved? He certainly wasn’t above anything so repulsive, not so long as it served him. But the question was, how would the deaths of thirteen Prodigals benefit his uncle? Could his presence in the Dee Club merely be a coincidence, unrelated to Nancy’s disappearance?

“On top of that,” Nimble went on, “say one of their bodies does eventually wash up on the river bank one day. There’d be no question of who the Inquisition would arrest. Neighbors, friends, and parents have already seen plenty of bruises, heard fights and the nastiest sorts of threats.”

Archie nodded, recalling Doug Beelze’s hateful words. He hadn’t spent even an hour in the man’s company, but he felt certain Doug had abused his wife and was fully capable of killing her.

From the point of view of someone plotting to murder Nancy, Doug would make a perfect scapegoat. Perhaps even a deserving one.

“And here’s the other thing they have in common, and this one is rather strange.” Nimble’s words interrupted Archie’s thoughts. “Every single one of them was introduced to the club through a pretty fellow who goes by the name of Pugg—”

“Mr. Pugg the dog trainer?” That, Archie had not anticipated at all.

“The very one.” Nimble ate another of his chips.

“Mr. Pugg….” Archie struggled to imagine Mr. Pugg in any capacity other than a handsome man holding out hoops for his hounds to leap through. There had been a guileless—even stupid—quality about his beaming stage presence that Archie found difficult to get past.

“It’s curious, ain’t it?” Nimble commented.

Archie nodded. Both of them lapsed into thoughtful quiet.

Then, without preamble, the young man in the scarlet dress turned in his seat and leaned in to their table. He offered Archie a brief sweet smile and then placed his gloved hand next to Nimble’s. “I’m sorry for intruding, but we just have to know.” He indicated his two companions. The girls smiled with a warmth imparted by one too many pints of beer. “Are you two staging a murder mystery play?”

“Still working out the plot, actually,” Nimble replied.

The taller of the two girls leaned forward as well. Archie had to admire her shoulders and the muscular quality of her tanned hands. “I like the design for your set, but it’s far too complex and fussy.” She indicated Archie’s sketchy map of the Dee Club. “I build trap doors and false floors at the Moonlight Playhouse. All three of us work there.”

Archie recognized the name of the theater; it possessed quite the reputation for staging outrageous productions filled with illusions and transformations.

“This back half here is really all you need or want.” The girl traced her finger over the circular arena on the map. “You’ve got the audience situated perfectly to direct their attention away from the wings, and below you have more than enough space for trapdoors and any machinery you might need to have ghosts or whatnot pop out.”

“I’m playing a ghost,” the young man commented. “A murdered first wife returned to torment my evil husband.”

“Seems to be a lot of that going around—evil husbands, I mean,” Nimble replied. “We have a few in our tale as well.”

“Yes, but we can’t decide if ours are actually to blame or not,” Archie put in.

“They’re always to blame one way or another,” the second girl stated, then downed the remainder of her beer and flopped back in her seat. “Marriage should be banned until women are given the same rights as men. Like the Nornians have.”

Her companions exchanged a look of amusement, and Archie guessed the complaint was one they’d heard on many occasions before.

The five of them exchanged a few more civilities, but the interest of the other three waned notably when Nimble let it slip that he and Archie hadn’t yet secured funding for their production.

“We’re hoping that interested parties might volunteer their time and skills,” Nimble stated.

The young man laughed, and two girls wished them the best of luck with pitying smiles. All three departed very soon after that.

“What would you have done if one of them volunteered to assist us with the production?” Archie asked.

“I suppose I’d have thrown together a play and hoped that a certain handsome viscount decided to fund it.”

“You know he would.” Archie laughed. “He could never say no to you.”

Nimble’s pleased smile was charming and dauntingly affectionate. Archie felt as if his heart was fluttering with a strange delight. How odd it was to feel drawn to Nimble even when he looked well past his prime, gray-haired, age-speckled, stooped, and soft around the middle. Still, Archie couldn’t imagine another man he would rather have been with.

Nimble sipped his beer and frowned at the taste.

As long as Archie had known him, Nimble’s preferred drink had always been black tea. He was a bit of a granny that way, though he could put away pine whiskey when he wanted to. Archie wondered if there wasn’t somewhere the two of them could go for a few drinks and then perhaps….

But no, that was done between them. Nimble had put an end to it, and Archie simply had to accept it and stop wishing matters could be otherwise.

He snatched up the map he’d drawn of the Dee Club.

Why had that girl mistaken it for a stage design, he wondered? Then he considered. The arena was a stage of a kind, wasn’t it? The fights were presented almost like theater for a roaring audience. There had to be a backstage area, as well as wings where the fighters waited to be announced. And the lower levels where the infirmary was housed did have the appearance of a vast trap room hidden beneath a stage floor.

So why not use the arena for the recitals and musicals performed the rest of the week? It wasn’t as if performers from the club’s theater troupe didn’t take part in the fights. At least a few of them had been present. Archie wished he’d managed to remain sober so he could better recall who exactly he’d seen there and in what capacity.

“I don’t like you being there on your own,” Nimble said.

“What?”

“At that club.” Nimble nodded to the map. “I don’t think it’s wise for you to be there without anyone to watch your back. Not with your uncle skulking around and people disappearing from the place with suspicious regularity.”

Archie could hardly argue. Silas had nearly shoved him into the river three days ago. Even so, he hesitated to agree, in part because he didn’t want Nimble coming afoul of his uncle, but also, he realized, because he didn’t want Nimble to have to endure the snide comments and snobbery of the club members.

Which was foolish, and likely Nimble would laugh at him if he ever said as much.

“You’re already a member, so there shouldn’t be any difficulty sponsoring me, should there?” Nimble asked.

“No. No, none at all….” Archie wondered what supplies Nimble would need to conjure spells that could ensure his safety in the club. “Could you be ready to come with me by tomorrow?”

“Tonight would be better.” Nimble set his beer aside. “Pugg is one of the Wednesday performers, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Archie said. “The show starts around seven.”

“Can you meet me at the club at five?” Nimble asked.

“Anything for you, old boot.”

Chapter Five: Shots in the Dark

ARCHIE ARRIVED a half hour early, only to discover Nimble already waiting in the shadows of the cherry trees. An odd nervousness fluttered through Archie as he stilled to study Nimble’s altered appearance. He’d stripped away his mustache and padding, rinsed the gray from his hair, and washed out the lines and shadows that had previously tempered his striking features. A jewel-blue tailcoat accentuated his glossy black hair and dark complexion, while his indigo pinstriped trousers clung to his legs in a way that Archie found almost mesmerizing.

Nimble was certainly never going to melt away into the dull anonymity of a crowd, Archie thought ruefully as he glanced down at his own wardrobe—another tediously elegant study in shades of pale gray.

Nimble lifted a leather journal and jotted down some note with a clerk’s pencil. Then he returned to his thoughtful study of the fishermen on the far banks of the White River.

“Penning a poem?” Archie called out.

Nimble glanced up and grinned, then schooled his expression into a study of somber dignity and recited:

“Oh, River White, your foam yellow as nags’ teeth!

How many a strange mystery

Of our city’s culinary history

Has come bobbing up from sewer pipes beneath?”

Archie snorted.

“A better question of our time,” Archie answered, “was ne’er before addressed in rhyme.”

“Oh, you should hear the verses I’ve composed on the subject of dental hygiene.” Nimble shoved the journal into his pocket and tucked the stubby pencil behind his right ear, just as a practiced clerk would have done. “Adventures in Dentures is what I’m calling the collection.”

“A biting satire, I suppose?” Archie drew the gilded Dee Club medallion from his coat pocket. He’d chosen a gray silk ribbon but now realized how dowdy it looked compared to everything else Nimble wore. Even the gold of the medallion seemed faded next to the fiery orange quince flowers adorning his waistcoat.

Archie reached out, meaning to hand the thing over, but Nimble stepped nearer to him and bowed his head. A strange sense of intimacy filled Archie as he carefully lifted the ribbon over Nimble’s head. His hands brushed Nimble’s hair and then rested briefly on his shoulders. It was hardly a moment’s contact, much less a caress, and yet, touching Nimble here in broad day, in public, it felt like a kind of declaration.

Two bright blue dragonflies darted past them. From a branch overhead, a shrike took flight after them. In an instant the bird handily snapped up one of the pair in its jaws.

Archie looked back at Nimble. He wished he possessed even a shred of magic to imbue the medallion with any real protection for Nimble.

Nimble lifted his head, and a flush seemed to color his face. He held Archie’s gaze, then ran his hand over the ribbon and medallion. He looked pleased and about to make a joke. Then his smile folded to a straight line and he narrowed his gaze past Archie’s shoulder. Archie turned to see Silas and his two varlets striding from the stable and through the club’s wide green doors.

Silas carried a slightly wilted bouquet of scarlet peonies and pink snapdragons under one arm. His expression struck Archie as far too smug for a man who’d just lost his country property. Perhaps the bank hadn’t informed him yet. No, Silas had to have received notice by now. There was some reason the news hadn’t dispirited him. Archie guessed it was the prospect of Agatha Wedmoor’s dowry.

“And the snake has come a-calling for your girl,” Nimble commented.

“She’s hardly mine,” Archie replied, but he turned and started after his uncle. He hadn’t grown fond of Agatha, but he did feel a kind of sympathy for her. Her plight so reminded him of his mother’s.

“Off to the rescue, we go, then,” Nimble commented as he drew alongside Archie.

Inside, a crowd of club members and their sponsored Prodigals filled the galleries, many excitedly discussing the prospect of the evening’s entertainments. Two new Prodigal actresses from the Queen’s Theater had been sponsored since Archie had last attended the club, and they’d agreed to perform a recital. The warm humidity of too many tightly packed bodies filled the place with the atmosphere of a hothouse.

“Standing room only, eh?” Nimble commented as they worked their way through the crush of men. Archie noted Neet’s flushed countenance peeping out from a clot of young men all circled around two very tall, radiantly beautiful Prodigal women. Strings of pearls supported the golden medallions that glinted from the silky breasts of the actresses’ green gowns. Archie thought he recognized Lupton’s stocky figure—brandy snifter in hand—farther down the hall. He appeared to have cornered Archie’s uncle in some conversation. Silas looked bored but not yet belligerent, while Lupton appeared indifferent to Silas’s disinterest.

As Archie neared them, he noticed Agatha Wedmoor and Nurse Fuggas creeping up the stairs with Phebe between them. He gave a nod, and Nimble looked to the stairs with a very thoughtful expression. Archie guessed the women would withdraw to Agatha’s private rooms on the third floor, where Agatha’s maids could repel any male callers.

“Of course, it’s not my place to say why Archibald might bear you some ill will.”

Lupton’s voice drew Archie’s attention. The man appeared unaware of the Smith twins’ glares or Silas’s refined pose—which conveyed to all the world that he was a indulging the rambling of a drunk.

“But if you truly felt that battle would make a man of him, why didn’t you at least send him to serve with peers in the cavalry?” Lupton, for all his flushed face and alcoholic air, sounded sincere. “We would have looked after the boy, kept him safe.”

Several of the men standing near the two of them looked uneasy, and their expressions only grew more alarmed as Archie stalked closer. Though neither Silas nor Lupton seemed to notice him through the crush of gray-clad men.

“You’re quite correct, Lupton. It’s not your place to say anything on the subject at all,” Silas replied, and he twitched the bouquet hanging from his left hand like an angry cat flicking its tail. “But since you’ve deemed yourself qualified to comment upon the private matters of my family, I’ll tell you. I am proud that I had the faith to place my nephew’s edification in God’s hands. I entrusted him to the Children’s Brigade to learn humility and piety. Qualities that I hardly think the horse guard are famous for. If I hadn’t, I have no doubt that he would have grown up a simpering effeminate—” Silas shot a disdainful glance to one of the men looking on, and the young fellow colored. Several of the men standing near him stepped away slightly. Silas turned his sneer back on Lupton. “He’d probably be a lobcock and a drunkard to boot.”

Lupton stiffened and his face darkened with anger. But before he could respond, Archie sidled up beside his uncle.

“As is, I’ve blossomed into a feckless wastrel,” Archie announced. “So, praise the Lord.”

“Deo gratias,” Nimble called out as if he were in a particularly lively church. “Amen and all that!”

Silas nearly dropped his bouquet as he spun on Archie and caught sight of Nimble. “What is this?” Silas demanded.

“Nimble Hobbs, sir.” Nimble made a show of tugging his forelock. “Most obliged to make your acquaintance. I’m the fortunate soul whom your most generous nephew has deigned to sponsor into this magnificent establishment.”

Silas stared at Nimble, then recognition showed in his expression. “You were at the funeral….”

“Yes, sir! I served with your unfathered nephew, Archimedes. Sadly that brave boy’s edification involved too many cannon balls for us to ever learn how he might have turned out. Still, the righteous will have their reward in the end, eh?” Nimble grinned a wide display of his jagged teeth. “Most gratified that you recall me, sir. I promise I have never forgotten you either.”

Silas glanced to Archie, then turned on his heel and shouted after one of the Prodigal servants. He strode away, demanding water for his flowers and that Lady Umberry be informed that he had arrived. Mike and Nate paused a moment—sizing up Nimble, Archie thought. Then they lumbered after their master.

Lupton cast Nimble and Archie a melancholy sort of smile, while around them groups of men muttered varying opinions of both Archie and his uncle. Silas was not without his supporters. The fact that he so often invoked the Good Lord never failed to impress certain peers, who believed above all else that their wealth and privilege resulted from divine benediction—certainly not the exploitation and oppression of the lower classes.

“Good to see you back at the club, Archibald,” Lupton said. “Neet was fretting that we might never have the pleasure of your company again, if a certain lady didn’t come to her senses soon.”

“He needn’t have feared. I’m not so easily disheartened,” Archie replied.

He formally introduced Lupton to Nimble. Lupton didn’t seem to know how to proceed beyond that. Archie wasn’t certain if it was because so many sponsors treated their Prodigal companions like exotic pets, to be displayed but not interacted with, or because he was well past his first glass of brandy. But then Nimble performed a few sleight-of-hand tricks, mostly pretending to pull coins from Archie’s ears, and Lupton warmed to him.

Miraculously Nimble produced Lupton’s own pocket watch from thin air. (Archie had lifted it and passed it along while Nimble provided the distraction of broad gestures and amusing dialogue.)

“Amazing! You must come around to the stage and meet the other performers!” Lupton declared. He handed off his empty snifter to a passing servant, then beckoned Archie and Nimble both to follow him along to the sedate little chamber theater where the club’s recitals and variety shows took place. Archie and Nimble followed him down past aisles of green velvet seats and right up onto the polished boards of the stage itself. Neither the silver-haired crone at the piano nor any of the pink-robed dancers took much note of Lupton as he strode past. Someone up on a catwalk issued a wolf-whistle, which inspired a few twitters.

As they stepped between the black velvet curtains of the left wing, a spindly Prodigal child in a polka-dotted leotard dropped down from a handstand to favor Lupton with a smile. In return Lupton fished into his jacket pocket and handed over his snuffbox.

The towheaded child took a pinch in a quick, practiced sniff and thanked Lupton, saying, “Ta, Pops! Who’s the gents?”

“The handsome youth is none other than Lord Fallmont from the society pages. And this strapping blue jewel is Mr. Hobbs, who is something of a magician, Maggie.” Lupton grinned, and Archie thought this might have been the first time he’d really seen the other man seem happy without a drink in his hand.

Maggie sauntered after them to the backstage. Some twenty people in various states of dress and activity populated the space. Jugglers and acrobats, all costumed much like Maggie, stretched and chatted. Musicians lounged with their instruments. A pair of older men strained to tighten the corset that held two women back-to-back in the illusion of conjoined twins. A plump lad crouched next to a birdcage, tinkering with the cogs of the clockwork parrots inside. Four clowns shouted up to the indistinct shadows scurrying above on the catwalk. Archie picked out a pair of very pale yellow eyes gazing down at them. Then several fat sandbags descended slowly from the rigging overhead and a backdrop painted like the stormy sea rose. A canvas displaying a night sky and city roofs lay behind it.

For just a moment, Nimble stilled and gazed at the painted stars with an expression of longing. Archie recalled that Nimble had used to volunteer for night watch because he loved to stand out under that wide-open sky and witness those stars stretching out forever. Despite the roars of big guns and the groans of the wounded all around them, Nimble had always looked more at peace in those times.

“Flossy painted that one,” Lupton stated. “She’s a keen student of the sky. Did another that’s got a moon so detailed, you’d swear it was transported from the heavens.”

Archie made admiring sounds, and Nimble pulled his attention away to point to the wall of closets that seemed to serve as prop rooms and dressing rooms. Most of the doors hung ajar. Archie glimpsed a few figures leaning close to mirrors, applying makeup. Others napped on divans. But it was the big table where two men sat playing cards that Nimble indicated. Archie recognized the nearest one as Mr. Pugg. His three big deerhounds dozed in their huge kennel cages a few feet behind him.

“Your club magicians?” Nimble asked.

“Well, Burns is.” Lupton indicated the elderly fellow opposite Pugg. He wore a green satin morning coat and long underwear. His trousers hung over the back of an empty chair. “Young Pugg there assists him but has his own routine featuring his trained dogs. Shall I introduce you?”

“Oh, I’d be very much obliged,” Nimble replied. “Never thought I’d get a chance to meet the Incredible, Incombustible Burns in person.”

Archie cast him a sidelong glance, half expecting to catch a hint of sarcasm in Nimble’s expression, but he seemed sincere in his awe of the half-dressed elderly stage magician. Archie felt a little chagrined. He’d not even heard of the man before this moment.

“My pleasure, then!” Lupton straightened and puffed up his chest a little as he strode to the table. He made introductions in a friendly, breezy manner, and Burns invited them all to join him and Pugg playing cards. Pugg smiled, but there was something a little too measured in the way his gaze moved over Nimble’s face and then darted to Archie. Did he suspect they were onto him about Nancy’s disappearance, or was he worried they might notice the cards tucked in his sleeves?

“You understand that we’re all cheats at this table, Lord Fallmont?” Burns said as he handed the deck of cards over to Lupton. “We don’t play for money, and we don’t mean any harm by it, just practice of our craft.”

“I shan’t take offense,” Archie replied.

Pugg appeared to relax slightly then, so maybe it had just been a matter of having three aces tucked under the broad cuffs of his shirt.

“Oh, never fear,” Lupton said as he shuffled the cards. “Archibald here is a great sport. He even let Charlie claim a tie after a boxing match, when we could all see half Charlie’s stuffing had been knocked out of him.”

As Lupton dealt, Nimble declared his great admiration for the elderly Mr. Burns. Apparently, the magician originally hailed from the same ward of Hells Below as Nimble and was still highly regarded there for having once performed for the young Queen. That was as near as any Prodigal could hope to come to a world tour. The old man grinned when Nimble admitted that as a lad, he’d scorched his eyebrows on several occasions attempting to swallow fire as Burns had so famously done.

Archie accepted his cards, noting that Pugg immediately switched one of his out, while Burns hardly glanced at his own hand. He appeared far too taken with Nimble.

“Oh, it’s all catching bullets nowadays,” Burns said, and he pointed his crooked index finger like the muzzle of a pistol and pretended to fire at his own chipped front teeth.

“Fire a real pistol for the audience. Then your assistant switches it for a fake?” Nimble asked.

“Of course,” Burns replied. “The tricky bit is slipping the spent bullet into your mouth while you’re tying on the blindfold…”

“No, the tricky bit comes when some drunken sot staggers onto stage and demands to take a shot with his own iron barker,” Pugg put in.

Alarm at the notion zinged through Archie. Nimble, too, looked horrified. But to Archie’s surprise, Burns laughed and Lupton grinned.

“You should have known it was contrived, Pugg,” Burns said. “Though your stricken expression did thrill the entire audience.”

“Lady Wedmoor looked like she was going to rush the stage and murder me!” Lupton told Archie. Out of the corner of his eye, Archie noticed Burns shift ever so slightly on his elbows. He felt certain the motion had hidden Pugg passing him a card.

“What’s your game, then?” Burns inquired of Nimble, who as far as Archie could tell was playing the hand dealt him and showing no sign of Archie’s own desire to cheat even a little.

“I dabble in quick changes, as no one expects a cove my size to move too fast, but recently I’ve been trying to work out a disappearing girl routine.”

Both Pugg and Burns scowled.

“That’s all props and trap doors. Nothing of the real art to it,” Burns said dismissively.

“Oh, but it never does hurt to have a pretty lady on stage. She draws the eye and everyone wants her to come back. She gives an act a compelling sort of story, doesn’t she?” Lupton commented. He gazed at one of the passing dancers, but then returned his attention to his hand of cards. “You know, the trick I can never work out is the reverse of the rabbit coming out of a hat. The one where the magician stuffs rabbits back in. I keep expecting that the creatures ought to kick the hat over.”

“Nah. You just train them right,” Pugg responded, and Archie felt certain the man was being facetious. As Archie understood it, the trick was to use dead rabbits, which were obliging of any amount of manhandling.

After that, the conversation skimmed over a number of subjects, from newly opened ice cream shops to the Queen’s decision to at long last entertain the Nornian ambassador at her palace.

“We’re all going to have to brush up on our Nornic at court, I suppose.” Lupton frowned and Archie understood. It was hard to feel any warmth toward a nation he’d nearly died fighting, and at the same time, they all wanted peace. Lupton’s gaze met Archie’s, and surprisingly he smiled. “But you know, before the war, the Wedmoors owned lands over there. Charles and Agatha both vacationed there as nippers, so Agatha could school you in the language, I’d imagine…. Come to it, I suppose Charlie could as well.”

“If this ambassador becomes a permanent fixture, I suppose I will need tutoring,” Archie replied. “Only phrases I ever learned would certainly be inappropriate for the Queen’s court.”

That earned him a laugh, and they played on. Burns won the first three hands and Pugg the next two, by which time Archie had to concentrate so as not to slip into the habit of counting cards or secreting any away when it came his turn to deal. He lost with good grace, though it made him want to gnash his teeth. It must have shown to some extent, because Nimble cast him a look of amused camaraderie at one point.

Actors, actresses, singers, and dancers came and went around them. Most greeted Lupton warmly. A few flirted with Archie or teased Nimble about joining their company. Burns looked on and offered advice with the air of a sage elder. The stage hands in particular were keen to hear his thoughts.

Throughout it all, Pugg chatted and cheated with a blithe smile on his pretty face. He gave away very little that Archie could see as suspicious. Since all of the Prodigal entertainers appeared to know one another, the fact that the people who’d disappeared had met Pugg seemed to wane in significance.

And it was growing late. Soon the green velvet seats would fill with club members, and Archie’s place would be out there among them. He folded while the others played out this last hand. Behind Pugg, the three deerhounds seemed to sense the hour as well. They stood and stretched, yawned open huge gaping mouths filled with long white teeth. They truly were immense animals, originally bred not just to hunt stags, but to hold off wolves that might attempt to claim the kills for their own. Of course, wolves were all long dead, but the huge hounds lived on. Archie wondered how Pugg managed to convince these three brindle-coated beasts to wear the elaborate costumes he paraded them around the stage in.

Train them right. Yes, that was likely the answer.

By chance Archie’s gaze fell on the letters etched into the steel of the cages. At first glance he read it as Pugg. But there was something not quite right about the messy engraving of blossoms that followed the name. And the top of the capitol P was slightly too scalloped, almost as if adornments had been scratched in over a different letter. An F, Archie realized, and once he saw that, he easily picked the rest of the name out from beneath the flurry of blossoms: Fuggas.

ARCHIE PAID terribly little attention to the actual performances, despite his best efforts. The strange pleasure of being able to sit so very close to Nimble in the darkened theater distracted him. Every so often his hand grazed Nimble’s. Nimble’s leg nudged against his occasionally. He was reminded of the winter nights they’d shared blankets and foxholes. Only cannons weren’t firing now, nor were either of them shaking with cold. No, they were warm, comfortable, and companionable. Such simple luxuries likely went unnoticed by the majority of the club members surrounding them, but Archie felt the enormity of them as a sharp flush of happiness. He wished this moment would never end, the lights never come up again.

But all too soon the performers took their final bows and applause quieted. The house lights, dozens of little gaslights on the walls, blazed to life. Archie felt Nimble’s weight shift away from him, a slight chill crawling in where the heat of Nimble’s calf had rested against his own.

In the seat to Archie’s right, Lupton gave a few more claps. Then he gestured to someone across the room. Charles Wedmoor, Archie thought, though he couldn’t be certain.

“What a show!” Lupton turned his attention back to Archie and Nimble. “I sponsor Lilly Vale and her father, Dickey, so my opinion may be a little biased, but by God, I swear Lilly is just as talented as any of the girls currently entertaining the Queen or touring the great cities!”

“I won’t argue with you,” Nimble replied. “Fine pipes on that bird, and not a bad set of lungs on her dad either.”

Both of them looked to Archie. He couldn’t for the life of him remember if Lilly had been the vivacious blonde soprano or the lively brunette. Both hit notes like sharpshooters shattering the highest-flying clay pigeons.

“Yes. Very impressive,” Archie said.

Really the only acts he’d watched attentively had been Pugg’s and those moments when Pugg had donned a white satin mask to play the role of Burns’s assistant. He wondered what Nimble had been paying attention to and what he’d seen through the gloom that Archie had missed. Perhaps he ought to accompany Nimble back to the Briar, where they could be alone and discuss matters. The bed there was comfortable so, if the hour grew late, then perhaps they could lie together for a few hours and maybe….

Archie rose from his seat. Nimble stretched, his limbs testing the strength of his chair. Then he, too, stood. He cast Archie a sidelong look that seemed particularly hungry. They’d neither of them had any supper. Maybe they could snatch up a couple of pasties on their way back to the Briar Hotel. If they were fish-filled, it would no doubt offer Nimble the opportunity to recite another poem.

“Charlie!” Lupton called, and Archie’s attention lurched back to his current surroundings as Charles Wedmoor approached. He wore a smile like death rictus and looked to Archie like he’d lost more than one round in the boxing ring quite recently. A tiny sprig of snapdragons poked up from the buttonhole of his charcoal satin jacket.

“Lupton, Archibald! Just the gentlemen I was hoping to see.” Charles didn’t quite meet Archie’s gaze. “Would you care to join me for brandy and cards at Wright’s? We could take my carriage before everyone else—”

“The company sounds delightful,” Lupton answered over Charles’s mumbling about busy streets. “But I don’t see why we should decamp when there’s cards and plenty of fine brandy to be had right here. On top of that, I’ve found Wright’s terribly iniquitous. They won’t allow Lilly to accompany me in, and I’m certain they’d turn up their noses at Archie’s friend, Mr. Hobbs, here. I don’t fancy spending my coins there.”

Charles took in Nimble’s presence as if he was a specter materialized from the ether. “Oh. I hadn’t realized that Archibald had managed to….”

“Fascinating fellow, Charlie! A stage magician and a poet!” Lupton waved his hand, and a nearby servant placed a snifter of brandy in his grasp. “He even sent the older Granville slithering away. That cad, Silas, had the gall to sound off about how edifying we must have all found the bloody damn war.”

“Yes. I think I heard something about that.” Charles words came out flat, but he smiled and thrust his hand out to Nimble. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Charles Wedmoor, Lord Umberry. But everyone here calls me Charlie.”

Archie couldn’t recall Wedmoor ever before introducing himself to a Prodigal instead of waiting for another club member to provide his name and title. There was something almost apologetic about his tone. Archie wondered if Lupton’s objection to Wright’s had shamed him a little.

“Nimble Hobbs.” Nimble shook his hand. “Hobbs, if you like. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. Archibald has said very good things.”

“Has he?” Charles stole a quick glance to Archie. “Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint. We shall stay here and play.”

After that, Archie supposed they were required to tromp over to the smoky card room if only to demonstrate that they weren’t the sort of pigs who’d exclude a man like Nimble or a woman like Lilly. A few hands of cards wasn’t the worst fate to face, nor the card room a dank sty. The paintings adorning the walls were beautiful, and the dishes of mustard and sausages, as well as oysters, were generous. The crowd of gamblers and onlookers exuded a noisy air of boozy geniality.

Lilly Vale—the lively brunette, as it turned out—joined their company, as did her vivacious blonde friend Gina Wydly. Both of them did an admirable job of picking up any lulls in the conversation and smoothing over the charged moments when Charles tossed down his cards in frustration but then insisted they all continue to yet another hand.

A number of other Prodigal women, many still wearing stage makeup, circulated between the tables where male club members sat drinking and gambling. Archie noted that one seemed to linger a little too long near their table before hurrying back to the dark corner where Silas sat brooding over his port. Nate and Mike stood to either side of him, while a stocky man in in his fifties hunched in front of Silas. Something about the man’s tweed clothes and the display of gin blossoms spread across his nose reminded Archie of the dozens of old sports forever on hand at country houses, harrying the maids and riding their horses lame at hunting parties. Whatever the man had gotten into, Archie imagined Silas would blackmail him for every penny in his possession. Or perhaps the payment had been made already, because the man gave a quick nod and then skulked away.

Archie turned his attention to his own company.

Across the table from him, Nimble appeared preoccupied with the framed seascape hanging on the far wall. Lupton drank and rambled from subject to subject. Lilly and Gina shepherded his gossip away from any real scandals and covered his gaffes with jokes and gentle flirtation. Archie warmed to the two of them greatly for that. Charles played his hands poorly and shifted in his seat so often that Archie wondered if he’d become afflicted by piles.

Archie limited himself to winning only every third hand. He found Gina and Lilly delightful conversationalists, though twice Nimble took it on himself to kick Archie under the table.

After an hour, Silas’s spy contrived to spill a little of her sherry on Charles’s sleeve. She apologized and fluttered around Charles quite believably. Charles made a stiff show of excusing himself to clean up, and then slunk back to Silas’s table. Nimble arched a brow at Charles’s retreat and Lupton shook his head sadly.

“Don’t think too badly of him,” Lupton said. “He gets jumpy now and then. Been that way ever since the war, you know.”

“He served?” Nimble asked.

“Oh yes! Charles and I were both cavalry. He got thrown early on, poor fellow. Ended up in some god-awful hospital, which the Nornians overran right away, of course.” Lupton’s expression turned almost bleak for a moment, and then he took a long drink of his brandy. “A Prodigal nurse stayed to tend him and the other wounded. Charlie swears that she was the only reason he survived, and the reason he started this club.”

“Nurse Fuggas?” Archie asked, because her name was in his mind; he’d been thinking that she was the right look and age to be Pugg’s sister. Now he recalled that she’d served in the war, as well.

“Yes. Well, no, not the Nurse Fuggas who works here now,” Lupton replied. “Her younger sister, Lucia. Prettiest thing you ever saw. Died before the war ended. Don’t know that Charles ever got over that, really….”

There was a quiet at the table. Both Lilly and Gina opened their mouths to speak, but Lupton went on in a lighter tone.

“Myself, I only saw action twice. Lost my horse to shelling both times. Then our regiment was ordered off to sunny Applebrooke to amuse the local milkmaids and put on parades to buoy public morale. Meanwhile, our infantry—” Lupton cut himself off as he looked to Archie and then Nimble. “Well, I don’t have to tell either of you, do I?”

Archie shook his head.

“Cavalry wouldn’t have fared well at Sollum, in any case.” Nimble took another card. Queen of hearts, if Archie’s count was correct, which set him up with four of a kind. “Wouldn’t have been enough cover or feed for the horses,” Nimble went on. “Certainly no point in sacrificing men and animals in direct charges against those Nornian guns. The only way for it was to make them come up after us and then knock them back down the hill. We just had to keep doing it until they had nothing left.”

“I suppose so.” Lupton swirled his brandy. “Still, I can’t help but feel like there should have been something more we could have done. Other than bother milkmaids.”

“I’m sure you amused parlor maids and goose girls, as well,” Lilly suggested. “You were certainly wiser to spend time entertaining them than wasting your pay for a clap from a Gold Street seamstress, I’d say.”

Archie smiled at her play of words, Nimble inclined his head as if awarding the woman a point on some invisible scoreboard, and Lupton laughed. They all turned their attention back to the cards. Archie won the hand, and Nimble gazed at him as if pondering whether he wanted to make the next round a challenge.

Then Charles returned. He appeared more agitated than before and more intent that they should all depart for a different club. Maybe slum it at the Crone’s Crib. Archie had no intention of padding along to whatever dark corner Silas had prepared for him, and he was also past tired of the Dee Club.

“Kind as your offer is, Charles, I’m afraid I must decline. My bed calls with her siren song.”

“I ought to be on my way, as well.” Nimble, too, stood and added in a stage whisper, “I’m hoping to prevail upon the most generous Viscount Fallmont to offer me a jaunt in his carriage. Certainly his four-in-hand offers a far more handsome conveyance than my own two-on-foot.”

Even Charles smiled at Nimble’s turn of phrase, though it was a tired smile.

“If he won’t give you a ride, Mr. Hobbs,” Gina said with a wink, “I’m sure there’s one or two others here who will.”

Archie caught her eye, recognized the friendliness in her expression, and didn’t bother to pretend to take offense. Charles, on the other hand, seemed disturbed and spent nearly a minute offering to lend Nimble use of his carriage and, failing that, the comfort of his personal rooms at the club.

“I won’t be staying, so you could certainly sleep there for the night….”

Even Lupton—inebriated as he must have been after so much brandy—gave Charles a quizzical look. Nimble simply smiled and repeated that he was flattered but wouldn’t want to take advantage.

Archie put an end to it by gathering his winnings and starting for the door. “Coming, Mr. Hobbs?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Right behind you, my lord,” Nimble replied. “Lead on!”

Outside the club it was dark but not too quiet. The river roared and ships’ bells sounded. Bats chased insects around distant streetlamps, and black clouds of coal smoke billowed from a multitude of industrious chimneys.

Archie nearly took the first loud crack he heard for a machine misfiring in one of the waterfront factories. But the whistling force that ripped his tall hat from his head was too familiar for him to mistake it for anything but a gunshot. He dove to the ground, taking cover beneath a cherry tree. The second bullet splintered the branch just above him. Pale petals fluttered in the air. A third report tore through the night, and Nimble’s weight fell across him. A wet heat dribbled down the side of Archie’s neck, and the sharp citric tang of Prodigal blood seemed to fill his lungs.

Nimble had been shot.

Rage surged through Archie, and he struggled to stand and charge back into the Dee Club. He was going to beat the life out of the bastard who’d harmed Nimble. He’d gut the fucker.

Nimble jerked him back down and lay over him like a steel beam pinning him against the damp grass. “Stay down, damn it,” Nimble hissed.

Archie did as ordered, out of reflex more than reason.

They both lay still, listening. A cacophony of alarmed voices rose from the club. Archie felt certain he heard someone slam a window shut. Had the assassin slipped outside to hunt them on foot? He strained to hear the whisper of steps coming across the grass.

A ship’s horn sounded. Archie freed one hand enough to wipe the rivulet of Nimble’s blood from his neck. He could feel Nimble’s heart beating as fast as his own, but he didn’t shift a muscle, and Archie couldn’t make out his face in the dark.

“How badly are you hit, can you tell?” Archie asked in a whisper.

“A scrape. My lovely tailcoat is likely ruined, though. You?”

“Lost my hat. Still have my head.”

Again, voices rose loudly enough to carry through the thick walls of the Dee Club. More windows groaned open, though this time the figures who leaned out held lamps before them and seemed to be searching for anyone moving across the grounds.

“Half that rabbit warren is up and looking for our sharpshooter now,” Nimble murmured. He lifted himself from off Archie. “The Inquisition will be on their way soon enough.”

Inquisitors would treat a man like Nimble as a menace and a miscreant even when he was the one bleeding from a bullet wound. Archie wasn’t so naive as to imagine otherwise. As much as he wanted to return to the Dee Club and hunt down the coward who’d fired on them, he knew Nimble’s safety took priority. They could not afford to stay here. Still, he felt a powerful urge to storm back into the Dee Club and pound the life from his uncle with his own fists, all the more so because it was Nimble whom he’d injured. And in a dim corner of his heart, Archie knew it was his fault. The shots must have been intended for him.

The doors of the club swung open. A butler and several sturdy footmen held up phosphorous green storm lanterns and peered out. Then Charles shoved them aside and strode to the stairs. He stilled, staring into the dark with a haunted expression. An instant later Lupton followed him and called, “Archibald? Mr. Hobbs? Gentlemen, are you injured?”

“Not a bit!” Nimble shouted back. Neither he nor Archie made any move to step into the light. In fact, they both crept deeper into the shadows of the cherry trees. “We heard quite the racket in there. Whatever was the matter?” Nimble inquired, and it reminded Archie of the way he had used to shout jokes across to the Nornian infantry at night.

“It seems…. Well, I’m told someone thought it would be jolly fun to shoot at passing bats from one of the windows,” Lupton replied. He peered intently around him. “You’re certain you’re both all right? Archibald? You weren’t hurt, were you?”

“We’re fine.” Archie forced a cheer he couldn’t possibly feel into his voice.

He didn’t think he was mistaken when he read relief on both Charles’s and Lupton’s faces. But that didn’t undo the fact that Charles had played some part in arranging this ambush; it only meant that he would have been a little sorry if it had succeeded. But he was clearly not overjoyed that it had failed either.

“Now, gentlemen, I and the local bats bid you a very good night,” Archie called as he snatched up his battered silk hat.

Chapter Six: Fever Ship

“JUST CALM down,” Nimble said.

Archie thought it was the fifth time in the last hour. He paced the confines of the clean little room of the Briar Hotel, still too agitated to take the chair Nimble had offered. Instead he glowered at the blue pinstriped wallpaper and then stole another glance to the bed.

Nimble stretched out on the duvet, stripped to his flimsy undergarments and holding Archie’s dove gray hat in his right hand. Silk bandages, which Archie had ripped from two clean dress shirts, swathed his left shoulder and his chest. His bloodstained coat, waistcoat, and shirt lay in a heap alongside the wet washcloths Archie had used to clean the long, shallow wound, then staunch the flow of all that hot scarlet blood. A powerful citric tang still scented the air.

Archie looked away from the stained masses of cloth. He’d witnessed far worse and endured far worse, but the fact that it was Nimble’s blood drying to sour brown stains somehow shook him beyond reason.

“The shots came from a very steep angle. Possibly the roof….” Nimble studied the hole torn through the brim of Archie’s hat. “Or the third floor, maybe?”

Archie stilled. For the first time, he noticed that several petals still clung to the black curls of Nimble’s hair. They lent him the look of one of those paintings of some half-dressed, carefree demigod lounging in a woodland meadow.

“The third floor is Agatha Wedmoor’s private rooms and salon,” Archie said.

“Your girl’s a good shot if it was her,” Nimble responded.

“We both know it was Silas.” Archie returned to pacing. Something had to be done about his uncle. Something more immediate than watching him slowly lose all his possessions and power. Archie should have damn well just shot him years ago when he’d first sauntered up to Archibald’s casket at the funeral service.

“It might have been done on his orders, but he couldn’t have come so near his mark, shooting in the dark. Unless he’s got Prodigal eyes, he’d never have been able to see you or me.”

“Neither would Agatha Wedmoor,” Archie replied offhand. “Though my uncle definitely has a hold over her and her brother. I’m pretty certain that he’s blackmailing them using that girl Phebe. It would ruin Agatha if it was disclosed that she’d had an illegitimate daughter by a Prodigal lover.”

“Of that I have no doubt. What I’m not convinced of is that we should assume those shots in the dark were your uncle’s doing. Or even at his behest. There were plenty of other people in that club.”

“I don’t think I could’ve made another enemy at the club so quickly,” Archie objected.

“Not you, my bantling. Me,” Nimble responded, and again he ran his thumb over the brim of Archie’s silk hat. “I’d been poking around the perimeter of the Dee Club’s activities for a good nine months before Thom came to me. And I just spent the last ten days slapping a veritable hornet’s nest, asking directly after people who someone in that club wants gone and forgotten.”

“Yes, but to shoot….” Archie considered Nimble’s suggestion and reasoning. Someone who’d already committed a dozen murders wasn’t likely to shy away from one or two more.

The relief he felt at the thought that he’d not brought this down on Nimble dissipated with the realization that someone completely unknown to them could be plotting Nimble’s death right now.

“You really believe they were firing at you?” Archie asked.

“I’m not certain one way or the other.” Nimble tossed Archie’s hat to the foot of the bed. “But it strikes me as telling that this didn’t happen until I showed my face. You came and went from the club for a full week without provoking as much as a warning shot, yeah?”

“Well, Silas did try to give me the heave that once.”

“On the sly, sure. But he’s not exactly bold. And that was bold as balls, opening fire in a building with a good hundred witnesses wandering all around.”

“True.” Archie’s gaze again fell on Nimble’s beautiful, ruined coat. “But I don’t think he realized until now how completely I’ve cornered his assets. He’s got to be desperate.”

“No doubt about that.” Nimble frowned. “If I’d known that he was a member, I wouldn’t have asked you to get me into the Dee Club. I’m sorry for putting you there.”

“Don’t be, old boot. It’s none of it your fault.” Archie stilled beside the chair. He was exhausted but didn’t feel like sitting. “I’m actually glad to be doing something for you. Relieved to have a purpose in my life that isn’t just propping up a facade of Archibald.”

“Well, if you truly wish to do me a favor, come lay with me and keep me warm, yeah?” Nimble extended his empty right hand. Archie went to him, took his hand, and carefully lay down at Nimble’s side. Nimble sighed and closed his eyes. Archie felt the tight cords of Nimble’s body relax against him. He wasn’t asleep—Archie knew as much from the many other nights he’d lain with Nimble. He was thinking and listening.

Subdued noises of the city night drifted around them. A few drunks, not too far away, sang about distant islands, dangerous waters, and wanton mermaids. Their voices faded, and Archie guessed they were stumbling home together.

Archie gazed at Nimble’s profile and felt foolish that a face he’d seen countless times could still hold him enrapt. There were more handsome men in the world, even ones Archie had bedded. But simply lying beside any one of them never brought him this feeling of happiness and fascination. Of course none of them ever owned his soul either, Archie reminded himself.

“You have cherry blossoms in your hair,” Archie said.

Nimble smiled and cracked his eyes open. “So do you,” he replied. “They’re rather fetching. You really should wear more color.” But his attention wasn’t focused on Archie. He studied the ceiling above them. White plaster rosettes dotted a robin’s-egg blue expanse like clouds filling an afternoon sky. Archie remembered the skylight in the library at the Dee Club. That must have cost a fortune.

“I bet that nurse Fuggas can see well enough in the dark,” Nimble said. “You mentioned that she was three years in the war, so it’s not too hard to imagine her learning to handle a pistol as well as a scalpel.”

“It does beg the question of why she’d take the chance, though,” Archie added.

“That it does.”

Archie pondered what little he knew of the nurse, Pugg, and that mysterious sister who’d died. He took a moment to tell Nimble what he’d discovered of the connection between Nurse Fuggas and Pugg. While they both found it all suspicious, the information didn’t lead them to any new conclusions. Archie found himself considering the accusation Thom had made.

“Any truth to Thom’s idea of illicit potions brewed from Prodigal blood?” Archie asked. It seemed a far reach.

“Not in that quarter. The Butcher Street Crone has the business pretty well sewn up,” Nimble answered without any sign of alarm. “They’re mostly rat blood and chicken bits. Occasionally someone who crosses the Crone ends up bottled, but not too often.”

“Remind me not to cross her, then.”

“You and me too.”

A quiet spread between them. Archie lightly rested his hand on Nimble’s abdomen. His skin felt hot, but his gaze remained focused above them. Archie wondered just how devastating it had to feel to have marched under open blue skies, only to be returned to the dank, dripping caverns of Hells Below.

“If you could do whatever you pleased, go wherever you wanted, what would you do?” Archie asked.

Nimble looked to him and held his gaze for a few moments, but then he shook his head and gave a dry laugh. “That’s too big a question for me to even think on, Archie.” Nimble sighed heavily. “No Prodigal can afford to dream like that. It would just break our hearts, because in the end, we ain’t going anywhere and we don’t have no choices, do we?”

“The painter Sykes got out of the city,” Archie replied. “There have to have been others.”

“Sure. The pets of noblemen, but that’s not freedom. It’s just peddling your ass for a bigger cage.”

“I have a hard time imagining old Lord Foster going in for any ass, much less the aged Prodigal variety that Sykes might offer.”

Nimble laughed at the thought as well. Not only were both men silver-haired ancients, but Foster had famously served as an upright captain in the Inquisition. His support of Prodigal equality obviously sprang from devout humanitarianism.

“All right, it’s not always literally whoring, but you know what I mean. If a Proddie’s right to come or go depends on keeping some toff placated, then that ain’t freedom.” Nimble scowled. “You always gotta watch where you step, mind what you say, and never forget your place.”

He was correct. Archie had seen as much, living in the city. He’d experienced it as a serving boy and a soldier.

“I’m sorry,” Archie said. The words felt worthless.

“Not your doing, is it?” Nimble replied.

Archie sighed and wished he hadn’t asked. It hadn’t been his intention to irritate Nimble, much less remind him of the injustices he knew too well. He’d just wondered if Nimble possessed answers he didn’t. Archie had no idea what he would do if ever his life were truly his own. What would there be left of him after he’d destroyed Silas and avenged Archibald? Stripped of his anger and obligation, who would he even be?

Who was he now, other than the man who impersonated Archibald?

The night seemed to close around them. The bedside lamp flickered low.

Nimble squeezed his hand and shifted very slowly so that his head rested against Archie’s. He smelled of blood, smoke, and flowers.

It had been a damnably long day. Who knew what tomorrow would bring. Archie closed his eyes. For a few moments, he thought of nothing as he drifted toward sleep.

“That account you put in my name,” Nimble murmured. “There’s too much money in there. No one would believe I came by it honestly.”

“And yet, there it is, legal as the Queen’s wedding.” Archie had made very certain of that, because that account was only one of many that would assure that no matter what happened to Archie, Silas would not see a penny of profit. “If you ever need anything, I want it to be there for you, old boot.”

Nimble drew a breath as if preparing to offer up an argument, but then he simply sighed and relaxed. Again a long quiet stretched between them. Nimble’s breathing turned slow and deep. Then he said, “Maybe I’ll pick up a new blue tailcoat.”

“Two if you wish.” Archie nodded.

“Or I’ll buy us a gold dust ship, and we can sail to the wild, red-wind islands like in those adventure novels.” Nimble’s voice was soft.

“You want to sail the ocean?” Archie couldn’t help his incredulity. Nimble wouldn’t last more than a minute in the water. Not even salt water would be dense enough to keep his heavy bones afloat. For just an instant, Archie remembered struggling against the intense weight as he’d dragged Nimble’s bleeding body from ice-cold waters.

“Sure. So long as you’re there to pull me up from the waves.” Nimble laughed softly. “We could set up shop as pearl divers. Me, sinking to the bottom—you, hauling me out with a winch.”

Nimble sounded delirious now, and Archie suspected he’d be asleep in a few minutes. He snuffed the lamp flame. Then he waited as Nimble’s breathing deepened into the rhythm of slumber. At last, in the dark, Archie pressed a kiss to Nimble’s cheek. He started to rise slowly, so as not to jostle Nimble. Hot fingers clenched around his hand.

“Don’t leave me, Archie.” Nimble sounded so strained that Archie knew at once he was running a fever.

“I’m still here, old boot.” Archie leaned back over him and pressed his free hand against Nimble’s brow. He felt warm but not dangerously hot.

“It’s not that I don’t…. I do care, my bantling. I do… but I just can’t go on like this.”

“I know.” Archie was glad for the dark then. He wouldn’t have wanted Nimble to see the hope or hurt in his face.

“If we’re ever going to make something real, something true between us, then it’s got to be on an even standing. It’s got to be as equals….”

It half broke Archie’s heart hearing those words, but not because he didn’t believe Nimble. Love—even one as hopeless and unrequited as Archie’s—required more than lust and shared secrets. It demanded respect and equality, otherwise it was nothing more than usury dressed up with pet names and bound by the dependency of one upon the power of another.

But Archie had always imagined himself and Nimble as equals, regardless of their races or ranks. If that wasn’t how Nimble pictured them, then what could Archie do? The enormity of the social divide between them spread like a chasm of inequity splitting through law and culture at every level. Archie could fight it in the Lords’ court, he could resist it in his own life, but he couldn’t drive injustice from the world. More than that, he couldn’t make Nimble feel something that he didn’t feel—that was beyond his power and outside his rights.

“I know,” Archie repeated quietly. He felt certain that Nimble had fallen asleep again.

He remained at Nimble’s side for another half hour. When Nimble’s fever didn’t relent, Archie changed into his tramping clothes, hired a handsome cab, and raced to Hells Bellow. There he hunted down one of the few physicians who specialized in treating Prodigals and convinced the old fellow to accompany him back to Nimble through the assiduous application of gold coins.

Archie remained at Nimble’s side while the spindly physician stitched Nimble’s wound and lectured him on the subject of veterans practicing battlefield medicine when they were living in a peaceable city. Then the old doctor instructed Archie in mixing the proper dosage of fever powder, changing bandages, and getting some sleep himself. As dawn light crept through the window shutters, the physician took his leave, his mood much lightened after receiving another generous payment and thanks for his discretion and his discourse.

Nimble slept and his fever receded. Twice he woke, drank his medicine, and chatted whimsically with Archie about the ventures they would undertake after they’d bought their ship and sailed to foreign lands. But within minutes of each conversation, he drifted back to sleep again. Archie stretched out in a chair at the bedside and practiced drawing and dealing cards.

In the early afternoon, just after Archie had sent for a change of clothes, Nimble bolted upright in the bed. His yellow eyes were wide, and his curly hair stood up around his face as if startled.

“A boat, of course!” Nimble cried out. “Satan’s fat ass, why didn’t I think of it sooner!”

Archie fully expected another flight of fancy wherein he played handsome card sharp to Nimble’s riverboat captain, but this time Nimble’s expression was intent and focused. Excitement showed in his face, not languid fever.

“Nine months, I’ve been looking at this from the wrong angle. Trying to work out who wants them gone. Who benefits from their deaths? I should have realized that they wanted themselves gone. That’s the heart of it.” Nimble met Archie’s curious gaze and went on. “Why would the missing Prodigals pack up everything they owned if they didn’t believe they were going somewhere? Escaping their lives, yeah? And what would appeal more than being smuggled out of the city—maybe out of the country altogether?”

Archie absorbed the idea, matching it to the history of the building that housed the Dee Club. Direct access to the river and all those ships moored nearby. It wasn’t hard to picture a little rowboat quietly making the journey between the dock beneath the club out to some ship under the cover of night. It did make sense.

“But are they actually being transported to other lands or….” Archie didn’t have to go on. Nimble’s expression assured him that he understood. It would be much easier to accept payments from desperate Prodigals and then disappear them into the river’s depths than it would be to actually organize and secure their passages to new homes.

“The whole venture is set up around the fights, I reckon.” Nimble sounded like he was thinking aloud now. “That’s the one activity that doesn’t fit in at all with the rest of the club. And scheduling them for Sunday nights would be smart.”

“Because very few souls work the docks or in the warehouses on Sundays. Particularly not in the evening,” Archie reasoned, and Nimble offered him an approving nod.

“The fights are also the only time when no one at the club would want to know why a Prodigal hasn’t come around again. They’d think they knew. They aren’t going to question one other, and if an Inquisitor shows up, he’s up against a wall of gentlemen who are all invested in protecting their reputations and standings. Not a damned one of them will admit to ever having seen the missing Prodigal. Certainly not a one of them will turn to the Inquisition.”

“They’d have to confess to their own involvement to do so.” Archie remembered his own feeling of guilt for simply having witnessed the fights. “There are parts of those fights that aren’t just sickening, they’re definitely illegal.”

“Exactly. You want to ensure someone’s silence? Make them think they’re implicated in something illegal, shameful, and gruesome,” Nimble said.

“Like setting rabid dogs on hapless, half-dressed women?” Then Archie realized the full extent of the deception. “Only they’re not rabid dogs…. They’re Mr. Pugg’s trained hounds, I’d guess.”

“Righto, my bantling! Stage blood, screams.”

“And an audience that’s roaring drunk. Maybe drugged as well.” Archie recalled that strange drink he’d been presented, compliments of the club. He wondered suddenly how much of the violence and horror of what he’d witnessed had been genuine and how much had been conjured from his own nightmares. “They start with genuine prizefighters and then slip in a piece of theater….”

“Exactly. Just like a magic trick. You fire the real gun to demonstrate the danger and then switch it out for the fake. It’s illusion. And our lad Pugg isn’t just an animal trainer,” Nimble went on, looking like he was sighting an enemy down the barrel of his rifle. “He’s apprenticed to the finest stage magician in this damn country. He’s definitely in on it.”

“Nurse Fuggas must be as well, since she has to pretend to treat the injuries,” Archie commented, and again Nimble gave him that look of pleased approval. “Charles doesn’t stay on Sundays, but Agatha does….”

“At least one of them is overseeing the entire show,” Nimble agreed.

“And then there’s my uncle.” Archie scowled just thinking of Silas. It wasn’t as if his uncle would be above such an enterprise. Although it seemed like a more complex endeavor than he would normally bother to undertake. Archie supposed he couldn’t know the actual extent of his uncle’s various criminal inclinations. Perhaps exploiting the most desperate of Prodigals served as a kind of amusement for him.

“Silas is a tough one to pin down in all of this.” Nimble stretched and winced as he lifted his left arm. He glanced at the stitches sewn across his shoulder and down his chest as if he’d somehow forgotten that he’d been shot. Mottled bruises discolored Nimble’s skin. More would show as the days passed. Anxiety fluttered through Archie; this matter needed to end before any further harm befell Nimble.

“I’ll go to the Inquisition and report the whole thing,” Archie offered.

“And get your girl, Agatha, locked up?” Nimble’s tone was teasing, but then his expression turned serious. He shook his head, and a single pink cherry blossom petal drifted from his black hair. “First we have to know who’s truly running the enterprise and whether they’re actually ferrying Proddies to better lives.”

“Chances aren’t good,” Archie reminded him.

“No,” Nimble admitted. “But I have to be certain. I won’t shut down something that could be the only means of escape for someone like Nancy Beelze. I’ve got to be sure.”

Archie knew where that line of reasoning led, and he scowled. The only way to know was to become more involved.

“You were shot the first time you went to the club. You can’t mean to return—”

“Technically I was shot leaving the club.” Nimble smiled, but his gaze remained hard. “And for all we know, that was a stray shot intended for you, not me. I recall that was your thinking last night.”

“And I recall that you presented a rather compelling refutation of my assumption.”

“Well, I am a persuasive cove, if I do say so myself.” Nimble grinned as he tossed back his blankets. He made it look very natural while still favoring his injured left side. “Just now I’m convinced that I need to go back to that club and get a closer look at the Sunday fights. It’s too soon for anyone to chance having another shot, so I can probably risk—”

“No! Absolutely not.” Archie jumped to his feet. His heart hammered in his chest, but his blood seemed to run cold. Alarm infused his words with a strident, commanding tone. “You can’t—”

“I’m not yours to order around, Archie!” Nimble snapped, and all pretense of amusement drained from his expression.

“This isn’t about orders. It’s common sense and you….” He took in Nimble’s hard, angry countenance. Nimble already resented their unequal social standing; issuing decrees would only put his back up and send him charging off on his own. Archie forced himself to step back and sit again. “Please. Don’t do this alone.”

For a moment Nimble said nothing. He simply stared back at Archie. Then his expression softened, and he pulled one of his sly smiles. “You fret too much, my bantling.” Nimble stood and went to the dresser. He opened it with his right hand while placing his left on his hip, imitating a casual pose almost believably as he studied the shirts hanging before him. “I’ve got friends and minions in more corners of this city than you would ever guess,” Nimble said. “It’s not me who’s most in danger in that club.”

“I can handle myself,” Archie assured him.

Nimble looked like he might argue, but then said, “It’s the Prodigal who’s been selected for the next secret boat ride who I’m most worried about. Sunday’s only three days away, and we have no way of knowing if it will be some desperate soul’s last day on this earth, do we?”

“No, we don’t,” Archie admitted. Some anonymous person couldn’t matter to Archie more than Nimble did, but as much as he wanted to keep Nimble out of the Dee Club, he recognized that it wasn’t his choice. This was literally Nimble’s business. The only option left to Archie was whether to join him or not. “So, what is it you’re planning, and what will you need from me?”

Chapter Seven: Deep Water

ARCHIE SPENT the next three days at the Dee Club, attempting to appear invested in poetry recitals and the most recent collection of lunar observations penned by Prodigal astronomers. He sauntered from room to room, exchanging pleasantries and measuring out the hidden doors and corridors that riddled the building. Now and then he played a few hands of cards. During the long hours between those activities, he searched the library and found a number of volumes on the subjects of Prodigal sorcery and conjuring. He took notes and later dispatched a footman from his townhouse to purchase the required supplies.

“Studying up on love potions,” he informed Neet when the young man came looking for him for advice on matching a rather bold waistcoat to a pair of loud gold trousers.

“It’s not so desperate as all that, is it?” Neet asked. He appeared genuinely distressed for Archie.

“I’m afraid that it might be hopeless,” Archie replied, and he offered the youth a rueful smile. “Particularly where these dodgy spells are concerned. I mean, if I was already in so intimate a position as to readily collect a cup of the lady’s sweat, I dare say I wouldn’t require the love spell that calls for it.”

Neet laughed and cheered up, which did Archie some good. Brooding over Nimble’s safety made for rather dour days, and separating from him each evening made for lonely, frustrated nights.

Later Lupton visited him and went out of his way to point out all the girls in the city who were far more pretty and friendly than Agatha Wedmoor. Archie didn’t laugh, but he had to hang his head to hide his brief smile.

Charles avoided him and the club in general, which Archie didn’t mind one bit.

He saw almost nothing of Nimble outside the short periods when they entered the club together and again when they decamped well after midnight. He knew Nimble spent his time with the members of the Prodigal theater troupe and had won Burns’s interest and some degree of the older man’s trust. Pugg was another matter.

“He’s suspicious of everyone,” Nimble had confided one late night as they bumped along in Archie’s carriage. “Don’t think he even trusts his own dogs.”

By Sunday Nimble won himself a position watching over the props that enlivened several of the Sunday night fights. While he observed the goings on backstage, Archie moved through the rowdy crowd of onlookers to slip out the back and watch boats come and go across the dark waters. None moored beneath the Dee Club that week.

Or the following Sunday.

Then Archie noticed Phebe’s absence from the club. Someone mentioned that the girl had fallen ill with a fever.

That Saturday Agatha Wedmoor accepted Silas’s marriage proposal in the club library, while her hollow-eyed brother looked on like he might vomit at any moment. Archie didn’t suppose he appeared any happier than Charles.

Neet and Lupton both offered to take Archie out for a few drinks afterward, and Archie thanked them but insisted that his pride demanded he put on a brave face and wish Agatha the very best, instead of slinking away with his tail between his legs. In truth, the agitation that they likely read in his expression and demeanor stemmed from both Phebe’s prolonged absence and Nimble’s announcement that he’d at last been invited to act as a fighter this Sunday.

“They could mean to do you real harm, old boot.” Archie hoped the tremor of emotion in his voice sounded like a result of the carriage bouncing over rough cobbles.

“And waste all the time we’ve put into choreographing the spectacle? Nah. I’ve seen enough of Pugg and Nurse Fuggas now to take the measure of them. They aren’t the sorts to resort to murder if they can help it.”

“Two weeks ago you speculated that it was Nurse Fuggas who shot you in the back,” Archie replied.

“I’m certain of it now.” Nimble sounded frustratingly amused. “She and her brother are both very good with those stage guns. I’m also convinced that if she’d wanted to, Nurse Fuggas could’ve taken the top of my head clean off.”

“And yet you’re going to take part in the fights?”

“Not a lot of other options left, frankly. I need to know exactly what’s happening. And I’m sure that they’re going to make their move this Sunday. It’ll be the girl—”

“Phebe?” Archie had been worrying over the same thing. Her supposed illness would be a clever way to threaten Agatha with the prospect of the child’s death and force Agatha into marriage. It also ensured that no one would wonder when—after the nuptials—Phebe never returned. Silas wasn’t the sort to feed and house anyone after they’d served his purpose.

“Exactly the one I meant,” Nimble replied. “But now ask yourself, is her absence an indication that Silas is threatening to drown her in the river tonight to force Agatha Wedmoor’s hand? Or has your girl Agatha agreed to the engagement to keep him from realizing that she’s about to have the child ferried out of his reach?”

“Is that possible?” Archie asked in return. Could Agatha and Nurse Fuggas have outmaneuvered Silas? If so, Agatha would have to get Phebe away before Silas realized he’d been duped. “It would all depend upon how much my uncle knows about the other missing Prodigals. Does he have a hand in their disappearances, or does he think that the only secret in the Dee Club is an illegitimate child?”

“Yeah, that does seem to be what it all comes down to,” Nimble said quietly. “Now you see why I’ve got to be there tomorrow?”

Archie did, but he didn’t like it. He considered saying as much, but he already knew none of his objections would change Nimble’s mind.

“You’re a bloody hard man to care about, Nimble.” He didn’t mean to say it aloud. The silence that followed made him feel all the worse for his confession. As much of a declaration as it was.

One of the great tower clocks rang out the hour in low, long notes.

“It’ll all be done and over after tomorrow.” Nimble’s voice sounded so quiet that Archie wasn’t sure those words were even meant for him. “Just a precious little time left to us.”

The gaslight glow of a streetlamp briefly cast golden tones across the interior of the carriage. Archie realized Nimble leaned in closer to him than he’d expected. He gazed at Archie with that look of longing that sent a rush through Archie’s body. Neither of them were drunk nor had three months passed, and yet Nimble stretched so his leg brushed against Archie’s thigh. He reached out with his right hand, and Archie clasped his fingers against his own.

“With the road this rutted, I don’t suppose too many will notice if the carriage rocks a bit, do you?” Nimble’s smile looked a little wicked. Then darkness closed in around the carriage again.

“I don’t think so, no.” Archie managed to get the words out. A moment later his breath caught in his throat as Nimble opened the front of his silk trousers and gave Archie’s jutting prick a hungry kiss.

NOT SINCE the war had Archie felt such turmoil churning through him. A good portion of his agitation stemmed from that jostling, joyous, but all-too-brief carriage ride. Nimble’s attention had filled him with such hope but also left him feeling undone and far too alone. His disquiet only mounted the next morning when he discovered Nimble had already left for the Dee Club, hours before him.

All afternoon he ranged through the club, drinking tea as if he enjoyed the stuff and taking pains not to finger any of the odd objects hidden away in the cheat’s pockets sewn into his tasteful steel gray coat.

He attempted to look in on Nimble in the theater, he didn’t manage more than a quick nod before Burns spirited Nimble away behind some infernal black curtain. On Archie’s second try a half hour later Lilly and Gina seemed to materialize from a display of giant peacock fans to swath Archie in cheery, playful flirtation, all the while escorting him out of the theater.

“It’s not that we wouldn’t love to see more of you, Lord Fallmont.” Lilly brushed her gloved hand over his forearm. “But it will ruin the fun if you see how all our tricks are turned backstage.”

“I was only hoping to have a few words in the wings with Mr. Hobbs.” Archie cast her an entreating look, and Lilly seemed to consider.

“Oh, but you’re far too distracting, Lord Fallmont.” Gina offered the absurd flattery with a knowing wink. “If a swell as fine as you stands in the wings during rehearsal, we’ll all miss our cues and trip over one another. We have to send you away if only to save ourselves from shame and broken ankles.”

Archie laughed and didn’t bother to argue further. If Nimble wanted to talk to him, then he could come and find him. If Nimble wanted to avoid him after last night’s carriage ride, well, then that too was his right.

Archie withdrew to the library out of habit more than any purpose. Sunlight and shadows played through the skylight overhead as he paced the upper floor. One beam briefly lit the framed etchings hanging in a reading alcove. Not etchings, Archie realized, but building plans. Two for ships and the other four depicting floors of a building. Having recently sketched the Dee Club, Archie recognized the plans right away. He took the empty seat and began studying the layouts very closely. On the floor below, several scholarly-looking types came and went, natural and Prodigal both, discussing subjects from the laws of gravity to biblical prophecy.

Sunlight dimmed and the skylight overhead took on a pale twilight blue. Archie absently noted the regular denizens of the library fleeing the club as the noise of rowdy voices drifted from other rooms. The Sunday night regulars were arriving and with them their fighters.

A shadow fell across Archie. He glanced up to see Agatha Wedmoor, dressed in a green damask gown and clenching her pale hands together as if she feared what her fingers might get up to if left unrestrained.

“Lady Umberry, what a delight to see you,” Archie said.

“You do realize that I am never going to marry you,” Agatha stated as if Archie had asserted otherwise. “There is absolutely no point in you remaining here.”

“Well, at least you do me the kindness of a gentle rebuff.” Archie glanced past her to see the familiar figure of Nurse Fuggas standing near a collection of botanical volumes. Nate Smith presented a much more unexpected and unpleasant addition to the few people present to witness his exchange with Agatha. He glowered at Archie from the first floor, then started up the circular staircase to the second floor.

Glancing back to Agatha, Archie saw strain, like cracks feathering porcelain, marring her normally placid face.

“How did my uncle ever obtain your father’s approval?” Archie asked very quietly. If nothing else, the sheer number of debt collectors hounding Silas should have given her family pause.

“It’s not any of your business, but if you must know, my father had refused the elder Lord Granville on several occasions. A week ago, however… Papa suffered a hunting accident. A stray shot from—” Agatha’s voice caught, and for an instant, Archie feared she might cry. Instead she lifted her chin and drew in a slow breath. “Charles has been in charge of matters since news reached us.”

“I see.” Archie wondered if the stout, sporty man he’d seen with Silas weeks past had played a role in the accident. Or perhaps that had been left to Mike and Nate. “I am sorry. I had no idea.”

“Charles only learned of papa’s death late this Friday,” Agatha replied in a dull, automatic tone. “I was informed yesterday.”

Her manner and expression made Archie wonder if Charles had compelled her to accept Silas’s proposal.

“I am most sorry, Lady Umberry,” Archie said again.

“We all are,” Agatha replied, but then she pinned Archie with an intent stare. “But since my brother has given his approval for my marriage, you must see that there is absolutely no reason for you to remain in this place. It will only cause me embarrassment and hurt you to do so. If I could, I would not see you come to harm, sir.”

Archie couldn’t fail to take her meaning. By removing Agatha’s father, Silas had undermined the one impediment to seizing control over both Charles and Agatha, and thus the Dee Club as well. Very soon none of them would be safe within the confines of the insolated, isolated building. Despite her poise and steady gaze, Agatha Wedmoor was terrified, Archie realized. Looking again to Nurse Fuggas, he noted the pallor of her complexion and the shadows beneath her eyes. She turned as Nate Smith reached the top of the stairs and blocked his advance, making cheery observations about the summer weather.

“You must go, Archibald,” Agatha repeated. Archie guessed it wasn’t only his well-being that depended upon his departure.

“Of course, I’ll leave, if you insist,” Archie replied. “Though, won’t you allow me the smallest parting favor?”

“A kiss, I suppose?” Agatha actually looked as if she might be sick.

“Lord no!” Archie raised his hand in reflex to her nauseated expression. Then he forced a smile. “It would break my heart to come so near paradise, knowing that I can never attain it. No, I rather thought I might beg one of these pretty pictures from you.” Archie tapped one of the framed floor plans.

Agatha studied the layout, then glanced at Archie. The slightest furrow wrinkled her brow, and then she gave him a very odd look as if recognizing him for the first time.

“Your Mr. Hobbs shares your interest in unique architecture,” Agatha commented quietly.

“Well, it is all rather fascinating.” Her mention of Nimble sent a shot of alarm through Archie. He forced himself to remain seated and smiling. “I do hope he hasn’t gotten too caught up in his curiosity. I will have to have a word with him before I pack up. I’d never forgive myself if I left him in a tight spot. The foundation of these older structures can be so surprisingly unreliable. If you take my meaning.”

“Yes…. They’re particularly dangerous where new construction has been built over old faults,” Agatha replied, then spoke more brightly. “Do let me see that silly picture, and I’ll show you.”

Archie stood and lifted the picture from the wall and placed it on the small reading table beside him. A maze of strong rooms and secret corridors cut through the outlines of mundane rooms throughout the building. Strange to see the plans for deception spread out in such clean mechanical lines. And more spread out beyond the visible structure of the club.

Agatha traced her finger over a faint series of scratches that Archie had taken for details of the rocky bank. But now he realized she followed a crooked, half-sunken corridor running from the river’s edge, beneath the building, and around to the private dock. The jagged course looked natural, not man-made—perhaps a narrow inlet that had been carved out over hundreds of years past and then exploited as smuggler’s cavern. A good place to stow a rowboat out of sight, though no doubt most of the narrow space flooded every time the tide came rushing up the White River.

Agatha tapped her finger once, and Archie took in the small square at the end of the meandering path. A store room, or a prison?

“Take the picture if you like.” Agatha lifted her hand from the frame. “But you had best go soon. It is already growing late, and your way may be hard to find in the dark.”

“Thank you, Lady Umberry. I will not forget your kindness.”

Archie waited until she, Nurse Fuggas, and Nate Smith had left the library. Then he tore the backing from the frame, took the plan, and hurried from the building. He left a single footman staring, aghast, after he commandeered a storm lamp from the man and bounded down to the marshy dark of the river’s edge.

“Perfect evening for collecting fireflies!” Archie called back over his shoulder.

The lamp’s green light chased away shadows as if they were shivering little snakes. Overhead, gulls screeched and winged across the sunset, returning to their roosts. Archie peered down at the dark stone and black water of the riverbank. Stands of tall reeds and outcroppings of rock disguised the actual outline of the bank, but Archie knew what he needed to find and approximately where it would lie.

Indeed, very near an old willow, he picked out the deep shadow of a fault running down the face of the bank. Water surged in and out the narrow mouth. Archie guessed that when the river was at its highest, only a foot of the opening would be visible above the water. Two large rocks blocked the view of it from the opposite bank and sheltered the opening from the full force of the river’s current.

Archie quickly rechecked the items hidden in his coat and rewrapped them in their oilcloth pouch to ensure they remained as dry as possible. Then he clambered down the rocky slope of the bank and tromped into the flooded cavern. Ice-cold water surged around his thighs and mud sucked at his expensive calfskin boots. He held the storm lantern high and fought through the surges of the water, racing deeper into the dark passage. Clusters of sharp barnacles jutted up from the rocks, and snails retreated into their glossy shells as his lamplight struck them.

The farther he penetrated, the more he encountered wooden supports peppered with colonies of black mussels. And the jagged faces of the stone walls and ceiling gave way to raggedly carved surfaces. Bats hurled themselves past him, brushing his hair and face with their hot, soft wings. The air stank of their droppings and of moldering wood. It seemed to him that he struggled up an incline, but the water continued to rise as he went. It reached his hips now. Waves jostled him against the rough walls and dragged at his cold feet as he trudged onward.

The water rose to his chest. His teeth chattered, and the tremors in his hands shook the lantern so the shadows surrounding him jumped and danced. Knowing the water would rise higher still, he pushed on, despite the numb lethargy that weighed down his legs like lead shot.

Lamplight glinted along the metal bars of a large grate, and Archie’s heart sank. He had to get past it before the floodwater reached Nimble. He prayed that the constant influx of water had rusted the damn thing enough for him to kick out a couple of bars and squeeze between the rest. As he slogged closer, he realized someone had already ripped the thing off its hinges. Now the grate fell aside with a shove, and Archie easily stumbled onward, paddling as much as walking through the rising water.

Then he heard a string of familiar growled obscenities. He turned a corner. Nimble looked as annoyed as a drenched cat when the green light fell across him. He spun on Archie with a murderous expression, then stopped short and stared.

“Archie?” He seemed caught between delight and disbelief. Then he pelted through the water to pull Archie to him in a hard embrace. Archie felt the warmth of his body radiating through his soaking clothes. “By God! How did you find me here?”

“Followed the map, old boot.” Archie returned his smile as the dread he’d felt seemed to melt away. He’d found Nimble and they would be all right so long as they were together—that certainty heartened him more powerfully than any faith. “You know the way out is behind us.”

“The water’s too deep for me.” Nimble scowled at his hands, and Archie realized they were bleeding. “I wasted too much time fighting with that bloody grate. By the time I got through it, the water was nearly up to my nipples. I had to turn back.”

“There’s higher ground the way you came?” Archie asked.

“A little higher, and a rotting jetty above that.”

“Then lead on. I’ve not come unprepared.”

They hurried together up the slight incline until they reached a small grotto, where the water lapped around Archie’s waist. Ghostly white crabs scuttled through the water at Archie’s feet. Something long and dark wriggled past the back of his leg and then shot away through the water after a crab.

The rickety jetty looked like it had been lashed together from wrecked boats, barnacle-encrusted planks, and ropes well past the point of being picked apart for oakum. The whole thing rose nearly two feet higher than Archie’s head and stretched some ten feet back to the far rocky wall. There, a solid iron door stood, banded with steel. Archie noted the surrounding rock walls, jetty, and the iron door all bore signs of exposure to floodwaters. Even standing on the jetty, he and Nimble might be in over their heads if the tide was strong.

The aged wooden beams of the jetty groaned as Nimble heaved himself from the water and clambered up them. Archie handed the lantern to Nimble, then climbed much more quietly to his side. The air smelled stale, but its stillness spared Archie from the chill of any breezes.

“How did you get here, of all places?” Archie asked.

Nimble dropped his gaze to his cut hands with a sheepish expression. “The nurse got the drop on me,” he said after a moment. “Asked if I could help her move some crates into the infirmary. Soon as I was loaded down and out of sight of anyone else, she spiked me in the ass with a hypodermic.”

Archie scowled. He’d assumed that Nurse Fuggas served Agatha, but he wasn’t sure how drugging Nimble helped anyone but Silas.

“I think she just wanted me out of the way. Meant to lock me up in one of those infirmary rooms to sleep the drugs off. But I guess she miscalculated just how much I weigh.” Nimble smiled like it was an amusing encounter, though Archie guessed it masked his embarrassment. “So there she was, straining and grunting, trying to roll me across the floor. And there’s me, floppin’ and moaning like a drunk whale. She ended up shoving me down some kind of chute. That spit me out behind that damned door, locked in like some kind of hapless damsel.”

“Hardly hapless, if that grate downstream is anything to judge by,” Archie assured him.

“Fat lot of good it did me, the way this water’s rising.” Nimble glowered down at the dark waves rising up the supports of the jetty. Then he looked to Archie and his expression lightened. “How did you ever find me here?”

“Agatha Wedmoor realized that I wasn’t going to clear out without you. So she hinted me in your direction.”

“Don’t suppose she was so kind as to slip you a key to Leviathan’s Gate over there?” Nimble jabbed his thumb in the direction of the massive door at the end of the jetty. Archie noticed a cluster of deep dents studding the surface.

No wonder Nimble’s hands were so bloodied. He’d obviously split a couple of his knuckles punching the iron.

“We might be able to make a raft from these boards.” Nimble nodded at the plank near his boot. Woodworm burrows pocked the pale timbers, like craters pitting the surface of the moon. “You didn’t happen to pack a jug of tar for waterproofing, did you, my bantling?” Nimble asked with a smile.

“I didn’t. But I hope what I have brought will stand us in better stead.” Archie reached into his jacket and drew out the oilcloth pouch. He revealed the contents and felt relieved to see the matchsticks and stubby scarlet candles had remained mostly dry.

He glanced at Nimble, who stared at the assortment as if caught between sorrow and horror. Archie’s heart sank. What could he possibly have forgotten? He’d brought everything Nimble had ever used to cast his spells, and added in extra that he’d gleaned from his recent reading.

He snatched up three small metal tins. “These are the holy oil, camphor oil, and mandrake dust. The other two are relic powder and sulfur,” Archie assured him. “Between those, the silver nails, the hellwire, and my soul, you should be able to work some conjury, shouldn’t you?”

Nimble seemed almost frozen. He didn’t lift his stare from the candles, matchsticks, and nickel tins. He clenched his bloody hands into fists and then slowly shook his head.

“What did I forget?” Archie asked. “Is it something wrong with my soul—”

“No. No, it’s nothing wrong with you. It’s me….” Nimble shook his bowed head. “I can’t work magic.”

“What’s happened?” Archie looked again to Nimble’s bloody hands. How badly had he hurt himself? Or was this an effect of the drugs he’d been injected with?

Nimble gave a dry laugh. “Nothing’s happened, my bantling. Except that I can’t keep lying to you.” Nimble looked up at him then. His yellow eyes were as bright as flames. “I’m not a conjurer. I never was. I’m a fraud.”

Archie couldn’t have understood Nimble correctly. He shook his head. “Your power lets me pass for Archibald. Your spells made you invincible against the Nornian cannons! I saw you charging through the smoke and fire…. You weren’t afraid of anything. Bullets hit you, horses kicked you, but you never fell. Never.”

Archie didn’t even possess the words to express how he and all the troops behind Nimble had felt the presence of his power. He hadn’t been a mortal boy like the rest of them, but their salvation. He’d been victory, embodied and laughing at the enemy lines.

Their undefeatable devil.

“That was bravado and luck.” Nimble closed his eyes. “And as for you passing for Archibald, well, that was just you believing that you could—”

“No. You conjured his discharge papers for me. Major Corbry shook my hand and addressed me as Lord Granville….” Archie couldn’t believe all of that had been mere chance, but at the same time, why would Nimble tell him this? He felt confused, almost sick. Was he having some kind of strange joke?

“When Archibald died, I took his tags and his ring to give to you.” Nimble spoke as slowly, exactly, as if breaking news of a beloved pet’s demise to a young child. “But then when you were wounded I realized that those snobs behind the hill wouldn’t admit common rabble into the surgical wards. Nobles came first. So I put Archibald’s tags and ring on you. And they saved your life.”

Archie hardly remembered anything of those fevered days, except that Nimble had always seemed to be at his bedside. He’d looked almost harrowed, but then, so had everyone.

“We’d lost so many at Sollum,” Nimble went on. “There was no one left to judge one Archie Granville from another. Captains Jersey and Walter dead. Lieutenant Hain blinded. Masson’s mind so bent that he wouldn’t say his own name. And Major Corbry hadn’t been able to tell the two of you apart from the start, so… it was already done before you even regained consciousness.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Archie stared at Nimble.

“I….” Nimble shook his head.

“Why?” Archie asked. “Why wouldn’t you tell me the truth?”

“I was going to—”

“When?” Archie demanded. “Because seven years is one hell of a delay!”

“I meant to tell you the first moment we had alone, but then you were so angry—”

“I scared you?” Archie rolled his eyes, because he knew damn well that cavalry charges and cannon balls didn’t actually scare Nimble.

“You terrified me.” Nimble’s words came out in a raw whisper. “You were so desperate to punish your uncle and avenge Archibald. And you were saying mad things, like you’d give anything, you’d sell your immortal soul. There are plenty of real conjurers who would have taken you up on that, Archie. It shook me to the core to imagine one of them laying a hand on you. But I couldn’t think how to stop you going to them except to take you up on the offer, myself.”

Archie couldn’t think of what to say in response to that. He knew for a fact that Nimble was right; he’d been incandescent with fury—not just because of Archibald’s death, but also because three years of agony, horror, and pain still burned within him. Yes, to quench that rage, he might have sold himself to the Butcher Street Crone, Bastard Jack, or anyone. Still, to lie to him for seven years!

“Why keep me coming back? Why not tell me the truth after I’d cooled down?”

Archie couldn’t remember ever seeing Nimble look ashamed of himself, but he did now. He hardly seemed able to meet Archie’s gaze. When he spoke, his voice was a faint whisper.

“I couldn’t bear losing you.” He closed his eyes and hung his head. “You were all set up to leave me and Hells Below behind forever. You were going to have a grand life as Lord Fallmont—and you damn well deserved that life, I knew that. I didn’t want to keep it from you, but… I couldn’t bear the thought of never being with you again. Never so much as seeing you smile at me, or hearing you tromp up my stairs in your ratty old boots.”

For a few moments, Archie simply sat there absorbing Nimble’s words. The storm lamp flickered, and absently Archie noted that the river waters had nearly reached the top of the jetty.

“I didn’t stay with you on Sollum Hill because I was strong or brave. Certainly not invincible. I was as terrified of dying as anyone else,” Nimble said. “But I’d fallen for you so hard, Archie. And even as young and stupid as I was then, I already knew that I wouldn’t want to go on living if it was without you.”

“So you invented that entire ceremony….”

Even in the greenish cast of the storm lantern, the flush that colored Nimble’s face showed. “What did I know about conjury?” Nimble replied. “Just what I’d read in penny blood novels and what I heard in dirty jokes. But I tried to make it nice for you….”

“Thanks for the consideration.” Archie couldn’t help the comment, though it was difficult to feel any real anger at Nimble for knowing how much he’d wanted to be sucked and fucked, or for giving him exactly what he longed for.

Archie glanced down at the small red candles and almost laughed. Who was he to smirk at the faithful for their belief in relics and prayers, when he’d actually believed some oil and a couple of candles would knock down a fortress door?

“I know that wasn’t fair to you, and I know I should have owned up to the truth. It’s not like I didn’t intend to every damn time I saw you, but then….” Nimble sighed. “I was like a damn addict swearing he’d give up his ophorium after just one last shot.”

“Except you did give me up this last time.” Archie didn’t feel any real rancor over that now. He was too stunned by the realization that all this time Nimble had cared for him—that this entire mess had stemmed from him caring.

“You had Silas on the ropes, and that would have completed our contract,” Nimble said. “I couldn’t let you think you’d lost your soul. So I figured if I could find a way to sell it back to you, maybe then…. Maybe if we were on equal ground, then somehow we could find a way to stay in touch.”

“You know you nearly broke my damn heart?” Archie said it lightly.

Nimble looked genuinely startled. “But you had all those others,” he objected. “Those two sculptors, that actress from the Blue Dove, the twin contortionists, that singer—”

It chagrined Archie a little, realizing that Nimble had been so aware of all the meaningless affairs in which Archie had indulged—all while he, himself, had been longing for Nimble’s company.

“And I’d trade every one of them for you, old boot,” Archie said.

“Yeah?” That sure quality returned to Nimble’s smile, and it filled Archie with delight.

“Yes,” Archie admitted. His sincerity embarrassed him, and he had to look away from Nimble’s all-too-knowing gaze. Archie gestured to the contents of the oilcloth. “Though if I was making any deal just now, it would be to have brought my pistol instead of all this worthless junk.”

“It might not all be worthless.” Nimble pointed to the silver nails and the coils of wire. “You ever made lock picks from bible nails?”

All at once Nimble’s words seemed to transform bits of trash into torsion wrenches and an assortment of picks and rakes perfect for turning the pins and tumblers of any number of locks. That was a kind of magic all of its own.

“I have not yet had the pleasure,” Archie admitted. “But I’m a quick study.”

“Oh, you’re that and more, my bantling,” Nimble replied. “So, let’s get to it, then.”

Chapter Eight: Decent People

THE LOCK on the iron door proved easy enough to pick. Though Nimble’s knuckles were so swollen that he’d had to turn his boot knife and the bible nails over to Archie. Once they were out, the dark corridor ahead of them loomed like a cavernous mouth. In the flickering green light the pale stonework reminded Archie of long rows of teeth. According to the floor plan, their only way out lay on the opposite end of the club’s private dock and then up through the infirmary to another flight of stairs that led to the arena level of the building.

“Or if there’s a boat at the dock, we might take that and row ashore.” Archie made the suggestion but didn’t feel good about it. His new awareness of Nimble’s mortality made him even more wary of taking him out into rough deep water.

“If there’s a boat, we take it,” Nimble said. “Either way, you have to go to the Inquisition and make a charge against the Dee Club.”

“But I thought—”

“If your uncle takes over the club, then we both know what he’ll do with it. He won’t hesitate to exploit desperate Proddies for all their cash and then drown them in the river.” Nimble shook his head. “We can’t let that happen. If you summon Inquisitors immediately, they’ll come, see the fights and shut the whole place down before Silas can take control of the club.”

There would be a scandal, but reputations weren’t as important as lives. Archie nodded.

“While you’re with the Inquisitors, I’ll send a runner to warn Pugg and Burns to clear their people out,” Nimble decided. “I don’t know that it’ll keep them all out of prison but it’s better than nothing.”

“If that’s the plan, then we’d better be on our way.” Archie considered the storm lamp and decided not to risk its light alerting anyone to their presence. He snuffed the flame and clamped his hand onto the back of Nimble’s damp coat. “Lead on.”

They walked in near silence for what seemed to Archie like miles of blackness. The smell of mildew and wood rot pervaded the air. Now and then Nimble whispered a warning concerning the uneven boards beneath their feet, or a low-hanging beam overhead. Archie could hear the river and ships’ bells as though they were only feet away from him.

Though slowly, the faint green glow of a distant storm lamp filtered in to the clammy corridor. Muted shouts and cheers added their noise to the constant slap and hiss of the river beating against wooden piles, boat hulls, and the rocky banks.

They were nearly under the club now, Archie realized.

As they followed the corridor around a bend, the air turned sharp and wet with cold spray from the river. A cool wind washed over Archie. Hardly a yard ahead of them, the corridor ended at a low black gate. A weathered wooden dock stood beyond that. The Dee Club jutted over the dock, and three storm lanterns flickered from the large wooden beams rising up from the water to support the building. Through the swaying shadows cast by the rocking lanterns, Archie picked out a wooden staircase at the far end of the dock. It led up into the club.

No boats were moored to the narrow dock, which meant they would have to take the stairs and navigate through the club to get back out onto the city streets. Archie released Nimble’s coat and touched the hilt of Nimble’s boot knife, which he’d tucked into his pocket.

Nimble went suddenly very still, and for an instant, Archie feared he’d frozen at the sight of so much water roiling against the narrow expanse of planks. But then Nimble flattened himself against the corridor wall and pulled Archie back with him. Voices sounded closer to them. They both crouched down, making what cover they could from the decorative wrought iron bars of the little gate.

Agatha Wedmoor descended the stairs with a shuttered signal lamp hanging from her right hand. Nurse Fuggas walked just behind her, and Nate Smith followed them. He didn’t bother to hide the pistol he aimed at their backs.

“There’s no point in me signaling to the boat if Phebe isn’t here to board it,” Agatha said.

“Ain’t no point in me keeping the both of you alive when Silas only needs the one of you, but here I am letting your nurse keep on breathing.” Nate lifted his pistol to the back of Nurse Fuggas’s head. Both women went rigidly still. Archie thought he saw tears gleam in Agatha’s eyes. Nurse Fuggas looked furious, but she didn’t move an inch.

Silence stretched several moments, and Nate grinned. “Now, see, that’s what I like.” Nate lowered the pistol. “Women who don’t mouth off when they know fuck all.”

Nimble rolled his shoulders, and Archie knew he was calculating his chances of reaching Nate before the man could open fire on Agatha or Nurse Fuggas. Archie placed his hand against Nimble’s side. They needed to wait for a better opening, hopefully one that wouldn’t put Nimble in danger of being knocked into the river with a single shove. Archie hefted the dark storm lantern in his hand. The thing weighed enough to knock a man’s head in, but there was still the trouble of Agatha and Nurse Fuggas standing between him and Nate.

The three walked closer in silence. Halfway down the narrow dock, they stopped and Agatha lifted the signal lamp. She flicked the shutter, exposing flashes of intense red limelight. Far down the river, a tiny red light blinked in response.

Agatha gave a reply, then lowered and shuttered the signal lamp. She and Nurse Fuggas stood like statues while Nate tapped his foot.

“Well?” Nate demanded after several moments. “What did he say?”

“She will be here within the hour,” Agatha replied. “The river’s rough tonight, so it might take a little longer to safely come alongside us.”

“All that in those few winks?” Nate eyed Agatha with suspicion, and she gazed back at him with utter disdain.

“Yes,” Agatha replied. “Brevity being the soul of wit, I suppose it would confound you.”

“You oughtn’t get too hoity-toity with me.” Nate made a show of flourishing the pistol again, this time in Agatha’s direction. She seemed almost pleased to have drawn Nate’s gun from Nurse Fuggas’s direction.

“Now, now, Nate. One mustn’t lose sight of the final prize.” Silas’s voice carried down the wooden stairs, but it was Mike Smith who first appeared. He pulled a miserable-looking Phebe along with his left hand while he gripped a pistol much like Nate’s in his right. To Archie’s surprise, Charles Wedmoor followed them, cradling the side of his face where an ugly bruise already darkened his right eye. His lower lip was split. The front of his shirt hung, torn open, and his black hair dangled around his face like a storm-tossed nest. His attention darted briefly to Agatha, but then he returned to staring at Phebe with an expression of utter anguish.

Silas descended last, looking composed and handsome. He’d bought himself a new cream and gold suit, and the buttons of his large cuffs matched the pearl-handled pistol that he gripped. Archie remembered the gun had belonged to his grandfather and tended to fire left of center.

“It’s a bloody parade down here tonight,” Nimble whispered.

When Silas reached the bottom of the stairs, he drew a large sheet of paper from his coat pocket and, handing his pistol over to Mike, produced one of the new fountain pens from his other pocket.

A terrible thought occurred to Archie. It wasn’t a parade that Silas was orchestrating here on the dock….

“It’s a wedding.” Archie hardly breathed the words, but Nimble nodded in response.

Knowing Silas, funerals would soon follow.

“So, I have an hour before I introduce myself to my new business partners,” Silas said lightly. “Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”

Nate eyed Phebe with a lewd grin, while Mike appeared more inclined to knock Charles around a bit more.

“I suppose now would be a fine time to legalize the union of our families.” Silas turned to Charles and held out the paper and pen. “As luck would have it, I’ve acquired a special license. And as my beloved’s guardian, I do hope you’d do the honor of signing your permission.”

Charles looked around himself as if seeking a hole to hide inside. He took a small step back but could retreat no farther without going over the dock and into the river. “I—I can’t… I need a surface to sign on…. Couldn’t we do this at a table like decent people?”

“Decent people?” Silas raised a pale brow. “Decent people don’t smuggle filthy Prodigals into godless Nornian territories, where they can conspire against our nation and our Queen. You aren’t decent. You are traitors! And you’re lucky that I am so moved by love as to spare you all from being justly hanged.”

Charles opened his mouth but said nothing, just held up the paper and the pen, obviously at a loss.

Silas turned his attention to Phebe, and the child flinched.

“Bend!” Silas commanded, and Phebe immediately bowed. “There! Sign using that.” He waved a hand at Phebe’s bent back. When Charles didn’t move, Silas reached out to Mike and was handed his pistol back. Silas leveled the gun at Phebe’s head. “If the thing isn’t to your liking, dear Charles, I will dispose of it immediately.”

“No!” Both Agatha and Nurse Fuggas cried out.

Nimble started forward, but Archie stilled him again. Silas wouldn’t kill the child until she’d served her purpose—Archie knew his uncle well enough to be certain of that. Only after the marriage license was signed by all parties could he afford to murder Phebe, Charles, or Agatha.

“He’ll come nearer to get Agatha’s signature. We move then,” Archie whispered.

Nimble simply nodded in response.

Charles rushed to Phebe and laid the wedding license across her thin back. His hands shook visibly as he signed his name. After he handed the paper and pen back to Silas, he remained at Phebe’s side.

“I’m sorry,” Charles murmured as Phebe straightened. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why, are those tears in your eyes, Charles?” Silas laughed. “I admit, I do feel rather moved by the beauty of it all myself.” Genuine pleasure seemed to light Silas’s face as he strode down the dock toward Agatha. Nate stepped out of his way.

Archie tensed. Beside him, Nimble flexed, warming the muscles of his legs. Silas proffered Agatha his fountain pen, and in turn, Agatha handed the signal lamp to Nurse Fuggas. Then without any warning, Agatha launched herself at Silas. She clutched his throat as a murderous shriek wrenched from her mouth. Nate stepped back a step in astonishment and nearly toppled off the dock.

There couldn’t have been a better moment to charge.

Archie bounded over the low gate and Nimble leapt after him.

Ahead of them, Nate regained his balance and swung his pistol toward Agatha’s head. Archie tore across the wooden planks, and Nimble charged behind him so fast and hard that his footfalls rocked the dock. But neither of them were close enough to stop Nate from firing his gun.

Nurse Fuggas swung the signal lamp into Nate’s side. He stumbled and fired wide. Then he spun back and slammed his gun across the side of the nurse’s face. She fell to the dock.

“Get off me, you mad hag!” Silas heaved Agatha against a wooden dock support. She hit with a loud crack, swayed, and then sank to the dock.

Silas lifted his pistol as if to shoot her but stilled in horror as he caught sight of Archie and Nimble. The pleasure drained from his expression.

“Kill them!” he shouted to Mike and Nate as he turned his own pistol on Archie. Nimble launched himself forward and the entire dock shook. Silas fired but the bullet ripped into the planks to Archie’s right.

“Where the hell—” Nate’s exclamation ended in a sickly, wet noise as Nimble plowed his fist into Nate’s chest with bone-crushing force.

Archie hurled his storm lantern into Silas’s gun hand. The pearl-handled pistol fell. Archie had no idea where. But without it, Silas bolted back. Agatha kicked out a foot and sent Silas sprawling. Then Archie pounced on him.

Out of the corner of his eye Archie saw Nimble charge Mike. Another gunshot sounded.

Cold dread seized Archie, but he didn’t turn his attention from Silas. The old man nearly slid a belt knife between Archie’s ribs. The blade slashed through Archie’s coat and scraped his skin like a shaving razor. Fortunately Archie had learned the same trick from Silas years before, and he practiced it through three years of warfare. He punched Nimble’s boot knife deep into Silas’s chest.

Silas jerked and swore as Archie bore down on the blade. Then Silas went still.

Archie wrenched his knife free of Silas’s dead heart and sprinted across the dock, desperate to reach Nimble. His pulse pounded wildly, and the sound of the single gunshot seemed to play again and again in his mind. He hardly noticed Charles hunched over Phebe, shielding her body with his own. All he saw was Nimble swaying over Mike’s prone body. Mike was past posing any threat. His head twisted to the side, his neck wrung around like a chicken’s.

“Are you hit?” Archie caught Nimble’s shoulder, offering his strength if Nimble needed it.

“Not a scratch.” Nimble lifted his arm to expose the singed hole, shot through the left side of his scarlet coat. Powder burns blackened his pinstriped waistcoat. “But this is the second of my fancy suits ruined.”

Relief swept through Archie like a giddy rush. From the arena upstairs, he heard a roar of cheers.

THE NOISE from the floors above quieted. The pretense of great battles ended, while on the swaying dock their small group worked on, cold, tired, and battered. Archie saw to it that the river carried Silas and the Smith twins’ corpses away. The unremarkable weapons that had belonged to Nate and Mike, he tossed into the river. The pearl-handled pistol he would clean and lock away in one of the many lovely gun cases that he’d inherited from his grandfather.

When—if—the remains came to the attention of the Inquisition, the simple alibis that Nimble, Agatha, and Charles concocted would serve them all. Agatha had invited them up to her private rooms to show that there were no hard feelings concerning her engagement. Nimble had regaled them with a few amusing poems, and they had all entertained themselves, playing cards.

“I won the majority of the hands,” Agatha stated.

“Certainly,” Nimble agreed. “But we could all see that dear lovestruck Archie didn’t have it in his heart to better you.” Oddly that won a hearty laugh from Agatha and Nurse Fuggas both.

Then Nurse Fuggas raced up the stairs and returned with medical supplies from the infirmary. The six of them settled on the worn steps of the stairs with the green glow of Archie’s battered storm lamp lighting them. Nurse Fuggas saw to Charles and Agatha, while Archie washed Nimble’s hands and bandaged his knuckles. Then Agatha looked to the nurse’s scrapes and bruises. Phebe wore Charles’s coat to keep off the night winds.

Somewhere in the midst of it all, Nimble reassured the Wedmoors and Nurse Fuggas that neither he nor Archie had any intention of exposing them or the Prodigals whom they ferried away to greater freedom. It also became abundantly clear that Phebe was Charles’s child, the daughter he’d been parted from during the war. He spoke haltingly of his despair after he’d lost her and her mother in a prison camp and of how he and Agatha had searched for years afterward.

“This entire pretense of a club was first conceived of as a sanctuary for Phebe, though it grew into much more.” Agatha made an attempt to smooth her wild hair from her face. Then she gingerly dabbed some balm over the ugly bruise already darkening Nurse Fuggas’s cheek. Archie wondered how she would explain it away and then remembered that the nurse had ready access to stage makeup, as well as the latest fashion of veiled hats to fall back on.

Charles’s injuries would be chalked up to his boxing club.

“Those of us on her mother’s side were searching for Phebe as well. That’s how Agatha and I found each other.” Nurse Fuggas and Agatha gazed at each other briefly, but with such tender affection that an altogether new aspect of their relationship suddenly occurred to Archie.

Well…. No wonder the two of them had received his pretense of courting so very coldly.

For just a moment, he pondered what, if anything, the two of them might have perceived in the way he and Nimble stood together and how they exchanged familiar smiles.

“Somehow Silas found out. He got to her before any of us.” Charles glanced at Phebe, and she studied him in return. They were not close, that was obvious. But a hopefulness showed in both their expressions. They wanted to care for each other and to be loved in return. That was a start, Archie supposed.

“At first all he wanted from me was my money. I was happy to pay him anything to have my daughter back with me,” Charles said. “But as he spent more time in the club, he came to suspect that he could threaten far worse than the ruin of my reputation. He began to demand more and more. Until I feared that I was losing myself utterly to his wishes. His requirements became unbearable.”

“Like having someone take a shot at me?” Archie inquired without any real feeling of betrayal. What sort of father wouldn’t have sacrificed a veritable stranger’s life for that of his daughter?

“I was meant to do more than that. He’d ordered me to get you on your own in the north side of the city where his men could murder you and pass it off as a mugging.” Charles looked wretched. “But then you didn’t want to go gaming and Mr. Hobbs couldn’t be convinced to leave your side.”

“So what, then? You shot at us out the club window as a sign of good faith to Silas?” Nimble sounded as skeptical as Archie on that count. Charles couldn’t have seen them through the gloom, and he’d been on entirely the wrong story of the building.

“Of course he didn’t.” Nurse Fuggas replied crisply. “Anyway the shots were meant to be a warning. To scare you away from the club and keep you both out of Silas’s horrid grasp. No one would have been hurt if you, Mr. Hobbs, hadn’t thrown yourself out to shield Lord Granville, here. I hadn’t expected that.”

“It was only a scratch,” Nimble assured her with a shrug. Then he turned a smug smile in Archie’s direction. “Told you it was Fuggas who fired on us.”

“As I recall, you also thought she was trying to shoot you, not me,” Archie responded.

Nimble shrugged again as if that was a minor detail. Moths fluttering in the glow of the storm lamp cast odd shadows across the dock. Archie could see Agatha considering him and Nimble.

“So what is it that you actually do, Mr. Hobbs?” Agatha asked at last.

Nimble produced his card—albeit a rather damp one—and offered a sanitized version of the events that had brought him to the Dee Club. He cast Archie as a mere army acquaintance with a soft heart and too much time on his hands, and himself as a fellow more accustomed to locating lost cats and love letters than a man who readily faced down gunmen with just his fists.

“So, Thom hired you? And he’s well? Thank God for that.” Agatha sounded truly relieved. “When he disappeared, I was quite worried that Silas had snatched him up. I tried to locate him myself, but I don’t have too many contacts in certain quarters of Hells Below.”

“You asked the reverend to look for him.” Nimble sounded certain of it.

Agatha nodded. “I’ll do what I can to see that he receives a letter from Nancy. She is quite fond of him.”

They all quieted as a red rowboat neared the dock. Recognition lit the face of the silver-haired woman at the prow as she caught sight of Agatha and Nurse Fuggas. The strapping young man at the oars slowed his stroke. Archie, being both uninjured and more than eight years old, rose and assisted in mooring the boat. Then he stepped aside as Agatha and Nurse Fuggas said tearful goodbyes to Phebe. Charles begged her to write him, and she agreed.

Agatha assured her that her Nornian great-aunt would adore her and had already made a place for her in her home. “You’ll be free to walk through the meadow and visit any city you like, my darling.” Agatha gave her a last embrace and helped her into the rowboat.

Then to Archie’s surprise, Agatha turned to Nimble.

“Mr. Pugg mentioned that you hoped to one day escape the city,” Agatha said. “After all you’ve done for us, I would love to help you. If not right this moment, then whenever you’re ready.”

Nimble looked startled and then so hopeful that it made Archie’s heart ache. He didn’t want Nimble to go and yet he knew that Nimble deserved the freedom to wander where he wanted. To walk under open skies and visit all the wonders of the world.

“Thank you,” Nimble replied after a moment. “But as much as I’d love to go, well, I’m afraid my heart is still here.”

Epilogue: Leave-Taking

ARCHIE REMAINED a member of the Dee Club but didn’t attend regularly any longer. He still saw Charles, Neet, and Lupton, but not so often, in part because they each moved on in their own interests. Charles largely abandoned boxing in favor of painting, Neet met a young woman who appeared to appreciate his interest in her and his taste in poetry, and Lupton spent more and more time with his brandy.

For a month, Archie kept clear of Agatha, but when an overbearing young earl began courting her too enthusiastically, Archie once again stepped into the role of her most ardent admirer. He made himself a stumbling block to the earl’s pursuit, and with Nurse Fuggas’s aid, he contrived to frustrate the man into eloping with a saucy widow. While foiling the earl’s various romantic overtures, Archie discovered that Agatha did in fact possess a wonderful sense of humor. They got on rather well and soon grew used to sharing company and shielding each other from matchmakers and gossipmongers alike.

Of course, the Inquisition did come in search of Silas. Happily, Nurse Fuggas was able to warn Nimble away from Archie for the many months that the investigation dragged on. Inquisitors in their deathly black uniforms rifled through Archie’s papers and shot him hard, cold glares as they pointed out that he did not seem unduly troubled by his uncle’s prolonged absence. He acknowledged that he and his uncle were not close. He neither knew nor cared where the old goat had gone off to.

“Would it bother you to learn he was dead, then?” the Inquisition captain asked.

“Of course it would,” Archie replied. “I look terrible in mourning colors. And in addition to that, I’d find myself saddled with his monstrous debts.”

The captain looked annoyed but thoughtful as well and then angled his further inquiries in the direction of Silas’s finances. Archie provided the names of moneylenders and gaming houses. After an hour of getting nothing more from Archie or his townhouse, the Inquisitors withdrew, though the captain assured Archie that he would hear from them again.

Archie pretended to find it all rather amusing and suggested they meet at the captain’s residence next time. In reality the encounter filled him with a dread that didn’t lift for days. Archie missed Nimble and longed to chat with him, but so long as he knew that the Inquisition watched him, Archie didn’t dare lead them anywhere near Nimble.

Instead Archie kept himself occupied at Lords’ court in the day and at the card tables most evenings. In both domains he conspired to win votes for the repeal movement. He ensured that gentlemen who had fallen into debt to him developed a sudden, passionate support for his cause. Agatha championed it as well and even managed to win the Queen’s public endorsement.

As weeks passed into months, visits from Inquisitors grew rare. The captain took on a weary appearance, which Archie found reassuring. One Inquisitor admitted to Archie that the captain’s exhaustion didn’t stem from too few leads to chase down but far too many.

Over half a century, Silas had managed to make so very many enemies that Archie soon became only one of a multitude of suspects. (In fact, Archie was a rare individual who actually had something to lose by Silas’s demise.) There were veritable generations of women whom Silas had conned and jilted, illegitimate children he’d abandoned, and numerous men he’d swindled. Rumors circulated that he’d stooped to blackmailing his fellow peers on more than one occasion. Silas’s creditors numbered into the dozens and included the infamous Bastard Jack.

Summer passed and leaves began to change color. The dour Inquisition captain called on Archie to inform him that they now suspected that his uncle had fled the country of his own volition. Interviews with a boy called Thom Chax had revealed Silas’s numerous inquiries about smuggling people in and out of the country. The entire case was dropped.

Two rainy days later, Archie and his fellow lords cast their votes and at last overturned the Prodigal Restriction Codes. Fireworks lit the night skies and illuminated the crowds of people dancing in the streets. Inquisitors halfheartedly attempted to suppress the weeklong celebrations by posting bans and issuing two-penny fines. The crowds were too numerous and too jubilant to be curbed. And the fact was that even natural citizens enjoyed the outpouring of song and revelry.

Archie half-expected Hells Below to empty out in a matter of days, but the exodus proved much more slow. Many families had lived there for generations and desired no other homes, only the right to do business and vacation elsewhere. But the young and the adventurous steadily departed.

It didn’t surprise Archie, though it did shake him a little, when Nimble called upon him, carrying a suitcase and dressed for the road—plain brown coat, boots, and all. Even so, Archie’s sedate drawing room and refined furnishings seemed too small and too dull to confine him. A bright blue feather adorned the green satin band of his hat, and turquoise satin flashed from his waistcoat.

“All set to take on the world?” Archie asked.

“Well, there are a few corners I wouldn’t mind having a go at,” Nimble replied. He cocked his head and studied Archie as if expecting him make some sudden realization. But what was there to wonder at? Nimble had always longed to leave; now he could go as he pleased. Archie only hoped he would come back.

“Your girl didn’t tell you?” Nimble asked.

“Agatha, you mean? What should she have told me?” Archie asked.

“Well, there’s this friend of hers living out on some sprawling country estate. A very charming fellow, or so she says.” Nimble grinned. “And it seems he’s got himself something of an intractable problem. If you take my meaning.”

Archie remembered then that Agatha had taken Nimble’s card.

So, Nimble had been hired. Archie wondered about the nature of the trouble that it merited Nimble’s intervention. What would Nimble find himself up against on that country estate? A family curse? Bandits? Blackmail? Or perhaps something altogether more mysterious.

Archie frowned. “I’m not sure how I feel about you being out in the wilds with no one to have your back, old boot.”

“Now you see, I’m of much the same mind about that, my bantling,” Nimble replied. “And then I recalled that we did make a good sort of team. So I thought I ought to drop by and ask you how quick you could get your bags packed.”

Delight surged through Archie. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready.”

“I’ll give you ten if you pack more than a cloak and those ugly old army boots.”

GINN HALE resides in the Pacific Northwest with her lovely wife and wayward cats. She is an award-winning author of science fiction and fantasy, as well as an avid coffee-drinker.

11:59

By C.S. Poe

Asuka Kawashima is a man without dreams.

Nightmares plague humanity and cross into the waking world—chasing after their dreamers and transforming them into hideous monsters that haunt New York City at night. When Asuka is faced with the choice between dying or selling his soul to the Devil, he offers it in exchange for the chance to continue protecting people. But the Devil is sly, and while he takes Asuka’s ability to dream, making him immune to nightmares, it also removed Asuka’s abstract sense of dreaming. Now life is gray, hopeless, and without wishes.

A chance meeting five years later leads Asuka to Merrick Grace, a man who, despite the dismal world around them, still believes there will be a day when monsters cease to exist. When the Devil reappears, asking for a favor in return for his soul, Asuka must make another difficult decision…

If the chance to dream again—to share a life with Merrick, full of hope and happiness—is worth the risk of almost certain death.

I

THE FIRST time Asuka Kawashima met the Devil, he had been falling headfirst from the thirty-third floor of One Penn Plaza.

“Want to make a deal?”

Suspended downward, Asuka stared at the face of a gentleman with the highly particular yet slightly indescribable features of a century long since past. New York City and Asuka’s inevitable death lay as a backdrop to the blond in a three-piece suit with a high collar, tapping an unlit cigarette against a silver case in one hand. Shards of broken glass hung in the air around Asuka, reflecting the tungsten orange glow of the city at night.

“Wh-what?”

The tip of the cigarette burned, smoke curling in lazy circles around the blond.

Asuka didn’t remember seeing him light it.

“If you could have anything,” the blond said, smiling a smile just this side of inhuman, “what would it be?”

“I want to save people.”

The blond angled his head and blew smoke devoid of the heady scent of tobacco from his lips. He reached his free hand up and tapped a fingertip against the badge pinned to Asuka’s uniform, as if amused by the irony of the request. “Are you certain?”

“What choice do I have?”

The blond glanced down at the city far below and then smiled once more at Asuka. His stare was endless. Bottomless. Piercing.

Asuka looked away.

“I can make you immune to dreaming. The nightmares will never find you. You will never be transformed into one of these monsters. But the cost will be great.”

Asuka swallowed hard. He looked at the Devil again. “A soul.”

“Your soul, my sweet little bird.”

The wind began to blow.

And one by one, the shattered pieces of glass began to fall.

“Deal,” Asuka whispered.

11:59 p.m.

II

ON THE third floor of a multiuse building on East Tenth Street is a ninety-eight square foot apartment. There’s a nail hammered into the unfinished brick wall with five years’ worth of calendars hanging from it, each date with a number written beside it. They appear random.

August 2nd does not yet have a notation.

The light in the shoebox apartment is always on. There’s a shelf above the radiator with a stockpile of incandescent bulbs. Energy inefficient they may be, but the monsters avoid the glow far more than the now-standard CFL lights.

Next to an unmade bed, there’s a small table stacked with empty microwavable bowls—instant ramen. Mostly chicken flavor.

This is where Asuka Kawashima lives.

He sits naked on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, his long black hair covering his face.

A news channel murmurs quietly on the television mounted to the wall at the foot of the bed. There’s never a good day for humanity, despite Asuka’s best efforts. The monsters are like a hydra—the more infected bastards Asuka slays, the more who seem to succumb to the nightmares, replacing those cut down by his sword.

It’s a futile battle. One that someday Asuka will lose.

And for what?

He hasn’t dreamed in five years.

A series of thoughts, images, or emotions occurring during sleep.

A strongly desired goal or purpose.

Something that fully satisfies a wish.

Asuka is tired.

But night is settling over the city of New York, and the monsters will be out soon.

Asuka lets out a breath through his nose and fetches clean underwear from a basket. He grabs a pair of black jeans from the floor and pulls them on. There’s a dried crust on the lower leg that is sure to be monster refuse. Asuka grabs a white button-down from a modest collection hanging from a bar on the wall. He tucks it in, buckles his belt, and uses the band on his wrist to tie his hair into a bun.

Asuka picks up a custom-built double shoulder holster from the table and slides it on. He snaps a small light to the harness and lets it rest against his chest. After putting on well-worn black combat boots, Asuka grabs the massive sword propped against the brick wall and attaches the handle on the back of his reinforced holster.

Asuka glances at himself in a small mirror beside the door.

Once upon a time, he’d looked forward to suiting up for work.

But now?

“Same shit, different day,” he says to his reflection before walking out of the apartment.

The routine of Asuka’s new life is surely one he can do in his sleep. Every single day he leaves home at sundown, rids the city of as many monsters as possible, and returns exhausted and disgusting around sunrise. He showers, eats cheap food, and falls asleep to newscasters reciting how the city fared overnight to their early-morning viewers.

And if Asuka isn’t too sore or too tired from his undertakings, he masturbates.

It’s never to anyone in particular. Mostly a convenient pretty face. The weatherman on Channel 4. Memories of his old partner when Asuka walked the beat as a police officer. That bartender from Gin & Sin before he’d become infected by the nightmares and Asuka had to kill him.

Really, whatever face it took to get the job done.

Asuka is not stopped or questioned by the rush of commuters coming home as he walks down the street, despite looking armed for war. He is all that stands between the innocent and the flesh-eating monsters who were once human. Because Asuka no longer dreams, he cannot be chased into consciousness by one of the nightmares. His body is riddled with five years’ worth of scars, and still, he keeps fighting. And frankly, the dwindling force of the NYPD will take all the help they can get—even if it comes in the form of an ex-cop turned vigilante.

The oppressive heat of summer has not eased with the setting sun. Asuka can already feel sweat trickling down his back under his weapon. The air is heavy and humid, and the inside of Asuka’s mouth feels cooler in comparison.

He’s not yet at the end of his block when Asuka spies a black substance pooled outside of an apartment. The front door is slightly ajar—more of the oil drips from the doorknob. Asuka removes one of his pistols. He zeroes in on the dark, silent interior visible through the crack of the doorway. Then someone nearly body slams him from the side.

Asuka stumbles to the right but remains on his feet. He whips around and points his flare pistol at what he assumes will be the monster who lives in this building.

It is not.

A handsome redhead offers a pained expression. He sucks in air through clenched teeth as he rubs his chest and shoulder. “S-sorry,” he manages.

Asuka lowers the weapon.

“Goddamn. You’re built like a brick shithouse.”

Asuka narrows his eyes. He’s pretty certain men haven’t been described as such in America since before the 1930s, but the dated lingo is surprisingly cute. In fact, a quick once-over of the stranger—thin and tall but deceptively built, with three freckles on his cheek that remind Asuka of the belt of Orion—has him realizing the stranger is 100 percent his type.

Five years ago, Asuka would have been smitten at first glance.

But now?

The redhead seems to realize Asuka has no intention of responding. “I was trying to get home before dark. I didn’t notice you standing there.”

Asuka stares hard. “It is dark,” he finally points out. “Keep your lights on and lock the doors.”

The redhead nods obediently. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

Asuka isn’t certain what for.

The stranger walks briskly down the sidewalk. He stops a few doors away, unlocks it, and spares Asuka a second glance before disappearing inside.

Maybe they were both each other’s type.

But Asuka doesn’t give the situation further consideration. He marches through the open door of the building before him, pistol at the ready.

III

THE SUN is rising as Asuka returns from his nightly killings. His clothes are splattered with black grime. His hair has fallen loose from his bun. He is tired and worn and feels every bit of his forty years as he walks his street block. Neighbors seem oddly comforted by his unkempt appearance—reassured that there is one less monster in the city because of him.

For however brief a time.

Asuka passes the redhead as he exits his building, looking fresh and full of life. He can feel the younger man’s eyes on him, watching what multiuse Asuka enters. Asuka doesn’t look back.

When he reaches the inside of his apartment, Asuka strips, showers, eats, and marks August 2nd on the calendar as five.

Five monsters dead.

He doesn’t masturbate, but the redhead is a passing thought before he falls asleep.

AUGUST 3RD: Three monsters dead.

August 4th: Six monsters dead, and Asuka sees the redhead again.

August 5th: Nine monsters dead, and there’s a note under Asuka’s door when he returns in the morning.

I’m twenty-three, sunburn easily, and definitely like coffee if you want to ask me out.

Merrick Grace

Asuka’s routine life is devoid of dreams.

Of hopes.

And of wishes.

He’s not surprised that without these, his emotions have withered and darkened. It feels as if the beating of Asuka’s heart has been cut out of him, and what remains of the organ is open sores left to rot.

Maybe five years ago, he’d have found humor and endearment in this note. Maybe Asuka would have walked himself down to Mr. Merrick Grace’s apartment and asked him on a date.

But now?

Asuka leaves the note on the table beside the empty ramen bowls. He doesn’t write a response, but he does masturbate before sleep.

August 6th: Three monsters dead, and Asuka sees Merrick again.

August 7th: No monsters.

August 8th: Five monsters dead, and another glimpse of Merrick. He flashes Asuka a cute, boyish smile. Another note waits under the door.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

Be safe at night,

I’m thinking of you.

Asuka’s mouth twitches. He sets his weapons aside and tears the label from a ramen bowl. He writes Asuka Kawashima, folds the paper, and sticks it to the outside of his door with a strip of Scotch tape. Asuka masturbates to thoughts of Merrick that morning.

August 9th: Five monsters dead.

May I buy you a cup of coffee, Asuka?

August 10th: Three monsters dead and no note.

Asuka isn’t surprised. He hadn’t responded to Merrick’s request from the morning before. But there was the smallest pang of… disappointment in his gut. Merrick is charming and persistent, but a man could only get let down so many times before he gives up and moves on.

Right?

The hallway floor outside of Asuka’s apartment creaks.

Asuka raises his head from where he sits naked on the bed after his shower. He holds another torn ramen label and a pen. He’s been undecided as to what to respond with, yes or no, for nearly twenty minutes. He’s losing precious sleep over the decision of whether to have coffee with the cute boy down the street.

Is Merrick returning with another note?

Tip-tap, tip-tap. High heels.

No. Not Merrick.

The shoes stop outside the door. A slip of paper slides underneath.

The tip-tap continues down the hall and fades away in an echo.

It’s sure to be a job request—another monster in need of destroying—and Asuka has only just returned home after a long night. He stands, walks to the door, retrieves the folded note, and opens it.

Billiards & Brew

As soon as you can

THE CITY is awash in that grayish blue color that exists moments before the sun rises. It’s offset by the dirty orange glow of protective streetlamps. The air is stale. Stifling summer heat is already causing the piled trash bags awaiting pickup to stink.

A scream just ahead shatters the quiet of an ever-vigilant and exhausted city.

“Help!”

A few doors down, Merrick Grace all but flies out of his building. He’s got several books tucked under one arm, and a trail of loose papers flutter to the ground in his wake. An amorphous shape, as black as night and at least eight feet tall, squeezes its bloated form out of the open doorway. Tentacle-like appendages that were once arms reach out toward Merrick in vain.

Asuka rushes into the road and whistles loudly. Merrick turns and runs toward him without question.

“It’s my neighbor!” he cries.

“Stay behind me,” Asuka orders.

He pulls one of the pistols from his holster, takes a firing stance, and shoots the creature with a flare cartridge. The towering monster lets out a shriek that sounds like knives sawing against glass. Painful goose bumps cover Asuka’s body, and he shudders as the cry reverberates in his chest. Asuka reloads and shoots again, pumping the monster full of light.

It howls louder, sets off car alarms, and then charges.

Asuka swears, holstering his pistol. He reaches back, unbuckles his sword, and holds the hilt in both hands. The cogs built into the guard twist and turn into place. The blade glows with a blinding force as Asuka runs head-on to meet the monster. He raises the sword, jumps, and slashes downward, cutting through the thick, jellylike resistance of the body that was once human. The top portion is sliced free, and black grease spews from the wound.

Asuka lands on the ground. He stands, turns his head away, and holds the blade up to protect himself from the warm, gushing oil. The discharge coats the city street as the undulating mass crumples inward and falls down dead. Asuka lowers his weapon and reaches to strap it back onto his holster. His boots squelch as he walks through the remnants.

Merrick is still standing where he’d been told. He looks ashen, and his mouth hangs open like a fish out of water. There are splotches of grease on his face and clothes. Merrick raises a finger, as if to speak, but Asuka never breaks his stride as he walks past him.

“H-hey! Wait!” Merrick runs after, slips in the goop, and falls to the ground.

Asuka stops. He looks over his shoulder.

Merrick is quickly retrieving his books from the grimy oil and wiping the covers as best as he can.

Asuka lets out a breath. He needs to leave. A woman is waiting with a job at Billiards & Brew.

Merrick flicks the refuse from his hand and uses the hem of his low-cut T-shirt to clean the books. He cares more for the condition of his hardcovers than the fact that he’s on his knees in monster waste.

Asuka finds it… sweet.

Intriguing.

Endearing.

Innocent, in a world that is now anything but.

Asuka walks back to Merrick. He reaches a hand out.

ASUKA AND Merrick sit in a booth across from each other at a 24-7 diner a few blocks away. The dated establishment is well-lit, casting illumination on every broken tile, unswept corner, and grimy fingerprint.

Asuka wipes his face clean of the black oil with a napkin.

“You—ah—” Merrick taps his own smooth chin. “Have some in your beard.”

Asuka touches his modest facial hair, and his fingers come away dirty. He grabs another napkin from the dispenser.

“I didn’t plan this,” Merrick says. He smiles a little, like he’s not sure what other expression is suitable for the situation. “Being chased by a monster just so you’d have coffee with me, I mean.”

Asuka scrunches the napkin into a tight wad and places it in the pile off to the side. He’s not much of a talker these days. Conversation only reminds him that he is a man with nothing worth dying for. But Merrick stares at him with hopeful curiosity—with a soul burning so bright, the light reflects in his eyes. Merrick undoubtedly has aspirations and wishes. Asuka is certain Merrick could imagine a world like before, when dreams couldn’t hurt them.

“I figured,” Asuka murmurs after a pregnant pause.

They don’t speak again.

An older man approaches the booth. He’s rail-thin, with salt-and-pepper hair and a bit of a stoop to his posture. He has a pot of black coffee and leans over the tabletop to shakily pour into their mugs.

“Mr. Kawashima,” he says by way of greeting.

“Carlos.”

Carlos finishes topping off Merrick’s cup. He spills a few droplets across the table. They resemble planets revolving around a star.

Carlos doesn’t notice—he’s giving Merrick a funny expression. “You’re a handsome young man.”

Merrick’s neck and cheeks redden almost instantly. “Th-thank you?”

Carlos spares Asuka a glance and then says to Merrick, “Maybe he can dream.”

Merrick doesn’t know what that means or what sort of response is expected of him, so he laughs instead. It’s forced and awkward.

Carlos shuffles away from the booth.

“What was that?” Merrick whispers.

Asuka shakes his head, then takes a sip of coffee.

“Dream about what?”

“Forget it,” Asuka replies sternly. He sets the mug down. “Carlos has been through a lot.”

Merrick reluctantly leans back. The cushion of the booth sags under him. “Thank you,” he says after a moment.

“For?” Asuka gradually asks.

“Saving my life.”

“Oh.” He shrugs.

“You’re not one for chitchat, are you?”

Asuka takes another drink of coffee. Merrick is still looking at him with those shining blue eyes. Eager. Wanting, even.

He needs you to talk, Asuka realizes. He’s still scared.

Asuka clears his throat and grasps for a topic that doesn’t feel utterly pointless. His gaze falls onto the stained books sitting beside the condiments. “Are they ruined?”

“Hmm?” Merrick follows Asuka’s line of sight. “Oh!” He picks up a book and flips through the pages. “I suppose not, although page fifteen will be a constant reminder of seeing a monster burst like a water balloon.” He turns the book around to show Asuka the barely legible words underneath a dark stain.

“Buy new ones,” Asuka states, but it comes out far more commanding than he intends.

Merrick shuts the book. “They’re okay,” he insists, seemingly oblivious to Asuka’s tone. “But even if they weren’t, most are out of print.”

Asuka sips his coffee.

Merrick scoots forward, the cushion making a sound of protest. “How long have you been the Neighborhood Nightmare Watchman?”

Asuka opens his mouth.

Tip-tap, tip-tap, tip-tap.

High heels.

Asuka doesn’t move, merely flicks his gaze to the right. A woman in a bright sundress opens the diner door and steps outside.

“I just moved here from Brooklyn,” Merrick is saying. “The night I ran into you, I asked my… neighbor… who you were.” His voice drops, causing Asuka to return his attention to Merrick. “She said you always came to help. No matter what.”

He’s looking for reassurance, Asuka decides. “It’s just something I do.”

“Don’t they scare you? The monsters?”

“No.”

Merrick smiles again, this time a bit self-consciously. “They scare me,” he responds. “I shouldn’t be afraid of dreams.”

“They’re not normal dreams,” Asuka says, as if that is suitable reason to fear each little sound that goes bump in the night.

Everything around Asuka shifts.

Suddenly.

Subtly.

To the right.

He watches the dribbles of coffee on the table slide together and create one large droplet. He looks back at Merrick. The red hair on his forehead has swayed to one side.

The diner is silent. No one is speaking. No one is moving.

Tip-tap, tip-tap, tip-tap.

Asuka watches a woman in high heels and a bright sundress—

Didn’t she leave already?

He raises his wrist to check the time.

11:59 p.m.

No. That can’t be right. It hadn’t even been sunup when Asuka left the apartment.

But—no. Did that mean—he’s near?

“Asuka?”

He raises his head, and all at once, as if a bubble popped, the diner is alive with patrons eating, murmurs of conversation, and the gentle clatter of dishes echoing from behind the kitchen door.

Merrick’s eyebrows are raised. He looks curious. “Are you okay?”

Asuka looks at his watch again.

6:12 a.m.

“I have to go.” He climbs out of the booth and grabs his sword from where it rests behind the seat.

“Wait!” Merrick grabs his books and scrambles to his feet.

Asuka does not wait. He straps his sword to the back of his holster and walks out the door. The morning sun is cleansing the city of its nightly scares. Despite the heat of another summer day, the light feels good against Asuka’s skin.

“Asuka!” Merrick bolts out of the diner after him.

“I have an appointment,” Asuka replies, turning uptown.

“Take me with you!”

Asuka pauses midstep and looks over his shoulder.

Merrick swallows. “It’s just—I don’t think I can go home right now.” He stares at his shoes. “I feel safe around you.”

“I’m no different from the nightmares,” Asuka states.

Merrick quickly raises his head. “You’re a man.”

A monster.

“A real hero.”

A coward who sold his soul.

“And I—” Merrick smiles, and his light skin has a pink tinge to it. “Want to… know more about you.”

“There’s nothing to know.”

“That’s not true,” Merrick answers. He shifts the weight of his books in his arms. “Everyone has dreams.”

Not me.

But Asuka can’t say it out loud.

MERRICK IS light on his feet, moving to music only he can hear. “What did you do before the nightmares began?”

Asuka takes a breath. He can’t understand why he’s allowed Merrick to follow him.

It’s unnecessary.

Dangerous.

Fucked-up.

And the trauma of having his soul ripped from his body has never been more apparent than in this moment, with Merrick suddenly—perfectly—filling the void at Asuka’s side that had shadowed and dogged him for five years. But he can’t hope and he can’t wish—so what is this feeling and what’s driving it?

Perhaps he is no longer immune to the sickness of the dream world. Asuka briefly considers that he may be asleep, dreaming of a life with a partner, and soon will be swallowed whole by an intruding nightmare.

“I was a cop,” he answers.

Merrick nods and jumps from the road, over the gutter, and onto the curb. “I was a dancer,” he supplies without being prompted.

This doesn’t surprise Asuka, with the way Merrick carries himself. What does surprise him is when he asks, “What style?”

Merrick looks up. “I went to a conservatory for ballet. But I was in a dance troupe that also performed tap and swing.”

“Swing?”

Merrick grins. “I wore suspenders and a bow tie when I performed.”

Asuka turns away from Merrick’s pretty smile and studies Billiards & Brew, coming up at the end of the block. “Why’d you stop?”

“I lost my troupe.”

Asuka halts.

Merrick keeps walking until he realizes he’s alone. He turns and looks behind him. “What?”

“You’ve… no one to dance with?”

Merrick smiles again. Sheer force of will seems to be what keeps him alive and in a sunny disposition. He shrugs. “Maybe again. Someday.”

Asuka once dreamed with the ferocity Merrick did.

But now?

What options had he had five years ago?

He’d truly wanted to save people. If he hadn’t made the deal, Asuka would have fallen to his death after one of the first run-ins with a monster in New York. At least this way, he could still perform his sworn duty, police officer or not. It’s just…. Asuka hadn’t imagined that exchanging his soul to be immune to the dreams would be taken to such a degree that it would not only encompass what happened during REM sleep, but the abstract and conceptual dreams as well.

“Someday,” Asuka repeats—for whose benefit, he doesn’t know.

Despite the early hour, the door to the pool hall is unlocked.

Asuka pulls it open and warily peers into the dim room. Unlike the rest of the city, it’s not overblown with tungsten lighting to ward off the monsters—in fact, none of the low-hanging overheads above the pool tables are switched on. Asuka cranes his head to the left. A wall of liquor is backlit, silhouetting a lone bartender. The woman in heels and a sundress sits at a stool, absently stirring a tall drink with a straw.

Asuka takes a step inside. He puts a hand behind him, as if to tell Merrick to keep a distance. The door groans to a shut, but neither patron nor tender look up.

Asuka squares his shoulders and strides across the antique wood floor. “Ma’am, you requested my attendance?”

She doesn’t look up from her mojito.

“Can I get you a drink, sir?” the bartender asks.

Asuka spares the man behind the counter a glance.

He has no face.

Asuka visibly recoils. He checks his watch.

11:59 p.m.

He looks at the woman again, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

The Devil sits in her place. He holds a lit cigarette between two fingers, and a tumbler of whiskey is in front of him. “Hello, little bird. It’s been a while.”

“What do you want?” Asuka says curtly.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Asuka swallows and spares the bartender another look. “No.”

The man nods and resumes cleaning glasses.

Asuka looks over his shoulder. Merrick is gone. He turns to the Devil, who is smiling a smile just slightly too big for his face. “Where is he?” Asuka asks, tone dropping low.

The Devil sucks on his cigarette in response.

Asuka lunges forward, grabs the Devil’s three-piece suit in both hands, and hauls him from his seat. “Where is he?” he shouts.

The Devil makes a tsk-tsk sound, and smoke coils around them. “You just met him.”

“Answer me!”

“Merrick Elliott Grace,” the Devil murmurs. He traces his finger up Asuka’s chest and taps where a badge used to be. “For a man who can’t possibly wish for a happily ever after, why is it he makes your heart beat fast?”

Asuka narrows his eyes.

“He’d be in your dreams, wouldn’t he?” the Devil asks, and the question is like being stabbed, it hurts Asuka so deeply.

“If you’ve done anything—”

“Mr. Grace is fine.” The Devil smiles around the cigarette. “Beautiful soul, isn’t he? Like someone else I know.” His eyes widen with a provocative expression.

Asuka shoves the Devil back onto the barstool.

The Devil chuckles and adjusts his collar and tie. He sets his cigarette down in an ashtray that hadn’t been there before. “I wanted to speak in private.”

Asuka puts his hands on his hips and takes a deep, centering breath.

The Devil picks up his whiskey, sips it appreciatively, then reaches into his suit coat. He removes a skeleton key and slides it across the bar toward Asuka. “I need a favor.”

Asuka feels his shoulders relax infinitesimally. “What is that?”

“Your soul.” The Devil crosses his long legs and inclines his head at the free seat beside him.

Asuka reluctantly pulls the stool out and sits.

“I knew you’d be interested.”

“I could care less about what happens to my soul after I die,” Asuka corrects. “You said you’d make me immune to dreams so that I could help people.”

“And I did exactly that.”

“You took my ability to desire. I can’t hope for the sun when it rains. I can’t love without my capacity for dreams.”

“You should have read the contract closer,” the Devil says with a chuckle.

Asuka lunges for the key on the bar top, but his hand wraps around nothing.

The Devil reaches into his coat and removes the key for the second time. “Are you ready to listen, little bird?” He spins the metal between his thumb and index finger.

Asuka sinks onto the stool again.

The Devil sets the key down between them. “My name has changed over the centuries, but what remains constant is that it is my job to collect souls, and nothing more. I’m a pacifist. I kill nothing and no one.”

“What’s your point?”

“The nightmares have begun to affect the Underworld now. Ironically, you sold me your soul in order to fight the dreams. You are the only being capable of destroying the source while remaining immune to its sickness.” The Devil was smoking again. “I need you to kill the origin of the nightmares for good. I am losing my dear souls left and right, and if the nightmares come for me… chaos will reign.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing for the past five years?” Asuka responds curtly.

“You’ve been killing the infected. That’s like using a garden hose to put out the fire in the flowerbed instead of the house. The flowers will only be set on fire again and again.”

“I can’t find the source,” Asuka says. “If I had, it’d be dead. That I promise you.”

The Devil finishes his cigarette. His tumbler is empty.

Asuka is certain he’d only taken one sip.

“I know where it is.” The Devil sips from his full drink.

The bartender is still shining glasses.

“Where?” Asuka finally asks.

“Will you take care of the matter?”

Asuka eyes the skeleton key. “I destroy the source and you’ll return my soul?”

“Yes.”

“Does that include my dreams?”

The Devil holds up a legal document. “Everything will be returned to you.” He smiles again, and it makes Asuka’s gut clench. “Your soul is the prettiest in my recent collection, but even I’m willing to make a compromise for the betterment of all.”

Asuka swallows and holds his hand out. “Shake on it.”

The Devil is suddenly without his drink or contract. He slides his slender hand into Asuka’s hold. His grip is neither warm nor cold. It feels like nothing, really. “Ask Mr. Grace about Phobetor.”

“What?”

“Asuka?”

Asuka blinks. The Devil is gone. The faceless bartender is gone.

The pool hall is silent.

Dark.

And empty.

Asuka turns.

Merrick is standing near the door.

Asuka looks at his watch.

6:34 a.m.

IV

ASK MR. Grace about Phobetor.

Asuka stands outside Billiards & Brew and looks down at Merrick.

Merrick squints one eye and meets Asuka’s gaze. The sunshine makes his red hair practically glow. “Appointment canceled?”

“Something like that.”

“Where to, then?” Merrick asks sweetly.

To want again. Wish again. Dream again. Maybe even Merrick would become part of that wonderful, beautiful equation. The younger man certainly has pushed for… something to happen. Something more than coffee at Carlos’s shitty diner. But is Asuka going to invite more danger into Merrick’s life for nothing more than not wanting to be alone when he opens his eyes?

“What is—what’s a Phobetor?” Asuka warily questions.

Merrick blinks. “Who is Phobetor,” he corrects.

Why does he have to know?

“Why?” Merrick prompts. He shifts his books into one arm and takes Asuka’s bicep with his free hand. “Are you okay? You look a little green around the edges.” Merrick seems sincerely concerned.

Asuka stares at him for a long time. The city hustles and bustles around them, but his attention is for Merrick alone. There’s something in Merrick’s bright blue eyes that soothes his aches, that gently eases the broken beat back into Asuka’s heart. The sun can fall and rise a hundred times, and Asuka feels like he can still stare at Merrick’s face for a hundred days more.

A favor for the Devil.

His mistake from five years ago would be torn up and forgotten.

“If I could dream like you,” Asuka suddenly whispers, “I’d be your dance partner.”

The look of worry on Merrick’s face fades. He smiles lightly at first, but hesitation and self-consciousness give way like a tide has washed over a sea wall.

Never has Asuka—even before his deal—seen such love and life contained in a single smile. It was obnoxious to think so big of himself, but in the darkened, unused part of Asuka’s heart, there was a tug of emotion. A curious consideration. Had they been fated to meet? Why else, even with his inability to dream, did Asuka feel so protective of a man he’d only just met? Could it be possible that the endless battles and sleepless nights were nothing more than the catalyst to assure this moment?

Perhaps.

Because when Asuka looks at Merrick, this… this force he feels is akin to what sent Orpheus to the Underworld in order to rescue his beloved Eurydice.

So here they are.

Now Asuka must retrieve his soul. Not because the Devil has asked for help, and no longer for his own ability to dream at night. But for the sudden need to hope that there will be a them tomorrow.

“I’m going after the origin of the nightmares,” Asuka says briskly. “I’ll need your help.”

Merrick swallows audibly.

“But I promise you—it will be dangerous.”

Merrick drags his hand down Asuka’s arm and threads their fingers together. “What do you need from me?”

ASUKA UNLOCKS his apartment door and holds it open.

Merrick peers around the doorframe, then takes a slow step inside.

Asuka follows. He shuts the door, unbuckles his sword, and removes his shoulder holsters. He walks to the left corner of the shoebox apartment, where there is exactly half a countertop and a single burner. Asuka hits the button on the coffeepot. There are mugs beside the machine, precariously stacked and leaning to one side. He picks up two and examines them.

Dirty.

Asuka rinses them in the bathroom sink. When he returns, he glances at his unkempt bed.

Merrick is sitting on the edge, watching the television that’d been left on.

Asuka studies the cups again. Dollar store finds.

I love you a latte.

World’s Best Grandpa.

He sets the mugs aside, walks to the bed, and sits down.

Merrick turns as the mattress dips. “Nice place.”

Asuka gives him a disbelieving look. “Fifteen hundred dollars.”

“But you can’t touch both walls with your arms stretched out.”

Asuka’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile.

“You’d be overpaying otherwise.”

Now Asuka smiles.

Merrick scoots back and draws his legs up, crossing them under himself. “Why’d you ask me about Phobetor?”

“I was told you would know.”

“But by who?”

Asuka looks at his hands. There’s black grime under his nails. He picks at them. “The details aren’t important.” He glances to his right after a prolonged pause.

Merrick is staring at him.

“Please.” Asuka stands when the coffeepot stops spitting and gurgling.

Merrick picks up one of the books sitting beside him. “He is a little-known being—an Oneiroi.”

Asuka pours coffee into the clean mugs and carries them to the bed. He offers Merrick one. “Oneiroi,” he states without inflection.

“Thanks,” Merrick says, accepting I love you a latte. He catches the cheap design, and maybe a bit of color flushes his cheeks. “The Oneiroi are the personification of our dreams.”

Asuka burns his tongue. “He’s literally Dream?”

“No, not exactly.” Merrick looks down at his book and starts flipping through the pages. “After my troupe—” He pauses and skips the rest of the sentence. “I’m not a warrior like you. I can’t even hit a target at a shooting range, let alone wield a sword like you did this morning.”

Asuka is embarrassed by the compliment and wants to refuse it.

Merrick finds the page he seems to be hunting for. He sips his coffee and doesn’t look up from the block of text. “I was always a good student, though. I thought I could help—research or something. Anything to stop the monsters and nightmares.”

“I sense a ‘but,’” Asuka says.

“But no one took me seriously,” Merrick replies in agreement. He finally raises his head to meet Asuka’s intense gaze. “I tried to tell anyone who would listen. Phobetor is the personification of Nightmares. His name literally means ‘to be feared.’”

Asuka set his mug on the crowded table.

“But the stories are ancient,” Merrick says. “No one wants to put serious stock into them, you know? Today, the world revolves around science and technology. The concept that the nightmares may stem from something… mythological… is too much. But ask yourself,” he continues. “After the monsters began to appear five years ago—have you ever dreamed of anything pleasant? Profound? Mundane, even?”

Asuka doesn’t respond, but thankfully Merrick doesn’t seem to be looking for an actual answer.

“No. We have been devoid of regular dreams. All we have are nightmares. Frightening, awful beings now capable of chasing people into consciousness and casting their sickness on them.”

Asuka crosses his arms. “Why do we not have any other dreams, then?”

“Phobetor has brothers—Morpheus and Phantasos.”

Asuka nods.

“I think… Phobetor may have done something terrible to them.”

IT’S LATE afternoon. The sun is streaming through the single window of Asuka’s apartment. The room is uncomfortably warm and humid. The AC unit died last month, and replacing it never seemed to be a priority.

Sweat dampens the back of Asuka’s shirt and under his arms. He can feel Merrick’s body heat—the younger man sitting closer than necessary. But Asuka can’t find it within himself to ask Merrick to move. Instead, he rolls back the sleeves of his shirt for minor relief. His arms are a network of toned muscle, protruding veins, and scars from battle. Asuka sighs and turns the page of the book in his lap.

“Instructions to the Underworld are wonderfully vague,” he murmurs.

Merrick nods. “Told you.”

Asuka snaps the book shut and hands it to Merrick.

“It varies for so many heroes,” Merrick says. He stares at Asuka’s profile. “Maybe… the journey is what you make of it.”

“You go to the Underworld when you die.”

“I think we need to use our imagination a bit more than that.” Merrick climbs off the bed and stands before Asuka. “I have an idea. A more invasive approach, but it will save time if it’s possible. I can assure you I’ve been through every book available in the English language—there are no cut-and-dry steps to reaching the Underworld.”

“What do you recommend?”

“I met a guy not too long ago,” Merrick replies as he pulls a cell phone from the pocket of his tight black pants. “He specializes in putting people… under.”

Asuka narrows his eyes a little. “Chemically induced dreams?” He wonders how someone as sweet and innocent as Merrick Grace got involved with such a person.

“Whatever you make of under,” Merrick answers vaguely as he dials.

“That’s illegal.”

“Yeah.” Merrick puts the phone to his ear. “Hey,” he says. “I need to come by tonight. Not—not exactly, no. I’ll explain in person. Thanks.” Merrick ends the call and looks at Asuka.

Asuka raises an eyebrow.

“Midnight.”

“Where?”

“West Thirty-Eighth Street.”

“It’s dangerous at that time of night,” Asuka points out.

Merrick nods.

The silence between them is palpable, broken only by the whir of a nearby window unit.

“You never went there to dream.” Asuka’s voice is very gentle.

“No.”

“To be loved?” Asuka guesses.

Merrick considers his words before saying, “To feel.”

“Did it help?”

“Not really, no.” Merrick steps forward.

Asuka opens his legs and allows Merrick to stand between his knees. He slides his hands over Merrick’s lower back, the loose shirt clinging to his damp skin.

“But I feel this,” Merrick clarifies.

Asuka slips his hands underneath the fabric, and Merrick’s muscles contract and flutter against his touch.

“It’s….”

“A force,” Asuka provides.

“You feel it too?” Merrick asks in a whisper.

Asuka nods. “I can’t explain it.”

Merrick touches Asuka’s temple. He slides his hand down underneath Asuka’s chin, lifts it, and kisses him. “I can see a reality without nightmares when I’m beside you. As clear as day.”

Asuka does not.

“Do you?” Merrick holds Asuka’s face and presses their foreheads together.

Asuka shut his eyes. “It’s… difficult for me to dream.”

Merrick kisses him so tenderly that Asuka nearly breaks into a hundred thousand little pieces. “Don’t be discouraged.”

If only it were that.

“I believe in you. We’ll confront Phobetor together.”

“If we die?” Asuka asks.

“The voyage for our souls will be pretty damn brief,” Merrick says with a wry smile.

Except mine will never be reunited with yours.

“If we live?” Asuka continues.

“You said you’d dance with me.”

And dream like you.

Dream of you.

ASUKA SITS naked on the bed, knees raised and elbows resting on top. The sheet is pooled around his waist. He’s staring out the window at the streetlamps protecting the city from an otherwise suffocating darkness. One bulb across the street shudders and strobes, as if experiencing death throes.

The television is still on.

The small clock beside the lightbulbs on the shelf flashes 11:08 p.m. Asuka considers waking Merrick, asleep at his side in the too-small bed.

He rakes a hand through his loose hair before tying it back into a bun.

“Do you ever change the channel?”

Asuka glances down.

Merrick is hugging the one pillow to his chest and looking up with sleepy, blinking eyes. “The news is depressing.”

“I need to stay informed.”

Merrick holds his hand out.

Asuka glances to either side of himself before finding the remote control. He gives it to Merrick.

Merrick sits up on an elbow and flips the channel to a rerun of an old cooking show that’d been canceled after the host was turned into a monster two years ago. “Look at that. The cone is actually made from a donut with cinnamon and sugar. And inside is ice cream with sprinkles, chocolate sauce….”

Asuka thinks Merrick is much more decadent than any combination of donuts and ice cream.

“I think the slice of cake on top is a bit overkill, but when in Rome….”

“Are they sold in Rome?” Asuka asks. He hasn’t bothered to look away from Merrick.

Merrick laughs quietly. “Toronto.” He turns to Asuka, reaches out, drapes his arm around his neck, and pulls Asuka down into an unhurried, easy kiss.

The shoebox apartment is still too warm for comfort. The air is motionless. The spike in pleasure from the shared kiss makes even the thin cotton sheet too much to bear.

Merrick drags his hands down Asuka’s back, digging his fingertips into each muscle he comes across.

Appreciating.

Memorizing.

Asuka puts his arm against Merrick’s head, holding him still as he deepens the kiss. Merrick’s lips are so soft, so enthusiastic. He tastes like sleep, youth, and joy. And Merrick doesn’t seem to mind the scratch of Asuka’s facial hair against his skin.

“What happens if I become a monster?” Merrick asks, his breath ghosting Asuka’s mouth.

Asuka’s muscles clench. It’s not an answer he can sugarcoat. He doesn’t dream, after all, of a reality where Merrick will be spared until he rids the Underworld of the origin. The fact is, if Merrick were to suddenly succumb after years of survival, Asuka would kill him like he did any monster.

And with a sort of sad realization, Asuka thinks for the first time that he may kill himself too.

He’s no hero. And all men have a breaking point.

“We need to leave,” Asuka says in response.

Merrick sighs. He sits up, slides off the bed, and gathers his clothes. Turning around, Merrick pulls his shirt over his head, glances at the clock, and smirks. He crouches down to tug his shoes on after buttoning his pants.

“That fuck damn near put me into a coma.”

Asuka tries not to reflect on the recent memory. It’ll only distract him, slow him down. He dresses with silent proficiency, gathers his weapons, and waits at the door.

Merrick is staring at his books, now stacked on the floor.

“Come,” Asuka says briskly.

“We may need to reference something.”

“You can’t carry them all. It’s going to be—”

“Dangerous,” Merrick says before Asuka is able. He reaches down to pluck the third book in the stack. “This one.”

Asuka nods and opens the apartment door. They walk carefully across the hall and down the stairs. The nightmares are fearful of the tungsten bulbs, as all monsters are prone to being, but they are also strongest at night. And at this hour, most humans lie in bed behind locked doors, lights ablaze, praying they make it through another night without a nightmare hunting them in their unconsciousness or a monster finding its way into their home.

Asuka opens the front door at ground level and steps out first. He looks left, then right, scrutinizing the near desolate East Tenth Street. A plastic bag rustles in the branches of a scraggly tree. Somewhere above them, a window slams shut.

Otherwise?

Silence.

Asuka steps onto the sidewalk and considers the safest approach to their travel.

They need to cross thirty-five blocks.

The L train runs every ten minutes at this time of night. They can catch it at Fourteenth Street, travel crosstown, and hop off at Eighth Avenue. It’s the quickest method of travel outside of driving, and Asuka is without a car after a recent wreck at the East River involving nearly a dozen monsters. He certainly doesn’t trust the few and far between taxi drivers to stay calm behind the wheel if they run into trouble either.

They walk uptown, making no noise except for the occasional scrape of a shoe tread on the sidewalk.

At the corner of First Avenue and Fourteenth Street, they take the entrance underground. There is no subway attendant in the booth. There’s no blood or black bile surrounding the turnstiles, which leads Asuka to believe the station is unmanned simply due to staff shortage.

At least this is what he hopes.

Asuka jumps the turnstile. He looks over his shoulder at Merrick, who is digging through his pockets for his MetroCard. He inclines his head for Merrick to follow suit. Merrick awkwardly tucks his book under one arm, puts his hands on either side, and jumps, effortlessly leaping over the locked turns and landing beside Asuka.

They move away from the entrance and stand against the wall. The tunnels are silent. There’s a foul stench coming from the water pooled on the uneven surface between train tracks. Garbage floats on top—candy wrappers, tissues, empty bottles. The platform is peppered with ancient gum, mysterious stains, and fine layers of tacky filth that New Yorkers have learned to simply accept as city aesthetic. Movie posters and advertisements are peeling, scrawled over, and out-of-date.

The overhead LED screen indicates there is an Eighth Avenue–bound L train approaching the station.

Merrick pats Asuka’s arm and points across the tracks to the opposite platform. A homeless man is turned with his back to them, twitching and convulsing erratically while he screams at the wall. He turns and grabs on to the huge black trash can and violently shakes it. The flesh of his hands cracks and peels away, revealing an oozing, gelatinous black mass underneath. He turns his head and looks at Asuka and Merrick, then vomits pitch-black sludge.

Merrick gasps.

Asuka removes his flare-firing pistol and takes a readied stance.

The train is pulling into the station.

With saliva and oil drooling from his mouth, the infected homeless man screams again. He jumps from the platform, onto the tracks, and races toward them.

“Asuka!” Merrick cries.

The man reaches the Manhattan-bound side.

The horn of the train blares. The brakes screech.

Merrick covers his ears.

Asuka squeezes the trigger.

The man is shot straight through the heart with light, his body careens backward, and he’s out of sight as the train passes between them.

The doors to the empty car open. Asuka and Merrick quickly board and move to the opposite side. They see the man who’d been morphing into a monster lying between the tracks, gunk pumping from his wound.

The doors close behind them, and the train leaves the station.

Asuka grabs on to the nearby rail, and Merrick holds his arm. They warily watch as the train approaches each stop and opens its doors. No one boards at Third Avenue, and a lone teenager enters their car at Union Square. She gives them an appraising look before lying down across the empty blue seats.

At 11:43 p.m. the train enters Eighth Avenue station and pulls to a stop. An automated voice reminds passengers this is the end of the line and they must exit. Asuka and Merrick step onto the island platform. They appear to be alone, four levels below the street. It takes time to carefully move upward from the L—cautious of every long hall, empty corridor, and corner to be turned.

The West Side is blown bright with streetlamps. The gentle buzz and hum of electricity fills the air.

But nothing else.

Asuka stops walking abruptly. He watches a shadow slink behind a building. He glances to the right and sees a second mimic the motion. They avoid the tungsten lights for the moment. Asuka reaches to his chest and flicks on the flashlight strapped to his harness.

At the next block is an old, beat-to-hell truck. Asuka points discreetly. “We’re running for that vehicle.”

“Why?” Merrick whispers.

“Because we’re surrounded.”

Asuka grabs Merrick’s hand, and they take off down the sidewalk, feet pounding the cement and echoing through a city that feels abandoned. There’s a howl to their right, and a bloated dark shape climbs the side of a building to follow them above the glow of the lamps. Asuka pulls his pistol, takes quick aim over his shoulder, and fires. He’s not certain if he hit the monster or if it screeches like a dying animal because of the light from the flare.

They reach the truck, and Asuka slams the butt of his pistol against the driver’s window. He smashes it again, and the glass shatters. He reaches inside, unlocks the door, opens it, and yanks out the wires under the steering column.

“Asuka,” Merrick warns from behind him.

Asuka doesn’t respond to the worry in Merrick’s tone and focuses on hot-wiring the truck.

A series of growls come from nearby, reverberating in Asuka’s chest. He stops and turns just as Merrick screams. He shoots a massive swollen creature, which promptly explodes into a putrid black mess. Asuka, ignoring the stench and refuse on their bodies and pooling across the sidewalk, returns to the wires.

“More are coming!” Merrick says.

Nearly there.

Almost.

The truck begins to slide away from Asuka. Slowly at first. He nearly doesn’t notice.

“A-Asuka?” Merrick sounds frightened.

Asuka straightens and turns. A monster taking methodical steps on its tentacle-like feet starts to slip and fall. Asuka checks his watch.

11:59 p.m.

Shit.

The city makes a sudden lurch. Asuka is thrown off his feet and collides with a lamppost. He slides upward, scrambling for purchase at the crosswalk lights before hooking his arms around the bend of the post. The starless night is suddenly below Asuka, and Merrick screams as he falls into the sky.

Asuka lunges and catches Merrick’s arm. He’s hanging precariously from the lamp as debris and monsters sink into the darkness. “Don’t let go!”

The Devil squats upside down on the lamppost beside Asuka. He taps a cigarette against his silver case. “Hello, little bird.”

“Stop this right now!” Asuka demands.

“Wh-who’s that?” Merrick cries at the Devil’s appearance. His hold is slipping. He lets go of his book so he can grab on to Asuka with both hands.

The Devil takes a drag from his cigarette. “I said to ask Mr. Grace about Phobetor. I never said he could go to the Underworld with you.”

“Do you want me to do you this favor or no?” Asuka barks.

The Devil stands, still upside down, and stares at Merrick eye-to-eye. “Living souls cannot enter. Not anymore.”

“But Odysseus—” Merrick tries to say. “Odysseus went to the Underworld!”

The Devil’s left eye twitches. “No more heroes. The ferryman will not come.” He smiles. “Except for the dead or those whose souls are already in the Underworld.”

Merrick slips a bit more and yelps. “Asuka!”

“I’m not letting go!” Asuka promises.

The Devil reaches out and puts his finger underneath Merrick’s chin. “Want to make a deal?”

“No!” Asuka screams as he hears the words slide from the Devil’s mouth. “Merrick! Say no!”

Merrick’s wide eyes look between the Devil and Asuka. He swallows. “N-no,” he stutters obediently.

The Devil sounds a dissatisfied grunt. He cocks his head at an unnatural angle and stares at Asuka. “Don’t fail me.”

Asuka and Merrick stand at the foot of the lamppost. They look at each other. Monsters are falling from the sky, hitting the road with explosive splats.

“Go!” Asuka says, pushing Merrick to the truck.

Asuka unstraps his sword, throws it into the bed of the pickup, finishes with the wires, and climbs behind the wheel as the engine roars to life. He backs out of the parking spot and speeds down the road. Asuka dodges the plummeting masses with the skill of a patrol officer who’d excelled in rigorous driving courses and techniques while on the force.

A monster is caught on a traffic light, and the balloon-like flesh tears, raining black oil down on the truck as they pass underneath.

“Who was that?” Merrick finally demands.

Asuka turns on the windshield wipers. The greasy substance covers the glass in a fine glossy coating.

“What was that? The—the world was upside down. Right? I didn’t imagine that?”

“Forget it.”

“Like hell!” Merrick turns to face Asuka in the cab. “Make a deal? What the fuck does that mean?”

Asuka tightens his hands on the steering wheel. “Never agree to a deal if one is offered to you. Got it?”

Merrick swallows. “Do—do you mean to say that was the Devil?”

Asuka glances sideways at Merrick but doesn’t respond.

“Oh my God….” Merrick sags back against the door. “Is he really not going to allow us into—” He cuts himself off at further realization. “You sold your soul,” he states simply.

Suddenly.

His voice is so soft.

A whisper of disbelief.

Asuka says nothing as they shoot past the James A. Farley Post Office—abandoned construction barriers lining the sidewalk from a project never seen to fruition—the entrance to Penn Station at Madison Square Garden, and through the empty intersection of Thirty-Fourth Street.

“Why?” Merrick asks as he turns to stare through the streaked mess on the windshield.

“I had few other options at the time.”

“No, I don’t—it’s not my business, your reasoning for selling it.”

Asuka looks at Merrick again.

“I meant, why are you helping the Devil?”

“Phobetor is beginning to infect the Underworld,” Asuka replies. “If I stop the nightmares, the Devil has agreed to return my soul.” His throat is tight, and his voice shakes just a little as he speaks again. “I can’t dream without my soul. Literally….”

He feels Merrick’s stare again.

“Or conceptually,” Merrick murmurs as the final pieces of the puzzle that is Asuka Kawashima falls into place.

“Yes.”

They are silent for another block.

“It’s between Eighth and Ninth,” Merrick finally says.

Asuka swears and slams on the brakes at the corner. He leaves the engine idling as he gets out of the truck. “Come on,” he calls. He fetches his sword, straps it to his holster, and meets Merrick on the sidewalk.

Merrick reaches up, places a hand on Asuka’s cheek, and pulls him down into a kiss. It’s a promise of some kind, but Asuka is unable to translate its meaning.

They run down the one-way-traffic street. Merrick skids to a halt outside of a heavy, unassuming door. He puts a foot on the wall and yanks it open. They slip inside a makeshift indoor alley and pass by several dumpsters—a nauseating combination of food waste, soiled and weather-worn furniture, and the distinct odor of piss fills their nostrils.

Merrick stops outside of a service elevator and hits the button. The doors sluggishly open with a groan that echoes through the hall with its overarching ceiling. They step inside, the doors shut, and Merrick chooses the fourth floor.

V

HE GOES by the name John Smith, and he specializes in putting people under. It’s a broad concept—whatever under means to the individual is what they are capable of experiencing in this drug-induced state.

He is waiting outside of the elevator doors when Asuka and Merrick reach the fourth floor. He gives them both a wide smile. With a finger to his lips, John motions for them to follow in silence.

The hall burns bright with the orange glow of too many incandescent bulbs. There are gurneys wherever they’ll fit—men and women from all walks of life, fast asleep. Others lie limp in chairs, some simply curled into balls on the hardwood floor. They all are desperate for the simple dreams, happy dreams, profound dreams they used to have. It is not nirvana they wish to experience, but the contentment robbed from them five years ago. John Smith promises a moment of peace from the nightmares, a night they can safely sleep and not fear becoming infected before awaking.

It makes Asuka sick to see what his fellow city dwellers are willing to reduce themselves to. Motionless heaps sprawled on the floor, high on a dangerous chemical dream of wild flowers, rainbows, and their childhood puppy who is still living in that space between long-term memory and abstractness.

This is no longer a fight merely for his soul.

And it’s not a fight for Asuka’s right to dream and hope and wish again.

It’s a battle.

A battle for the unconsciousness of every human being who has survived and persevered through the relentless horror and monstrosities. It’s a battle to turn the lights off at night and not fear the nightmares.

And it’s for Merrick. So he never finds himself on the raw end of a deal.

John steps over a man crumpled in front of a door, opens it, and ushers them inside. The room is crammed with shelves from floor to ceiling. There are hundreds of glass bottles, from pill-size containers to gallon jugs. Labels are taped on the front, and a note is written in sloppy cursive as to its contents.

“So what is it you wish to dream of?” John asks once Asuka has shut the door behind them.

“This isn’t a typical under,” Merrick warns.

John grins and shrugs. “What’s typical?”

“I need to visit the Underworld,” Asuka states.

John doesn’t appear shocked by the request. Thoughtful, perhaps. “That’s quite the journey.”

“Money isn’t a problem,” Asuka replies.

“I require half up front.”

“So it’s possible?” Merrick interrupts. “To send Asuka not to a dream version, but the actual place?”

“Sure it is,” John replies heartily before his expression turns somber. “For ten thousand dollars.”

“John!” Merrick proclaims.

John puts a finger to his lips again. “Shh….” He shifts his gaze to the door to make his point. “They pay a lot to sleep here.”

“It’s fine,” Asuka says. He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and tosses the entire thing at John. “Pin number is six, six, five, two.”

John examines the contents as he sits himself down in front of a computer at the end of the room. He’s quiet as he types, then eventually spins around in the chair. “Checking or savings?”

“You can have both if this works,” Asuka states.

John smiles again. He’s on his feet, poking about the shelves of ingredients. “You’ll need forget-me-nots,” he says, pulling down a small jar from overhead. “And river water. Merrick, second from the bottom, if you please.”

Merrick stoops and carefully pulls a big jug from the low shelf. He walks across the room and sets it on a worktable.

Asuka takes a step out of the way and backs himself up to the wall.

“Lamb’s blood,” John continues, grabbing a mason jar of a foul-looking liquid. He hands off the contents to Merrick, who places it beside the river water. “Who do you intend to visit in the Underworld?”

Asuka squares his shoulders. “Phobetor.”

John shoots Merrick a quizzical look.

“Oneiroi,” Merrick replies. “He’s one of the Dream Brothers.”

“Huh.” John looks at Asuka once more, but he doesn’t question his motives. “Then you’ll need poppies,” he states. John grabs another jar and passes it to Merrick.

“A black feather will help,” Merrick says as he sets the poppies on the table.

John turns around. “I’ve just the thing.” He goes to the opposite wall. “And this will be a double dose?”

“No,” Asuka says quickly. “I’m going alone.”

John has a hand resting on a large jug. He looks from Asuka to Merrick and back again. “The journey through the Underworld is no easy task. A hero hasn’t made the voyage in a long time. You’ll go without aid? Merrick is extremely well versed in the tales.”

Asuka feels uncomfortable. How much did Merrick open himself up to a chaotic-neutral man such as John in the past?

But it’s not his place to judge.

After all, Asuka sold his soul.

He may have been lawful once.

But that was a long time ago.

Asuka takes in a breath through his nose and gradually releases it. “The Underworld is closed off to men who still have souls. Mine’s already down there.”

John shrugs and again seems unfazed. “Very well.” He lifts the jug and walks it to the worktable. He takes a seat, pulls on a pair of goggles and gloves, and measures, snips, and mixes the ingredients. “You won’t be able to simply lie down and fall asleep,” he says over his work. “After all, it isn’t your intention to dream of the Underworld.”

“What do I need to do?” Asuka asks.

“Inject this.” John raises a beaker and swirls the concoction. “And then take the plunge.”

Asuka narrows his eyes.

“Jump into a river,” Merrick clarifies. “I think it’ll work as a crossover to the River Styx.”

“Grab some coins, Merrick,” John says. “On the shelf in front of you—eye level.”

Merrick goes to the jars and scans a few labels before picking one. Heavy coins clink against the glass as he shakes two free. He offers them to Asuka. “Payment to be ferried across.”

Asuka pockets the coins. “Where will I find Phobetor?”

“In a field of poppies will be a cave. Inside the cave will be a gateway. Nightmares used to pass through the gate made of ivory—for false dreams that cannot hurt us.” Merrick frowns. “But I’m certain that they’re now passing through the gate of horn—true dreams. Whatever you plan to do, Phobetor must not be allowed to dream through the gate of horn. That’s only for his brothers, Morpheus and Phantasos.”

Asuka nods. “I understand. How do I return?”

Merrick bites his lip. “I’m not sure.”

“Heroes always find a way out of a pickle,” John says, not looking up from his work.

“I’m no hero,” Asuka answers.

Merrick slips his hands into Asuka’s. “You are,” he whispers. “You’ll stop Phobetor. You’ll regain your soul. I feel it in the marrow of my bones.”

Asuka smiles, just a little. He raises Merrick’s hand and kisses it. “I’ll come back to you.”

It isn’t hope.

It isn’t a dream.

It is truth.

Merrick returns the smile. “I know you will.”

VI

THE TRUCK’S engine is still idling at the corner of Thirty-Eighth and Eighth.

Asuka climbs in and pulls onto the road. He speeds through Hell’s Kitchen on his way toward Twelfth Avenue. The Hudson River Greenway is on the water, just a few blocks south of the cruise ship terminal. There are a few cars at the intersection. Horns blare as Asuka cuts through without consideration of traffic lights. He spins the wheel and brings the stolen truck to a sudden stop outside of a seafood restaurant on the pier.

There are fewer inhabitants on the edge of the island, so there are less lights.

Asuka grabs the syringe resting on the seat, gets out of the cab, and retrieves his sword once more. He sees movement from the corner of his eye while strapping the weapon to his back.

There are monsters coming.

He flicks on the chest flashlight and moves silently to the barrier at the water’s edge. Asuka peers over. The water gently laps back and forth. A nearby howl causes a series of ripples to shatter the mirrorlike surface.

No time to waste.

Asuka holds the syringe between his teeth and quickly rolls up the sleeve of his shirt. He pops the protective cover off, takes a breath, and then plunges the needle into his skin. He injects the mixture and a dizzying wave of nausea accompanies it.

The cries of monsters are getting louder.

Blood pounds in Asuka’s ears. He stumbles and grabs for the rail to steady himself. His vision doubles and blurs.

A trash can nearby is overthrown. A screech sounds so loud, so high-pitched, it shatters a streetlamp.

Asuka is engulfed in darkness. He grips the rail hard and forces himself to climb up and over.

The monsters are here.

Asuka shuts his eyes.

And jumps.

ASUKA SWIMS upward. His lungs burn and ache for oxygen.

Everything and nothing is gray, save for that single ray of light shining from overhead.

It’s the only hope Asuka has. He pushes himself—harder, farther—keeps swimming even when he no longer can. And as he reaches for the lone light, his fingers break the surface, cool air caressing his wet skin.

Asuka propels himself and bursts out of the water gasping and coughing. His throat is raw and his chest heaves. He wipes the water from his eyes and takes his first look around.

The water is gray. The sky is gray. The wind is gray.

Asuka swims toward the barrier and grabs the metal bars. He hoists himself up and over, and his waterlogged body lands hard on asphalt. Asuka looks around.

He’s in New York City.

But something’s not quite right.

It’s… daytime. At least, Asuka suspects it to be.

But there are no cars.

No people.

No… nothing.

Asuka reaches into his soaked pants and confirms the coins are still in his pocket. He’s supposed to supply them for safe crossing over the river.

But what river?

Where’s the field of poppies?

The cave?

Merrick couldn’t have gotten it all wrong, could he?

Asuka takes a few slow, steady breaths, then starts across the desolate intersection of Twelfth Avenue. He makes his way down Forty-First Street.

There are no delivery vans. No dumpsters. No garbage.

“Hello?” he calls.

Nothing but the wind replies.

Asuka checks his watch.

11:59 p.m.

He’s not surprised.

“Sad, isn’t it?”

Asuka looks up.

The Devil stands in front of him.

“Where are all your souls?”

The Devil reaches into his pockets and pulls out handfuls of keys. “I save the ones I can find. The others?” He shrugs and returns them. “Some are made into monsters and travel into man’s world. Some the nightmares feast on.”

Asuka narrows his eyes.

The Devil looks… forlorn.

Asuka begins walking again and says, “You miss them.”

The Devil falls into step with him. “My brother does nothing but sleep. Death can be a lonely enterprise. These souls have kept me company for a long time.”

Asuka takes this response in without comment. He then notices, with a minor delay, that his clothes are dry. He turns to the Devil, but Asuka is alone.

He stops walking. Asuka requires a location that is big enough—monumental enough—to need passage from one side to another. He rubs his chin thoughtfully.

Times Square?

THE INTERSECTION of Forty-Second and Seventh is gray.

Empty.

Shuttered and silent.

Asuka is unnerved by the ability to hear his own footsteps. He comes to a stop at the crosswalk painted on the street. The asphalt ripples like water. He crouches down and hesitantly puts his hand on the surface. It dips in like liquid, and then Asuka is yanked hard. He falls forward and struggles to tear free from what has his arm in a viselike grip.

A face breaks the surface, crying and moaning. It tries to drag Asuka down into the river.

Asuka swears. The soul is attracting attention.

More rise to the surface of the intersection and grab for Asuka. He pulls his pistol free and blindly fires flares at the faces grabbing for him. They scream and sink below the painted asphalt.

“Jesus!” Asuka is free and breathes hard as he crawls backward.

Quiet settles over him again.

Asuka looks up as a small boat crosses not far from him.

The ferryman.

“Hey!” Asuka gets to his feet and reaches into his pocket. He removes the coins and holds them up. “I need passage!”

A figure stands at the stern, leaning on an oar. He cocks his head in Asuka’s direction.

Asuka doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. Just keeps holding the coins out.

The ferryman eventually dips his oar into the river and crosses the intersection. He stops at the crosswalk and reaches out. His hand is thin, and the fingers are too long to be human. His face is obscured by the hoodie of an oversized sweatshirt.

“I’m seeking Phobetor,” Asuka says with grim determination.

The ferryman startles and draws his hand back.

“He’s in a cave, outside a field of poppies.”

The ferryman doesn’t deny this but says nothing either.

Asuka frowns. “Will you take me to where the West Side and East Side meet or no?”

The ferryman seems to consider the request. He once again reaches out. Asuka drops the coins into his palm. The skin is taut. The ferryman pockets the coins and waits.

Asuka climbs into the boat and sits on the small board at the bow.

The ferryman pushes off the bank of the crosswalk, and the boat glides through Times Square. Each dip of the oar into the river brings up the cries of the few souls remaining in the Underworld. Perhaps these ones, forever drowning, were once men who ran afoul in life, who made bad decisions, or who hurt others. Maybe they are unwelcome in the more… restful parts of the Underworld.

Wherever those may be.

There are a few monsters on the banks of the river as they move between avenues. Asuka shoots their bloated black bodies with flare cartridges, and they drop dead. One screeches from the side of a building it’s climbing. Asuka stands, careful not to rock the tiny boat. He unhooks his sword as the monster jumps and flies directly toward them. Asuka raises his glowing blade and then swings as if it were a bat, slicing the monster in two.

Greasy refuse sprays him and the ferryman as the top portion of the nightmare topples over the edge and into the river. The bottom portion—tentacle appendages still twitching—lies in the boat. Asuka stabs it and hoists the carcass up. The muscles in his arms bulge and flex as he heaves the disgusting slop into the Styx.

Asuka wipes his brow on the sleeve of his shirt.

A ghostly, faraway-sounding laugh comes from the direction of the ferryman.

Asuka turns as the ferryman flicks his hand, oil dripping from his fingertips. “Sorry,” Asuka says.

THE BOAT lurches to a sudden stop at Fifth Avenue. Asuka grabs the sides to steady himself. He looks over his shoulder. The ferryman is pointing a long finger in the direction of downtown.

The New York Public Library.

Not a cave, but certainly a marvelous feat of marble and human ingenuity three stories tall. And it’s one of the few places in the city where the atmosphere is intentionally quiet so one can work—or dream—in peace.

Asuka climbs out of the boat and puts his feet on the solid sidewalk.

“Little bird.”

Asuka turns.

The Devil is sitting where he had just been seconds before. He’s smoking a cigarette. “My brother is very busy.”

Asuka doesn’t respond.

“He’s not noticed what Phobetor has done. It’s not his fault.” The Devil taps ash that doesn’t exist. “Don’t break his heart by telling him.”

The Devil reaches into his coat and removes a card. He extends it outward. Asuka accepts it. It’s a New York Public Library card with his name on it.

Asuka is silent. The ferryman turns the boat with practiced ease. As it floats back the way they’d come, the Devil dips his hand into the water and comforts the crying souls.

They disappear around the corner and Asuka is alone again.

With his sword still in hand, Asuka walks to the end of the block. He stops in front of the lion statues, Patience and Fortitude, that flank either side of the steps to the main doors. The stairs are covered in millions of red poppies, seemingly sprouting from the cement itself in violent determination.

Asuka goes into the library.

VII

THE READING Room.

This is where Asuka is going. He’s seen no one else in the vast expanse until he reaches the third floor. Outside of an elegant, arching doorway made of richly colored wood—which here in the Underworld is nothing but a bland shade of gray—are two signs.

Visitors to the left.

Quiet Study Zone to the right.

There is a constant rotation of men and women, dressed in the same outdated fashion as the Devil, parading out of the Quiet Study Zone hall. They walk past Asuka without any sort of acknowledgment, as if he is invisible or they are completely indifferent toward his existence. Every single one holds a hardcover book under one arm.

Asuka lowers his sword when he realizes the… librarians?… are of no threat. He cocks his head in order to catch the titles embossed in golden font on the covers.

They all read the same.

Nightmare.

And under each is the name of a person. The names mean nothing to Asuka, but he understands now. These are the dreams being delivered to humanity.

The Quiet Zone must be the gate of horn.

Asuka takes a few more steps forward and leans into the open doorway. The procession seems never-ending, but silent, somehow, like the librarians wear rubber-soled shoes. He quickly moves to the far wall to avoid being caught in the midst of their duties and spares a glance back the way he came. The librarians get about halfway down the hall Asuka had taken to reach the Reading Room, before they simply snap out of existence.

Strange.

But not the strangest occurrence Asuka has experienced.

Keeping his weapon lowered and his back to the wall, Asuka slides into the main room. The length of it spans over two city blocks. The walls are lined with bookshelves, and the floor layout is a perfect organization of study tables, chairs, and lamps. Lines of librarians in three-piece suits and ankle-length dresses file out of a single doorway at the end, weaving in and out of the tables and eventually reaching the book-return counter. They appear to patiently stand in line, then go out to the hall Asuka entered from.

Everything is quite beautiful, even for this inside-out interpretation of reality.

Asuka takes a step forward, and his boots sound on the marble floor.

A librarian at a podium directly in front of him raises her finger and says, “Shh….” She then taps the sign hanging from the pedestal.

No Weapons

Asuka glances at his sword and back at her.

She raises an eyebrow.

He hesitantly extends the grip. The librarian comes around the podium and accepts the sword. She walks back and stuffs it into shelving where it cannot possibly fit. She then takes Asuka’s double holsters and puts them away in her podium.

The librarian extends her hand once more.

Asuka shakes his head. He has no other—oh. He pulls out the library card from his pocket.

She nods.

He offers it to her.

She takes it, reads the name, then places it inside her podium with his gear.

Asuka hesitantly moves toward the return desk, and when she doesn’t stop him, he figures he’s obeying the rules accordingly. There are several large windows open at the long desk, but they appear unmanned, as the librarians are all gathered into a single-file line. Asuka leans into an empty window and studies the employees-only section. A man sits in a chair, but Asuka cannot see what he’s doing with the books brought to him from the other side of the counter.

Making sure the podium woman isn’t watching him, Asuka jumps up, slides his legs in through the window first, and lands on the opposite side. He approaches the man and can see he opens each book entitled Nightmare, stamps the due date card, then hands it back.

The man yawns in between each stamping.

Asuka wishes Merrick is here. He doesn’t know this man’s name.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs.

The man leans back in his chair. He looks at Asuka, gives him the briefest of once-overs, then returns to stamping.

“Are you the Devil’s brother?”

He chuckles. “Our names have certainly changed over time.”

“What do I call you?”

“Sleep.”

Huh.

“Are you—related to the Dreams?”

“They are my sons,” Sleep says before yawning once more.

“I see.” Asuka watches the next librarian approach the window and extend a book to Sleep. “What are you doing?”

“Approving sleep cycles and dreams to be dreamed.”

“Of course,” Asuka quickly says, as if he should have known that. “I’m sure you’re very busy.”

Sleep leans forward on the counter, suddenly drops his head against the solid wood with a thud, and begins to snore peacefully.

Asuka startles and looks toward the line of librarians. They’ve all stopped, standing still where they are, heads down and shoulders slumped. Everything remains as such for nearly a minute.

Sleep sits up again. He yawns wide enough to crack his jaw, then accepts the next book in line. Asuka watches this happen at random and without warning several times over the course of nearly thirty minutes. In this time, he also watches where the librarians are coming from. The room at the back is a special room.

Invitation only.

He remembers this from visits to the real library before life was turned upside down.

Sleep’s head drops onto the tabletop again with a loud bang. The librarians come to a halt. Everything is still. Asuka creeps forward as Sleep rests deeply. On the wall beside him are a number of pockets containing paper permits. They allow passage to restricted locations within the library. Asuka reaches over Sleep’s head and grabs one marked Rare Books & Manuscripts. It slips and flutters free from Asuka’s hand and lands on Sleep.

Asuka freezes.

A noise sounds from within the Reading Room. Asuka looks out the window as a librarian in line shudders and convulses. Its gray garb and skin tear away as if it is a costume, pooling to the floor like rubber another can put on and wear. A bulging black nightmare with writhing tentacles chomps its massive mouth.

Sleep continues to snore.

Asuka ducks back out of view and listens to the monster drag its disgusting husk out of the Reading Room in search of souls to eat in the Underworld. A faraway screech echoes from the library stairwell.

Safe, Asuka slowly reaches for the fallen permit and then for Sleep’s stamp. He utilizes it to mark the form as APPROVED in bold letters cracking from age and use.

Sleep awakens and raises his head.

Asuka takes a step backward.

He yawns, stretches his neck from side to side, and motions for the next librarian.

“I’ll leave you to your work,” Asuka says politely.

Sleep hums in acknowledgment as he stamps another book.

Asuka turns and climbs back through the unmanned window he’d entered. His boots hit the marble with a loud clap, and the podium librarian hushes him again. Asuka bows his head in apology. He carefully moves across the floor so his steps don’t make a sound. When he reaches the librarian, Asuka offers her his permit.

She takes the paper, studies the stamp, and nods sagely. The librarian motions for Asuka to follow her, and they head in the direction the parade of gray people originates from. Librarians carrying copies of Nightmare exit the locked door as if they were ghosts, passing through like nothing stood in their path at all. Podium librarian reaches her hand through the knob.

Click.

The door gently swings open before Asuka.

She motions once again with a finger to her lips, then leaves Asuka alone.

The parade continues, uninterrupted.

He swallows and enters the restricted room.

VIII

PHOBETOR IS a thing of beauty. A perfect specimen of man—if he were at all… a man. He’s massive in build—a giant over fifteen feet in height—completely naked, and sitting hunched on the floor in front of a table that he dwarfs. A pair of small black wings protrude from either side of his head. He plucks a new feather free for each copy of Nightmare, and he uses it as a quill to write the book before passing it to an awaiting librarian.

Three of the walls appear to be bookcases behind protective glass. The ones on either side have rows and rows of priceless books from floor to ceiling. A staircase separates the lower and upper levels for easier access. The wall directly behind Phobetor, however, does not house books. Instead, there are two nearly identical giants, one on top and one on bottom, locked away behind the glass.

Morpheus and Phantasos, no doubt.

Asuka reaches for his sword but grasps only air.

Shit.

No weapons.

Phobetor looks away from his book as he plucks another feather free from his head. “What are you?” His voice is so loud and deep, it rattles chairs and shelved books alike.

Asuka notices from the corner of his eye that the librarians are all gone. He is alone with the origin of nightmares.

“I am Asuka Kawashima.”

“I didn’t ask who,” Phobetor rumbles. “I asked what.”

Asuka doesn’t answer right away. He feels the weight of Merrick’s mouth on his. Feels Merrick’s hands in his own. Merrick’s belief warms Asuka’s cold, neglected heart in ways he never could have imagined.

He squares his shoulders and raises his head to look up at Phobetor. “I’m a hero on a journey.”

Phobetor screams. He throws the book in his hand and lunges at Asuka.

Asuka jumps back. He dodges and rolls under a table as Phobetor’s fist slams into the door. Wood cracks and splinters. Phobetor screams again and picks up the table Asuka is under. He throws it and shatters cases on the left side of the room. Books tumble to the floor and are covered in shards of glass like sprinkles on a cake.

“I’m never taken seriously!” Phobetor roars. He grabs for Asuka again, but his bigger, bulkier form has trouble keeping up in the enclosed space. “Not by my brothers! Not by the gates! Not by man! It’s my turn!”

Asuka is under the second row of tables, moving fast on his hands and knees. He comes across the feather Phobetor had plucked from his head before being interrupted. Asuka stomps on it as he climbs to his feet.

Phobetor roars as if in pain and grabs his head in both hands.

Asuka lifts his boot and looks down at the mangled plumage.

A black feather will help, he recalls Merrick saying.

He stares upward. Phobetor’s power is in his wings.

Asuka turns and races up the stairs to the second level. Phobetor slams his hand into the steps and destroys future access. Asuka has a single chance. He runs along the corridor and climbs onto the banister. When Phobetor faces him, Asuka jumps.

He lands on Phobetor’s head, slips, and slides onto the appendage just above his ear. Asuka hoists himself up on the wing, holds where the bend is, and yanks it backward with all his might. Phobetor reaches up, grabs Asuka, and tries to tug him free. But as he does, there’s a loud snap and a spurt of blood.

Phobetor’s scream shakes the very foundation of the library. Plaster falls from the ceiling, and the marble floors crack. Asuka gives the wing another swift yank and tears it completely free from Phobetor’s head. Phobetor crashes to the floor, his naked body shivering.

Asuka leaps down, tosses the bloody appendage across the room, then climbs onto Phobetor’s shoulder. He reaches for the second wing and snaps it back brutally fast and hard.

“I’m sorry,” Asuka says over the sounds of blood-curdling defeat. “But I cannot allow you to kill any more innocent people. I cannot allow you to snuff out the souls who reside here in the Underworld.”

Asuka tears the second wing free. He’s soaked in blood as he climbs off the giant and drops to the floor. He turns around to throw the wing in the direction of the first but pauses. That’s when he sees the two other giants are awake and watching him behind their glass prisons.

Asuka plucks a large feather free and tosses the rest of the wing aside. He warily approaches the lower-level case, where Morpheus stares with intense rainbow-colored eyes. He brings his finger to the glass and taps it near where there is a lock on Asuka’s side. Asuka pushes the shaft of the feather into the lock, and the glass from the lower and upper levels melt like water.

Asuka takes several steps backward.

The giants unfold from their cramped prisons and stand, glorious and naked before Asuka.

“My name is Asuka Kawashima,” he states. “And it was necessary that I kill your brother.”

“Why?” Morpheus asks, and his voice echoes as if three of him are speaking.

“I sold my soul to protect humanity,” Asuka answers. “This was the only way for me to uphold my promise and make my sacrifice worth the pain.”

He does not mention their uncle, the Devil, has requested Asuka destroy Phobetor. He does not want to cause family drama. Asuka is amused that he even considers the needs of the Devil. He may be without a soul, but perhaps his heart has been beating all along.

Phantasos crouches to be level with Asuka. His eyes are completely black. “Have our father and uncle survived his nightmares?”

“They have.”

Phantasos stands again and seems to converse with Morpheus through thought alone.

“We accept your decision,” Morpheus says after profound silence.

Asuka closes his eyes and expels a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. When he opens them again, the furniture, books, broken glass, and giants alike are floating.

Frozen.

Suspended.

Asuka checks his watch for the last time.

11:59 p.m.

He turns around to see the Devil standing in the shattered doorway. He’s holding a skeleton key in one hand. “This is for you.”

Asuka marches toward him. “No strings attached? Everything will be as it was before? Don’t be coy and send me back to when I’m falling to my death.”

“I promise to do no such thing. Everything will be nightmare-free, and you may dream your dreams until sweet death.” The Devil smiles that wide smile and holds the key out in the palm of his hand. “When we will finally meet again.”

Asuka looks from side to side. The poised glass surrounding him is like a Polaroid was taken just as a chandelier crashed to the floor. It reminds him of their fateful meeting, so many years ago.

But the journey is at its end.

Asuka reaches and accepts the key.

“Now you must leave,” the Devil warns. “Living souls are not welcomed here.” He raises his hand, holds his fingers together, and says, “Good luck.” Then he snaps.

The room crashes in on itself as Morpheus and Phantasos fall to the floor. Asuka dashes from Rare Books & Manuscripts and runs through the Reading Room. Dozens of librarians turn and hush him. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow—as the marble floor cracks and gives way under his feet. Asuka races out via the Quiet Study Zone and all but flies down the three flights of stairs.

The sky above him as he runs from the library is breaking like a mirror. The poppies burst into millions of birds and take flight as Asuka runs through them. He reaches the corner of Forty-Second and Fifth.

There is no boat.

There is no ferryman.

The Underworld rumbles and shakes.

Asuka takes a running start, and like a bird, soars over the river.

IX

ASUKA WAKES from a deep sleep with a start. The falling dream nearly throws him from the bed. He catches his breath and at first is horrified.

The lights are off.

The monsters will—no.

Not… not anymore.

Right?

Asuka sits up.

Footsteps sound above his head. Someone is on the roof.

He looks down at himself. He’s naked. This isn’t a shock. It’s August in New York and his AC unit is most definitely still broken.

But how did he get back here? From the Underworld?

Most importantly, can he dream?

Asuka isn’t certain. He doesn’t feel any different.

He climbs out of bed and grabs his black jeans from the floor. There are no stains from the grease of monsters or blood from his battle with Phobetor. The discarded shirt is also clean. Asuka puts that on as well, buttons the front, and tucks it in. The steps above him sound once more, louder and more insistent this time.

He gives the ceiling a brief glare and grabs his boots. He yanks them on and leaves the apartment to investigate. Tenants know they aren’t allowed up there.

He goes to the end of the hall and opens a door. Asuka hikes the steep set of stairs leading to the rooftop and stops abruptly at the access door.

A skeleton key rests in the lock.

It’s familiar.

It’s his.

Asuka’s hand shakes as he turns the key and the door creaks open.

Music fills the night. Merrick is practicing a number of swing moves. No one particular dance, just anything his heart desires. He stops when he hears the door drag and groan against the rooftop. He flashes Asuka a smile.

Asuka steps into the humid night, takes Merrick’s hands into his, and hope fills him up.

12:00 a.m.

C.S. POE is a Lambda Literary and EPIC award finalist author of gay mystery, romance, and paranormal books.

She is a reluctant mover and has called many places home in her lifetime. C.S. has lived in New York City, Key West, and Ibaraki, Japan, to name a few. She misses the cleanliness, convenience, and limited-edition gachapon of Japan, but she was never very good at riding bikes to get around.

She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best on a daily basis to sidetrack her from work.

C.S. is a member of the International Thriller Writers organization.

Website: cspoe.com

Wonderland City

By Rhys Ford

When Xander Spade went through the Looking Glass, he wasn’t looking for salvation. He’d been running from the devil who took his soul, only to fall prey to the greatest monster in Wonderland City, the Queen of Hearts. Years later, the Queen is dead and Xander has a chance to go through the Looking Glass and back home where he belongs.

Xander’s devil wants him to find a little girl who escaped into Wonderland City, before her presence brings down an apocalypse of uncontrollable chaos to the already mad world. Along with Jean Michel, the former Knave of Hearts, Xander now is in a race against time to find the missing child before all Hell breaks loose and he loses his chance to go home.

To Lisa, the Maddest of Hatters and the most Alice of Alices.

Acknowledgments

I WANT to thank the Five, and my sisters-in-arms, as well as Dreamspinner Press for having my back.

And a huge shout-out and all the coffee (coffee-tea for one of the whackos) to my partners in this anthology: The Co-Jordans, Hawk and Castillo Price; Ginn Hale; C.S. Poe; and of course, my beloved Jabberwocky, TA Moore. Thanks for the ride, babes. Time to take over the worlds.

Of course, my dearest fondest affection and admiration for Lewis Carroll and the worlds he shared with me. Thank you for taking me there and back again on the most wonderful of adventures.

One

FUNNY THING about Wonderland City—even after decades of living behind the looking glass, I’m still fucking surprised by how weird it gets.

Like how the hell does a five-foot-tall White Rabbit in cargo shorts and a fedora get his damned hairy paw to work a shotgun trigger?

“I am so fucking sick of chasing that damned rabbit,” I muttered at the knee-high hedgehog crouched into a quivering ball next to me. He didn’t look up, and I didn’t blame him. The dumpster we were hiding next to had already taken more than its share of damage from the sporadic wide-spray shots the rabbit was packing, and from the itch forming on my scalp, I knew I’d be picking pulverized brick grit out of my hair later.

If there was a later.

Back before I met the Devil and bled my soul out into his hands, I’d have thought chasing a cigar-munching white bunny with pink eyes was something I’d only run into after I chewed on a few peyote buttons.

Now it was a typical Tuesday.

Another blast struck the wall above our heads, and it let loose a storm of rubble. The hedgehog squeaked and impossibly seemed to roll into a tighter ball. His worn felt top hat was on the ground by his back feet, the brim soaking up a bit of the sewer water that dripped from the cracked metal dumpster. Its obviously hand-knitted pink scarf had become a rosary of sorts during the trouble we’d stumbled into. He methodically skimmed his tiny fingers over its tassels, from left to right.

“I just need a clear shot of the bastard,” I informed my bristly friend. “It’s just that he’s so damned fast.”

Mister Hedgehog lifted his head up just enough to give me a withering look and narrow his beady brown eyes with a clear judgment of my intelligence. “He’s a rabbit.”

Even if I had a snappy reply, I didn’t get to answer him, because my bounty, with his seemingly endless supply of shotgun shells, peppered the dumpster again and pushed me back from its edge.

The street had been teeming with people a few minutes before, but once the rabbit caught sight of me, he pulled a sawed-off shotgun out of God knew where and began to blast up the small open-air marketplace. The commotion sent everyone flying for cover. His aim was poor enough that his first victims were a seedless watermelon and a couple of cantaloupes, but it was enough of a juicy splash to serve notice of what would happen to someone’s head if the rabbit got it right.

There were a couple of women a few feet away who were hunkered down behind a fishmonger’s stall, and every once in a while I could see the stall owner’s tuft of feathers poke out as he moved around. The stall didn’t look very big—certainly not big enough for a griffin to fully hide from a rogue gunman. There were a few people on the ground covering their heads with their hands as they lay facedown on cobblestones. Occasionally one of them would draw the rabbit’s attention when they tried to skitter to the side.

Problem was, hiding behind the dumpster, I couldn’t see when the rabbit’s pink eyes were on someone else, so returning his fire with my revolver was hit-and-miss.

The Beckett Street Marketplace was set up at the end of a cul-de-sac, an old-style courtyard that once hosted tea parties and games of charades played for bored aristocrats and their long-suffering servants. Those days were long gone. The former palace gardens, with their labyrinth of walkways, were now city streets bristling with tenements and factories. But there were still signs of the deposed Queen of Hearts’ kingdom if you knew where to look.

I just tried not to look.

“Stay down,” I told the hedgehog. “I’m going to see if I can get closer.”

He might’ve made a noise, or he could have had gas. Either way, he emitted a long, wavering squeal of a sound and began his tassel counting again.

“I’m not going to let you take me in, Spade!” The rabbit fired another shot, but I couldn’t tell where he was aiming. Someone in the trapped crowd screamed, and the rabbit yelled back, “Shut your face. That was nowhere near you. I’m going to give you all fifteen seconds to get out of here. Then I’m going to come out shooting, and if anyone is in between me and Spade, I hope you’ve made peace with your maker.”

Mister Hedgehog was gone before the rabbit even began counting. He snatched up his top hat, shoved it on his head, and scurried off, his pink scarf flapping behind him. The exodus that followed was as noisy and alarming as a sugar-cube mountain covered with toddlers.

To be honest, I didn’t think the rabbit could count as high as fifteen.

I knew the White Rabbit.

He was what I liked to call a legacy bounty—a dumb-as-a-rock career criminal who couldn’t seem to catch a break, no matter what.

I knew his great-grandfather once, and let’s just say the family was never known for its luck.

The chase was already going to shit by the time the rabbit ducked into the Stews. It was difficult to see the late afternoon sky through the tightly clustered tenements, and the threat of rain clung to the air—a snap of electricity with the crackle of brimstone overlaid the fetid aroma of the warrens. I caught a few glimpses of its milky-sienna cloud cover, and the swirling specks of black ash kicked up from the smokestacks swarmed in a faux murmuration and scattered under the hot June winds. The summer heat never let up, and the incoming storm would only make things muggy and cloying and work the slums’ simmering anger right to the razor’s edge.

If I was lucky, I would be able to grab the rabbit and get out of the Stews before the storm hit.

But much like the rabbit and his ill-fated and now-headless great-grandfather, I was never known for my luck.

The rabbit got up to eight, and then I took my chances.

I didn’t know exactly where the rhino was going, but he gave good cover, especially since he was shuffling on his hands and knees. I timed my sprint, dodged between hulking bodies and shadows, and hoped the rabbit wouldn’t notice a blur of movement going the wrong way. I went down hard on my knee when my foot got caught in the ruffled hem of an old woman’s long dress and my boot slid out from under me. She hit me with her purse and caught my chin with its bamboo handles, but I didn’t stop to check if she was okay. Her elderly, hunched-over body was enough to let me know she was human, from the other side of the looking glass, just like me.

Wonderland City and its people were different, less human. Births were rare and usually not welcome. People—especially the ones who looked human—aged at such a slow rate, it was impossible to tell how old anyone was. Yet I’d never seen a looking-glass person as old as the woman I’d nearly stampeded over. She must’ve been at the end of her life when she traded her soul to come here and was trapped in its eternal amber stasis, where she felt every ache and pain of her decrepit body.

I’d like to say I was smart and made that deal when I was in my late twenties, but if I’d been smart, I never would have said yes to the man with the wicked smile when he found me lying in the middle of the back-country crossroads I’d been dumped on.

So instead I was here—hunting rabbit.

“All I need to make this day extra special is a fat little pony with a flower crown,” I grumbled to myself as I worked across the cobblestones on my belly. Clutching my revolver in one hand made the going difficult, but I couldn’t go into the situation unarmed, especially since the rabbit had a shotgun. “I don’t even know the name to that stupid opera.”

But I hummed it to myself all the way over.

The rabbit hadn’t seen me. I found him holed up against a stack of books that were a moldering pile of cracked spines and damp pages. It hurt to see the novels exposed to the harsh elements of the Stews’ weather, but not a lot of people in Wonderland read. I saw no sign of the bookseller. If I had, I’m not too sure I wouldn’t have shot him too, just for what he let happen to the books.

But I couldn’t get sidetracked, not while the White Rabbit still held the cul-de-sac hostage and I hadn’t gotten paid for the high price placed on his head. I shoved my revolver into the thigh holster I had strapped to my leg and quickly sketched out a plan in my head to take the rabbit down.

It pretty much involved me leaping on top of him and beating him senseless.

As plans went it was a classic and one that worked countless times before, but something was off about the rabbit and I wanted to make sure I got a good look at him before I went in.

His fedora had to be something he inherited from another relative, because uneven slots had been cut out of the crown, giving him space to pull his ears through. A custom hat with ear holes cost a pretty penny, something a down-on-his-luck rabbit would hock for easy cash. Up close he looked like a mangy, bloated version of a child’s pet… if that pet could stand on its hind legs while wielding a shotgun. He’d poked a stick through the trigger guard to give himself something to pull back with both of his paws. But in order to shoot, he had to brace the shotgun against his body. It explained his bad aim and the gunpowder stains on his belly and leg.

I honestly wouldn’t have given him credit for being that smart, but sometimes even the dumbest of people surprise me.

That was another thing about Wonderland City and how long I’d been there. I no longer questioned if a talking animal could be considered people.

I doubt many of them thought the same of me.

He was on his tiptoes, elongating himself to see over the now-thinning migration. The backs of his feet were stained to a mottled soot and thickened with clumps of matted fur and debris. He might’ve been handsome at some point in his life, if someone were into rabbits, but he’d let himself go. His bloated belly was sparsely furred in spots, and I was pretty sure his cargo shorts were held up more by his tail poking out between the seams than by the strength of its buttons at his waistband.

His pink eyes were swollen, a sure sign he was on something. The rabbit’s whiskers were a blur of movement across his muzzle, an elaborate fan dance of frenetic energy no one in their right mind would mistake for anything other than panic. His nails were long, broken off, and yellowed, and his protruding front teeth weren’t much better. His nose was puffy, either from drink or drugs, and one nostril wept copiously, its viscous flow glittered with an incandescent sparkle.

I was worried about him biting me. Those teeth weren’t just for show, and even though I was hard to kill by looking-glass standards, the bacteria in his mouth could be deadly if they got into my bloodstream. I’d been bitten before by an enraged quokka, and the infection it gave me laid me out for two months.

A kingdom had fallen while I lay in that stupor, and when I woke up, my already fucked-up world had gone to shit.

I didn’t even want to imagine what a White Rabbit’s bite could do to me, and from the looks of the gunk on his back claws, if he raked me open with his feet, I’d be just as bad off.

Someone knocked something over at one of the stalls—something heavy and metal that clattered to the cobblestones in a rattle loud enough to wake the dead. The rabbit jerked his head toward the sound. His eyes were wild, their light-blush pupils blown out so wide there was nothing left of his darker-pink irises. Desperation might have made him twitchy, but something else was fueling his paranoia. I must have made a noise, or perhaps the fact that he was a prey animal alerted him to my presence, because his ears twitched toward me and he whipped about, his eyes pinned to my face.

I didn’t wait for him to brace his shotgun. There was no such thing as a fair fight, just fights you could walk away from. That was a motto I lived by. It didn’t matter how I won, as long as I won. If the White Rabbit had learned anything about me, he would have thrown down his weapon and given in, but despite every single time I’d been sent to bring him down, he refused to surrender.

This time he might’ve crossed the line. The police were corrupt and ineffectual, paid to look the other way by powerful men and influential women. Wonderland City was the central buffer point of the old kingdom’s chopped-up remains, and the Queens were supposed to share rulership—keep up with its infrastructure and support its people—but that had fallen by the wayside a long time ago. It was a shining cesspool of sin and decadence, ruled by hardened criminals with deep pockets and long memories.

But there was one thing everyone knew—a dead person couldn’t spend money, and cold hard cash was what kept Wonderland City alive. Its complicated and vast underworld worked hard to protect the average law-abiding citizen. Even in the darkest of corners, a person was relatively safe—or at least during the daytime hours—and assholes like the White Rabbit twitching in front of me endangered that. Nothing motivated justice more than a cut into a gaming hell’s profits, and shooting up the street was going to be a very large black mark against him, but I didn’t care. While the White Rabbit was bad for my client’s business, he was really good for mine.

I jumped him before he could bring the shotgun around and punched him in the nose as I tumbled him over. I was right about the feet. He kicked like a mule and caught me in the nuts and the stomach. I felt the sting across my ribs, but I couldn’t stop to check to see if he’d cut through my shirt. We grappled, and I flung him down to the ground and bashed his head into the cobblestones, but the slick ground caught our momentum and we slid over the slimy layer of muck.

“Oy! Watch what you’re going at!” A ham-sized fist belonging to an enormous human shook with anger in front of my nose when we skidded to a stop against the vegetable stand.

There was barely enough room between the rabbit’s face and mine for the man’s hand, but he shoved it in there anyway. Tightening my legs around the rabbit’s knees, I immobilized him and pinned him to the street. The hand belonged to a burly man who stank of fish and possibly cow shit—a dockside worker coming home after a long shift. He was angry, probably driven by the self-righteous frustration of a man kept poor by circumstance, but I could have used his help back when the White Rabbit was laying down a spray of buckshot.

I didn’t blame him for his rage. As far as he knew, I could’ve been shaking down the rabbit for something and the smelly furred miscreant was in the right. The Stews were a hotbed of criminal activity and treachery, the perfect place for the rabbit to hide, but I knew most of the side streets and tight alleys.

I’d fled to the Stews following the Queen of Hearts’ execution and the fall of her kingdom. Once the revolution stripped the monarchy of its power, I went begging for the means to survive. When I toppled through the looking glass and into a cesspool of corruption and chaos ruled by an old woman with delusions of godlike grandeur, it’d been pretty much an “out of the frying pan and into the fire” situation.

But I needed him to move his fist out from in front of my face and some reassurance that he wasn’t going to finish what the White Rabbit started, so I pulled my gun out and put its muzzle between his eyes.

“Leave off, fool!” Mister Hedgehog was back, standing a few feet away from the fray. My faithless knee-high companion in the black top hat was still working his pink-yarn rosary with a nervous pace, but he leaned forward and hissed at the dockworker as though I couldn’t hear him. “That’s the Queen’s Ace.”

The crowd that had gathered in the brief time the rabbit and I tussled parted away from me as cleanly as though I were a Jabberwocky coming to eat them for lunch. A tense panic ran over the small cluster of people, and most dropped their gaze from my face. But there was always the possibility someone would get it into their head to try to bring me down.

Crowds got ugly if they knew a killer walked among them.

I know.

I had the scars to prove it.

After I secured my bounty’s elbows behind his back, I yanked the rabbit up to his feet, mindful of his back legs. His face was bloodied, and if he survived the night, he probably would have to get that nose looked at if he wanted to breathe through his right nostril again. But for the most part, he was intact—except for the two massive front teeth he’d once sported below those twitchy whiskers.

Those were now lying on the street, shattered like a confessional wafer when pressed too hard by a drunken priest.

“You don’t have to take me in, Spade,” the rabbit lisped as he spit out a mouthful of blood and saliva onto my boot. I ignored the insult. I’d had worse, and at the moment, I wanted to get him out of the rumbling crowd before they forgot he’d been shooting at them and fully remembered who I was. “You could just let me go and tell Jean Michel you couldn’t find me. I just need a little time to get back onto my feet. I’ll pay him. Hell, I’ll pay you to let me go. I used to be someone, you know. Someone big. I’ll be big again.”

“Yeah, the problem with that, rabbit, is this,” I reminded him in a soft voice while I tucked the golden watch that dangled from a chain on his belt into his front pocket. “You don’t pay, and I hate to tell you this, but we all used to be big.”

DANA WAS shrugging on her trench coat by the time I made it back to the office, and she gave me a long, steady glare over her pinched-on spectacles. There was still an odd grace to her movements, although she was long past her prime. She’d ravaged her sleek feline body with a variety of pharmaceuticals and slung her trade at brothels that had little care for their workers and kept all their attention on how much they could wring out of their skins before they tossed them onto the street. She’d never been pretty, not in the way some cats were, but her green eyes were striking still, even if her face was off-kilter from the abuse she’d lived through and her coat was patchy in places.

She’d come to me on a work furlough, participating in a social program meant to get former sex workers on their feet instead of returning to working on their backs.

I don’t know if the program worked, but she’d been with me for two years, and from what I could see, even though her wardrobe still shouted hooker from a hundred yards away, she’d stayed clean. I pretty much paid her to sit on her butt, do my billing, and run my errands, and I didn’t care if she watched television or buffed her nails at work. I didn’t even give a shit when she combed fleas out of what was left of her tail—its end was amputated after it was chewed on by the skittering dust creatures that lurked in most tenement walls.

The only thing I cared about was the work. She got it done and took messages for me. And if she made me a pot of coffee before I got in, I bought her lunch.

Dana was smart in that cunning way that survivors have, and there hardly was a day when I didn’t buy that cat lunch. She was fearless and stood down anyone who came through the front door, because she literally had nothing to lose.

So I was surprised to see her hands shaking while she buttoned up her coat.

“You’ve got a visitor,” she mumbled around the set of keys she had clenched in her mouth. “I put him… whatever that is… in your office. I wasn’t going to let it stay out here with me. If you’re dead when I come in tomorrow, I’m going to empty out petty cash and sell everything I can. You okay with that?”

“Sure. More than okay,” I replied as I gingerly moved out of the doorway to give her room to get out. There wasn’t a lot of space in the front office, enough for a couple of comfortable chairs, Dana’s desk, and a bank of filing cabinets we used to prop up the coffee machine and a few other things. “Want to tell me who you think’s going to kill me?”

“The devil that brought you here,” Dana snarled, and she wrinkled her nose when she caught a whiff of sour rabbit smeared all over me. “Oh, make sure you leave the gun out where I can find it. Because if that bastard offs the one person who gave a shit about me not killing myself, the least I can do is murder him right back.”

Two

THEY ALWAYS say better the devil you know than the one you don’t.

I don’t know who they are, but they don’t know what the shit they’re talking about.

“Well, if it isn’t Xander Spade. It’s been a long time.” Az’s husky, multi-octave voice poured over me and tickled every desire and temptation I’d ever had.

Sprawled out in my executive chair, leaning it back until it thumped against the wall, and with his shoes on my desk, Az was as liquidly graceful as his voice. He was beautiful in a way that hurt the eye, and there was no part of me that believed he was human. His eyes held the stars—a sparkling universe—in their blue depths, and the metallic strands in his long blond hair glinted when he tilted his head back and brought his face into the light. My inner office’s overhead fixture was a poor substitute for the sun, but Az worked with it anyway, basking in its beam and reflecting it back at me.

There was no denying he was a fallen angel. I didn’t need to see the smoky, transparent feathered wings shadowing behind him to know that. As beautiful as he was, he was pure sin, with a wicked mouth and a cunning mind that I knew I could never match.

And since he’d already gotten everything he could out of me—like my soul—I was wondering what the hell he was doing there.

“You look good.” He wiggled his fingers at me, sweeping up and down my body. “Healthier than the last time I saw you. Still rocking the ‘lead guitarist from a hair band’ thing you had going back then, but it works for you.”

“I don’t think a leather jacket and jeans is all that different from what most people are wearing back there now.” I didn’t trust myself to get any closer, but I was tired, and my knees hurt. I’d be damned if I sat in the visitor’s chair in my own office, but sitting on the edge of the desk would bring me too close to him, and I would either want to fuck him or kill him. And since I couldn’t do either, I chose the chair. “Or at least that’s what I got off of the last human I ran into. He said they’re doing things now that I used to read about in sci-fi books. Said his name was Sal. Was he one of yours?”

“Was? I don’t remember a Sal, but it’s not like I really pay attention to everyone’s name.” Az tapped his cheek with his pointed fingernails. “It amuses me that you spend your time playing guess which human is from home. So he was killed before you got to talk to him for long?”

“Yeah, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bad night at a rough club to pick a fight with a minotaur. I only got to chat him up for about five minutes, and then he was gone. He was wearing a T-shirt for a group I used to listen to, except it was for their twenty-five-year reunion tour. I didn’t get much out of him, but what I did….” I left off the thought. The memory of that brief conversation made me ache for home. “Sometimes it’s age. Nobody really gets ancient here, but then again, maybe they do and I just assume they came over from the other side because they wanted to live forever.”

“Just like you did,” he replied smoothly.

“No, I just didn’t want to die.” It was a fine line but one I liked to remind him about. “Your feet are starting to smoke. So either you’re going to have to get to the point or maybe you’re the one who’s tired of living.”

The most ironic thing about being shoved through the looking glass into Wonderland City was that the devil who’d taken my soul and saved my life from the cornucopia of drugs I’d taken that day couldn’t exist here.

Or at least not for very long.

I didn’t know if it was because God didn’t exist here, or maybe angels—fallen or otherwise—couldn’t survive the realm’s natural law, but my own personal devil had to keep his visits short. I got them every once in a while, mostly when he was bored out of his mind. He had the universe at his fingertips, but Az got restless and usually sought me out for company.

He didn’t look bored this time. No. Even as he fronted a detached attitude, his shadow wings fluttered behind him and left ghostly trails of soot in the air. I was going to have to ask Dana to dust. She hated dusting, but she hated the vacuum more, which I found hilarious.

“I need you to do me a favor.” He purred out the words in a way that even Dana would envy. “I’ll even make it worth your while.”

“The last time you did me a favor, I ended up here,” I shot back, rubbing at my knees.

“This time it’s different.” He lowered his legs and planted his smoking feet on the cracked linoleum floor. “You do this for me and I’ll give you back your soul.”

AFTER SECURING the rabbit, I turned the him over to the blustery cop who manned the intake desk at the station and got the payout chit for the bounty. The piece of paper was really more of a tradition than anything necessary. By the time I was done with the devil in my office, word had spread that I’d taken down the White Rabbit.

He wasn’t popular, not by any means. He was a cheat and a liar, and if you listened to gossip, possibly had twenty or so kids he wasn’t supporting. I doubted the gossip, because kids weren’t a natural thing in Wonderland City. They were few and far between, and by all accounts, disruptive to the existing tapestry. There was something about them that made things go crazy behind the looking glass, and as insane as the place was, no one wanted chaos in an already-unstable environment.

That’s why Az’s favor nearly scared me half to death.

My mind was still reeling when I arrived at the Painted Rose gambling hell. Despite Az’s unexpected boon dropping into my lap, I still had to pay the rent. I usually went out of my way to avoid the Painted Rose. Its owner and I had a… complicated relationship, to say the least. He’d tried to rescue me from my indentured servitude to his grandmother, the queen, and I’d tried to end it by killing her. I believed we both kind of got our way—I was free of her, he didn’t have to feel responsible for me anymore—but Jean Michel didn’t agree.

I usually avoided picking up bounties from the Painted Rose, but White Rabbit’s ticket had been high enough to make my mouth water, and I really need to pay rent. Problem was, the police station didn’t pay out. Bounty hunters actually had to go to the guy on the other end of the ticket to get paid, and while it wasn’t a problem for most jobs, Jean Michel had laid down his own law. Any payment from the Painted Rose to me had to come from him personally.

So if I wanted to eat, I was going to eat out of his hand.

I was on the wrong side of the street. I’d left the Central District and crossed over into the rarefied air of Regent Park, which was a far cry from the ghettos I’d lived in ever since the queen died. To me, the gutter felt more comfortable. Sure, the air had a certain stench to it, but at least its filth was honest. I couldn’t say the same about Regent Park.

Wonderland’s aristocrats were a scheming, conniving nest of snakes, and those were the nice ones. Belonging to the queen had given me an interesting position among them. I was a muzzled wolf among rabid jackals. I was a symbol of both betrayal and resurrection for them. Still, I got as many filthy looks from the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen who climbed the stone steps that led to the Painted Rose’s massive front doors as I had back home walking through a five-star restaurant.

I really didn’t want to climb those steps.

Jean Michel had to know I was coming. He would’ve got a notification when the bounty was issued. I was going to have to walk on his carpets, cross over into his turf, if I wanted to get paid, but the elegant three-story mansion he’d converted to a gambling hell was the last place I ever wanted to be.

It would be like walking back into the palace and its spiderweb of treachery and backstabbing. Only this time, the person who wanted me in their bed was the same person who’d wanted me free. Unlike the Queen of Hearts, Jean Michel truly believed I’d be free from his hold, even if I shared his bed.

He was wrong. I was, in essence, a weapon, and no matter what anyone promised, sooner or later they would always pick the gun up off the mantle to take care of one problem or another.

And as much as I wanted to be in that bed, I wasn’t willing to trade my freedom for him.

Blue pressed his small furry body against my shin before I heard him bark at me. My sporadic companion had returned to my side. He looked the same—a scruffy spotted terrier with a foxy face, a stub tail, and squat legs that I knew were powerful enough to launch him over a six-foot fence.

He also glowed a light blue.

“Where the hell have you been? I could have used you with the rabbit,” I lightly scolded him.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t talk—or if he could, he never did to me. Wonderland City and its surrounding lands were home to a bizarre mix of creatures. Some animals had a level of consciousness and sentience, and others were like the ones from back home. The gamut of creatures ran from human, like Jean Michel, and hybrid human-animals like Dana, to fully sentient but much larger animals like the hedgehog and the White Rabbit.

Eating meat was dicey sometimes. There was a lot of trust given whenever I ordered food, especially down in the Stews. Usually pubs and restaurants had a guaranteed-meat-source license, but there were times when I suspected the hamburger I was eating was the pub owner’s husband, especially when he’d been reported missing by his friends and his wife didn’t seem to care.

Like I said, dicey.

Blue was pretty much a dog, despite the glowing blue fur and the occasional disappearing act he did. He showed up one day and bit the hell out of a guy I was trying to take down but who seemed to have an uncanny ability to punch me in the face despite everything I did to avoid it. Blue latched on to his nose, and as soon as I pried him off, he rarely left my side.

Except for when he did and I wouldn’t see him anywhere from a couple of hours to a couple of days. But he always came back, smiling and ready to do battle.

The steps of the Painted Rose weren’t getting any shorter, and the evening was getting longer. In about half an hour, the place would be packed and Jean Michel would have me kicking my heels up in his office while he dealt with whatever it was hell owners did at work.

Blue barked a short, quick “shit or get off the pot” reminder that he probably was hungry and either I fed him or he’d take matters into his own paws.

I didn’t want to deal with that in the middle of the “velvet and lace” crowd. I was already drawing attention, and I didn’t want to have to explain to the district’s private security force that my dog was only chewing that pig’s face off because I hadn’t gotten him dinner and Blue had a difficult time distinguishing an actual person from food.

I’d had that conversation more times than I could count.

I don’t know what I was afraid of. It wasn’t like anybody inside of the Painted Rose would hurt me. Jean Michel would skin them alive if they did. But staring up at the building’s white marble columns and sparkling windows, I was man enough to admit I was scared on some level—or maybe I wasn’t scared about going in, but scared I’d never come out.

“Okay, Blue.” I took a steadying breath and squared my shoulders. “Let’s go step into the lion’s den and see what he’s got for us to eat.”

THERE WERE a few forms of entertainment in Wonderland City. A lot of board games—played either life-sized or on a table—had a very strong following. Books were available, but the subject matter sometimes left a lot to be desired, and understandably, fiction and nonfiction blurred behind the looking glass, so it wasn’t always easy to tell what I was reading. Most of the technology in the realm was cobbled together from knowledge that people brought over with them, and even its weapons were machined from the few that made it through the glass. It wasn’t that science didn’t exist, but the need for technological advancement wasn’t necessary. Though satellites and televisions were probably a long way off, we had landline phones, telegraphs, and motor vehicles fueled mostly by magic, steam, and occasionally natural gas.

Still, regardless of what side of the glass they were on, people liked to gamble.

And the Painted Rose took it to a level of lush hedonism that made losing your shirt feel worthwhile.

We lived in Vegas for a few years when I was a kid, and I snuck into the casinos more than a few times to marvel at the custom carpets, glitzy chandeliers, and snappily dressed gamblers. We’d been the kind of poor that made people tell their kids not to play with us, and if I hadn’t already known what my mother did to pay the bills, getting locked in the house while she entertained the next-door neighbors’ husbands would’ve been a good clue. Casinos were a place to pick up spare change and sometimes the occasional chip someone could get cashed in if they knew a guy.

I knew a lot of guys, so sneaking into the busy casinos to sweep the floors was profitable but sometimes dangerous, because I would get sucked in by all of the sparkly surfaces.

Vegas had nothing on the Painted Rose.

The front room was open to all three stories and pure marble and gilt. Enormous crystal chandeliers hung from the impossibly high ceiling painted to look like daylight—a cloud-frosted cerulean blue sky we never saw in the industrial-smog-cloaked slums. Two enormous mountains of flesh guarded the front door—one human and one bovine—and discreetly to the left was the skinny, bespectacled green lizard who guarded the Painted Rose’s membership book as though it were the Holy Grail.

The lizard hated me, and the feeling was mutual.

It was busy. I would give him that. But considering I stood a good few inches over most of the people in the roped-off entrance area, I was hard to miss. I hadn’t known contempt was an expression a lizard could actually achieve until I landed on that side of the looking glass, but the Painted Rose’s maître d’ had certainly mastered it.

I didn’t blame him. His tiny lizard-brain standards had to be met in order to be a member of Jean Michel’s elite and exclusive gaming hell. The clothes, jewelry, and footwear of the people around me would have landed them naked or on a menu if they took a wrong turn in the Stews. It was still considered cannibalism, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and some people were more desperate than most.

I was not one of those people, but the longer I stood among the aristocratic crowd, the more uncomfortable all of us would get.

“The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, all on a summer’s day” came a whisper through the tightly packed crowd. I couldn’t see who was speaking, but the hissed rhyme carried across the low-level chatter of the people waiting to get in. “The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts, and took them clean away.”

“I guess our dear knave placed an order for a tart,” someone muttered, and the tittering flew around the crowd like sparrows fleeing a cat.

I met the bull guard’s gaze, rolled my eyes, and smirked when he chuckled. A hard push through the heavily perfumed crowd got me to the admission dock where the maître d’ was checking names and fawning over a pair of gentlemen in powdered wigs and leather pants while a buxom, pigtailed woman in a short red dress unhooked the velvet ropes to let them in.

“I’m going to go see Jean Michel,” I told the lizard. “Have someone tell him I’m in his office.”

“Do you have an appointment? If you’re not on the admission list, you can’t come in.” The lizard motioned for one of the guards to come grab me, but neither of them moved. “You are not on the list. I will not let you in.”

“You keep telling yourself that, Billy,” I said over my shoulder as I worked past the scarlet milkmaid, who held the rope hook to her chest. “And if you think your guards are going to stop me…. They look a hell of a lot smarter than you do, because we all know, where Jean Michel is concerned, I can go anywhere I want.”

I trusted Blue to follow me, and without fail, the dog’s toenails clicked a merry rhythm a few feet behind me. Jean Michel’s office was on the third floor and accessible through a run of staircases only the staff were allowed to use. I went through the kitchens to get to the main one and snagged a trencher of roast beef and sourdough bread covered in a fragrant mushroom gravy. The cook didn’t blink an eye, but I still had to duck the pepper shaker she threw at my head as I went by. In retaliation I grabbed a handful of fruit pastries someone had left to cool on the counter and shoved them into my jacket pocket as I took the stairs at a full gallop.

Surprisingly, Jean Michel was in his office, waiting for me.

If Az was a fallen angel, Jean Michel was exactly what you think the devil would look like. With an artful tousle of black hair and glittering obsidian eyes, he was a handsome man, powerfully built, and he exuded confidence as easily as most men exhaled. We were nearly the same height, but he easily outweighed me by twenty or thirty pounds, and all of that was hard muscle. He had a strong face that I could look at forever—cheekbones sharp enough to cut my lips on if I risked a kiss and a mouth I knew from experience could make me wish for death because I couldn’t stand that much pleasure.

He wasn’t wearing a suit, which was odd. At the club he normally dressed like the star of a late-night black-and-white movie. Tonight was apparently casual—a heather-gray sweater and a pair of black trousers that made his ass look really good. Standing in front of the wall-length one-way mirror that gave him a complete view of the gaming tables below, he’d partially turned when I opened the door as he kept one eye on his business and the other on me.

I wanted him so badly it hurt.

He took my breath away, and I wasn’t comfortable with that. I didn’t know how things were now back home, but I’d been beaten down into the ground more than a few times for letting my eyes linger on a man’s body, and despite my mother being born and raised during the freewheeling hippie generation, even she didn’t agree with me liking guys. Here it didn’t matter. Hell, being human here didn’t matter, but I was still hung up on how wicked Jean Michel made me feel and how much I needed to give up in order to be with him.

He was kinda bossy, but I guess most deposed princes are.

The office looked more like a rich person’s library or study than someplace where an overbearing former prince ran a successful casino and entertainment lounge. Dark-stained wood paneling went halfway up the walls, and what wasn’t covered with bookshelves was painted a dark hunter green. There were tufted leather couches arranged as though Jean Michel sat around with his friends and drank brandy from crystal snifters and smoked sweet-smelling cigars. It was a room meant to intimidate—much like its owner—and Jean Michel was the jewel in its setting.

Still, Blue wasn’t taking any of Jean Michel’s dominant-male shit. He jumped up on one of the armchairs to wait for his portion of the meal.

“If you’re going to feed that dog on my antique furniture, at least have the good grace to use a dish.” He even waved elegantly as he commanded me to fetch a plate from the sideboard. He had a full set of china stashed there, should he need to suddenly host a dinner for twelve.

I liked to remind Jean Michel he didn’t own me, so I didn’t get a plate. Instead, I took a piece of sourdough bread, put a bunch of the meat on it, and then folded it in half and left the rest for Blue to eat on the tapestry-covered armchair.

I could almost hear Jean Michel wince.

“I suppose you want to get paid for the rabbit. The lieutenant tells me you broke his front teeth.” Jean Michel lifted an eyebrow, though it was nearly hidden beneath the fall of ebony hair across his forehead. “Was that really necessary?”

“He did it to himself.” I pulled out my bounty marker and put it on his desk. “And yeah, while getting paid would be nice, I’m here for something else too.”

“Unless you’re about to tell me that you’ll be moving into my suites, I can’t imagine you have anything to say that would interest me.” He smiled and bared the slightly pointed canines that made me question if he was truly purely human. “I’ll even let you bring the dog… providing it gets a bath.”

“It’s good to see that you’ve kept your ability to dream,” I countered. “But no, that’s not going to happen. This is something bigger, so get your mind off of you and me. Okay? I got a visit from Az this afternoon. He accidentally let a little girl through the looking glass today. And if you remember what happened last time we had a little girl cross over, you know things are going to go to hell and shit pretty fast if we don’t find her and get her home.”

Jean Michel paled before my eyes and muttered a profanity I never thought I’d hear him say—which proved I was a bad influence on him. “Well, fuck me.”

“If I do this for him, he’ll give me back my soul and take me home.” I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, but it had nowhere to go, because the butterflies in my stomach were taking up all the room. “But even if he didn’t promise me that, you and I both know we can’t not find her. Because if we don’t, the chaos she’ll cause will tear Wonderland City apart.”

Three

“WHAT WAS Az thinking, letting a little girl come across?” Jean Michel’s attention was now fully on me, his back turned to the action below. “Human children bend reality. They twist and warp it. The last one who came nearly ripped the barrier between Wonderland City and Earth. Neither realities can survive that. What part of that doesn’t he understand?”

Jean Michel in full prince mode was something to watch. His movements were tightly controlled and imperious, and he gestured with his hands as he paced, punctuating his points with an orchestral conduction. There were times when I could see his grandmother in him—slivers of the hard old woman peeked out from the urbane gambling-hell owner. She’d been a cold presence in his life, a glittering-diamond balance to the warm, absentminded king who raised him.

I never knew what happened to his parents. Hell, I don’t even know if he was truly related to the queen and king, but in certain lights he looked like her, so anything was possible. And right then, silhouetted against the chandeliers that were visible through the mirrored glass, he reminded me so much of her that my chest burned with the memory of being her plaything.

“Or is that his game all along?” Jean Michel turned, and his eyes seared me with accusatory doubt and simmering anger. “Does he mean to bring this place down? Is that why he keeps pushing people through the glass? So he can tear this realm apart?”

“He can’t even exist here,” I reminded him. “And I never got the impression he would wipe out an entire reality out of spite. There are rules. I don’t know who made them, and I don’t know how they’re enforced, but there are definitely rules he follows.”

“He’s a liar and a cheat.” Jean Michel shook his head and paced toward me. He stopped in front of the chair where Blue lay licking at the corners of the trencher. “He takes what’s most important to your existence, promises everything, but twists your words and puts you through hell instead of honoring his word.”

“Literally his job description.” I chuckled at Jean Michel’s sour look. “The point is, there’s a kid here, and she’s not supposed to be on this side of the glass.”

“What happened? I thought his kind couldn’t make deals with children. Or is that one of the rules he can avoid following?”

“From what he told me, he was there for her father, but things went a little wrong. I don’t know what the man asked for, but it looks like Az intended to push him through. Naomi went through the looking glass instead.” I hid my smile as Jean Michel began to scratch behind Blue’s ear. “I don’t know when he was. I don’t know if time is running the same over there as it does here, because I’m not even sure when I am now half the time.”

“Time flows out,” Jean Michel said with a note of confusion in his voice, “and then it ripples back in. Everyone knows that.”

I wasn’t going to get into how time worked. If there was one constant in Wonderland City, it was that time appeared the way you saw it. I was fairly certain my linear day was equally confusing to people who lived on a loop. By all reasoning, Jean Michel lived as I did and as most people did, but he seemed to have a better grasp on the Mobius strip of minutes and seconds as they ticked away on Wonderland’s clocks.

It wasn’t the first time I felt stupid, and I doubted it would be the last, but it annoyed the fuck out of me to not understand something everyone on this side of the looking glass seemed to grasp as soon as they were able to think.

“The thing is, he can’t stay here for very long, so he can’t find her. That’s why he came to me.” I had a bit of gravy on my fingers, and I licked them clean before continuing. I heard Jean Michel sigh and caught him looking at me, but I wasn’t going to ask him what his problem was. I was his problem. Going over the remains of that battlefield and picking at its corpses wasn’t going to get us anywhere. I had other things to deal with, like a little girl who was lost somewhere in Wonderland City. “I came to you because you’ve got connections to people who might have seen things. I know my limitations. If she’s down in the Stews, word will get back to me, but if she’s wandering around up here, I won’t get any traction.”

He studied me for a long time as the wheels turned behind his dark eyes. Jean Michel was a calculating son of a bitch, and there were things he set into motion with a single word or action that made no sense to me in the beginning. Then he would play the game out in front of me, and after I figured it out, I was always amazed I didn’t see things sooner. Sometimes I wondered why he didn’t take up one of the districts that had been carved out of his grandmother’s realms, but he wanted to live a life of relative leisure following her downfall.

I wondered if he refused because he didn’t want it to look like he intended to retake the throne. Jean Michel never liked things handed to him, which is probably why he liked me.

“If I help you, you have to do something for me,” he finally said.

“When this is over, I’m not going to be here,” I insisted softly. “Once I hand that little girl over to Az, I’m going back through the looking glass. You’re not going to see me again. It’s time for me to go home.”

“When are you going to realize this is your home?” Jean Michel held up a hand to stop me from interrupting him, and I held my tongue. “But I’m not going to ask you to stay. If I help you, we have to do this together, because if you intend to leave Wonderland City, I want to spend as much time with you as I can before you go.”

“Familiarity breeds contempt, remember?” I clicked my tongue at Blue to call him to my side. “So if you think that shadowing my every step is going to make me want to stay, you’re wrong.”

“Or maybe…,” Jean Michel purred, crossing the room before I could even blink. He cupped my face, his fingers hot on my chilled skin. “Did you ever think I might need the time to get you out from under my skin, Xander? Perhaps the one who needs contempt more isn’t you but me.”

IT WAS late by the time I got back to the Central District. Or at least onto a subway train headed there. Transportation in Wonderland was sometimes a problem. The subway hubs were fairly consistent, just crowded as hell during the day. As condensed as the city was, the subway was a good way to get around. There were stations at most larger street crossings, but it still meant I was usually stuck a few blocks away from where I needed to be. Taking a cab late at night from Regent Park would’ve been expensive, and the monies Jean Michel released to me wouldn’t be in the bank until the morning.

I usually avoided the subway because the thought of being underground in a metal tube pushed at high speeds by magic and steam made my head hurt, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to walk, and I’d already taken one subway to get to Jean Michel’s place.

What was one more trip?

It was that kind of thinking that would eventually get me killed.

If it wasn’t for Blue, I would’ve been found lying on the station’s dirty tile floor by whoever made the next security round. I had all sorts of excuses for not seeing the glint of the knife half hidden by the shadows. I was tired, wrung out from a long day and an even longer evening jousting with Jean Michel. I was surprised I could even see straight, much less recognize my stop.

Thank God for Blue, because I’d be damned if I died behind the looking glass just as I found a way to get back home.

Blue’s hackles rose, his fur spiking up and down his spine, and then he tripped me.

There were times when I doubted the dog’s intelligence. To be fair, there were times I doubted my own, but he loved getting between my legs so I landed flat on my face. He picked it up from a cat someplace and delighted in doing it to me at the most unexpected moments.

This time it saved my life.

The knife slashed at where my neck had been. I felt the metal brush against the side of my throat and caught the blunt end against my skin. I rolled forward and took a hit on the back of my shoulder. I curled into the momentum, hoping to minimize any bruising, but mostly to be able to get up on my feet. Blue’s barking echoed through the long empty subway station, and his harsh scold bounced about on the tiled surfaces. We were too far away for me to make the stairs, and they were narrow and would give any attacker an advantage if I couldn’t outrun them.

I landed on my knees with my hand against the floor, and as I pushed back up, I saw who’d come out of the shadows to try to kill me.

Actually I didn’t need to see his face. Not when he began to chitter while I was in midroll.

“Hello, Hatter.” I reached for the gun I normally had strapped to my thigh, but Jean Michel disliked weapons in his gambling hell, so I’d left it at home.

Once again, sometimes I’m not so smart.

The Hatter was mad long before I ever arrived on the scene. There were a lot of theories as to why he went crazy, but I laid the blame on the queen herself. Pretty easy to do, considering she wasn’t around to defend herself, but she drove a lot of people mad. It was in her nature to destroy, and what she most loved to destroy was creativity and anyone who possessed it.

The Hatter could conjure up elaborate headpieces so delicate that birds could live in their construction, so the queen definitely had to drive him mad. And damn if she didn’t do a fine job of it when she put her mind to something.

He didn’t look good. To be fair, he’d never really looked good, but she at least kept him clean and gave him the full run of her palace grounds and a workshop where he could bespoke the hell out of anything he wanted. They’d had a sick relationship. Most of us had a sick relationship with her, but he worked to create the most beautiful things, knowing she would meticulously destroy them in front of him. He willingly gave in to her torture, and then he would sob for days afterward and snap back together to begin all over again.

Like I said, the man was mad.

He moved like a broken marionette, a withered driftwood golem of a man with a wild mane of white hair and grief-reddened watery blue eyes. A too-large set of the queen’s old livery hung on his nearly skeletal body, and his long arms jutted out of the tattered, rolled-up sleeves. The shock of seeing the black-and-white harlequin pattern dotted with red hearts faded quickly, leaving only the sour tang of distaste in my mouth and his overwhelming stench clinging to the inside of my nose.

“I’ve come to kill you, Ace.” Hatter’s voice crackled. It sounded unused and rusty. I wasn’t sure if the smile was supposed to be comforting, but it wasn’t. His teeth had been sharp and white at some point, but they were now black and rotting in his curlicue grin. “I hear you brought a child. It wasn’t bad enough you had to destroy us once. Now you try to kill us again? I can’t let you do that. You’ve already taken so much from us.”

“I didn’t kill the queen, Hatter. I’d already been put down by the time they took her apart.” I warned Blue off with a shake of my hand, and the dog circled back and stayed out of the Hatter’s long reach. He could have had just the knife or an entire arsenal under his heavy wool tunic, but that didn’t do me any good unless I could get my hands on something to defend myself with. “And I didn’t bring the child over, but I have been tasked to send her back. You kill me, and she stays here. Is that what you want? Because you know what happens if a child stays here too long.”

“Of course I know what happens.” Spittle flew from his mouth. He stretched his arms back with the tightness of his rage, and his knuckles went white as he clenched the hilt of his knife. “You could have stopped it back then too. You could have protected her, but you didn’t. You never loved her as much as she loved you.”

“Look, I know you’re crazy,” I interrupted and shook my finger at him. “But if you think what she felt for us was love, you’re farther over the deep end than I thought. She didn’t love us, Hatter. People who love you don’t try to destroy you. They don’t lay awake at night thinking of ways to break you. And I’m pretty fucked-up, but even I know that.”

“She loved me.” He pointed the knife at me and shuffled forward so quickly I nearly lost my footing trying to get away. Hatter came to a shuddering stop, seemingly caught in a line of blue tiles that intersected the filthy white, someone’s halfhearted stab at adding a dash of color to the underground station. “But she was obsessed with you. I had to listen to her talk about you, wonder about when you would surrender yourself to her. Do you understand how hard it was to hear that? And you never appreciated her, never loved her like I did. Never gave yourself to her like I did.”

“Hatter, you had a praying mantis relationship with that woman.” I took another step back. “And every time you grew your head back, she just chewed it right back off again.”

“Well, now you’ve gone too far. You’ve brought a child.” Hatter spat again, a steamy storm of bitterness aimed at my face. “And when I’m done with you, I’m going to kill her next.”

He laughed as he struck. Although maybe the word laugh was too normal for the sounds that poured out of his throat. It was more of a giggle strung together with razor blades. It dove and dipped in a seemingly endless wave of chitters and shrieks. Louder than a train whistle, it drowned out all the other noise in the station, including the train that rushed behind us, hurtling toward the next stop. The steam from the line fogged over the tile and hid the floor and our feet, but Hatter didn’t need to see where he was stepping to come at me.

Of course he didn’t take into account Blue’s leg-tangling tendencies.

The dog did his dirty work, and I concentrated on staying out of the Hatter’s reach. He was deadly with a pair of scissors. My left shoulder constantly reminded me of that. I struck out, hoping to punch at his wrist so he would let go of the knife, but my angle was wrong and the blow landed harmlessly on his forearm. I followed through with a jab to his stomach and twisted about as he flew past me. He went down like I did, a bundle of swear words and screams, but at least the giggling stopped.

The train was just an echo of steam and noise, having left the station a few seconds before, so I could hear the distinct metal clatter on ceramic tiles from someplace in the dissipating fog when the knife left the Hatter’s hand.

I dove in after it.

I didn’t want to know what I grabbed the first time. It was squishy and made a sound kind of like a squeak. It felt more slimy than furry, but that meant nothing down here. Oddly enough I apologized, let it go, and went searching for the knife again.

I was more successful the second time. My fingers found the handle within a few seconds of searching, and I triumphantly got to my feet, only to discover the Hatter had as well.

And somehow he’d hidden a four-foot-long machete underneath his stained coat.

Blue circled, his bark more of a distraction to me than the Hatter. The crazy man’s pupils were pinpricks, barely visible in his milky-blue eyes, and the smile was back on his face. It turned him into a white jack-o’-lantern as he mocked me from where he stood a few feet away. The machete was broken off at the tip and covered with God-only-knew-what, but Hatter was meticulous as ever with its edge. I could see its sharp side gleaming.

He took a running leap at me and swung.

I don’t know whether it was the livery or the talk of the queen, but I could feel the Ace rising up inside of me. It’d been so long since I’d become that, and the last place I ever wanted to resurrect that ghost was underground below Wonderland City’s Central District. I couldn’t lose sight of the humanity I had scraped back together once I woke up, not when I had things to do and a child to find.

So I shoved that part of me back and prayed.

I punched as I jabbed. Even with the Hatter’s madness fueling his strength, I still could out-fight him. I’d spent more than a few lifetimes battling my way in and out of trouble, so a single madman with a machete had nothing on me.

Thing was, I didn’t want to kill him, but it didn’t seem like he would give me any choice.

His strokes were wild and aimed at my head, which made sense because that was the easiest way to make sure I died. I could heal back anything to my body, even though some injuries would take me longer than others, but if he could sever my head from my neck or even split it in half, there was a good chance I’d remain dead.

I said good chance because I didn’t know. No one really understood what the Queen of Hearts did to me or how much power she poured into making me what I was. The Hatter wasn’t playing. He’d come to kill, and he was going to do his very best to make sure that happened.

He also had a glass jaw.

The knife’s handle gave me enough weight to break his long skinny nose with my first punch. I didn’t want to stab him, at least not at first, but when the machete came back at my head, I knew only one of us was going to get out of there alive, and I’d be damned if he was going to be the one.

The nap of his livery was coated with a thick grease, and a few of the hearts had fallen off, but the wool was too thick to cut through. I had to go for his throat or even his face—any unprotected part of his body. I had danced away from him and put a bit of distance between us so I could better plan my strike, when Blue grabbed at his coat and tugged.

The fabric was much worse off than I thought. It probably also tasted a lot worse than it smelled, because Blue hung on, his teeth clenched tightly enough through the coat’s tail to swing about as the Hatter whirled around to face me. Blue’s weight was more than what the fabric could take. It tore with a horrific sound as the coat’s seams ripped apart and its stitched-down hearts flew from their harlequin-diamond prisons.

The Hatter wore nothing beneath the coat, and its panels flopped about on his shoulders, held in place by his still-intact sleeves. I caught a glimpse of his long pale torso, and if I thought he was ill before, I was sure of it then.

He was fading. God help him, he was fading and determined to take me with him.

The only thing that gave his skin any color was the sea of bruises that flowed up his abdomen and across his ribs. They weren’t enough to anchor him in reality anymore, but it was eerie to see the solid-purple marks surrounded by his translucent flesh. If I had to guess, I would say he was self-harming in order to anchor himself in reality long enough for one final act of devotion for his queen.

I drove the knife into his chest and aimed for where his heart hopefully still beat. Then I stumbled back to watch him die.

The Hatter crumpled in on himself as he clutched at the knife lodged beneath his collarbone. Gasping, he halfheartedly threw the machete at me, but it went wide and landed somewhere near the tracks. His kicked his feet and scissored his legs with the fury of knowing he’d failed, and once again his caterwauling filled the station.

It seemed to go on forever. Then it suddenly stopped, and the madness left his eyes. He stared up at me and calm settled on his taut face.

“You have to stop her,” he begged me, reaching out with a trembling hand, maybe hoping I would hold it for the few seconds he had to live.

Part of me wanted to be human enough to not let him go alone, but the piece of me forged in Wonderland reminded me a dying man had nothing to lose by taking someone with him. I kept a healthy distance, crouching next to him to listen to his final words.

“I told you, all I want to do is send her back home.” There was little reassurance I could give him. I didn’t know if he came across the looking glass like I did or if he’d been born to this reality’s mayhem. We were all very much aware of what would happen if I failed. “I promise you, I’ll find her and I’ll send her home.”

“Not the child,” he gasped, almost choking on his own tongue. “You have to stop the Red Queen. She has the girl, and if you don’t stop her, she’s going to use the child to end us all.”

Four

THE ONE thing about having a dog as a constant companion—relatively constant—was that it was supposed to alert you to intruders. Blue seemed to have missed that directive when he stood in line for his canine brain. I woke up to the smell of coffee being brewed and the sound of my dog loudly chewing on something juicy near the end of my bed.

I kept my gun in the nightstand by the bed. Since I lived in a street-facing, four-wall studio apartment—two being banks of dirty windows and the other two solid brick—anyone in the place would see me reach for my weapon. Unless of course they were in the bathroom I had built out around the bare-bones toilet, claw-foot tub, and the sink the landlord shoved into one corner so he could charge me an extra fifty bucks. Since the smell of coffee was accompanied by the rattle of the spoon in a cup, I knew whoever it was definitely wasn’t in the bathroom.

“I know you’re awake. I can see your entire body tense up,” Jean Michel said from the other side of the loft. “You need milk. You’re going to have to drink it sweet and black.”

“That’s how I take my coffee, asshole,” I muttered into my pillows. “Why are you here? Better yet, just go away. Blue, you’re fired.”

And just like Dana, the dog ignored me.

I heard Jean Michel walk across the floor toward my bed. I could literally count the spots on my body that didn’t hurt or sting, and dealing with His Highness, the Prince of Control and Barking Orders, didn’t figure into the morning I’d scheduled to sleep through. The smell of coffee got stronger, and then I heard the clunk of a mug on the nightstand. The bed was large enough to accommodate four people if they were really friendly, but I’d never used it for anything other than sleep. I just liked the space. Still, I could practically feel Jean Michel lean over and sniff at the sheets.

If I weren’t already making plans to leave, I would have devoted most of my life to reminding him that he didn’t have any say over who I slept with, even if it was just the dog curled up on my feet because he was cold.

“I need you to get up. And was it really necessary to kill the Mad Hatter last night?” He scraped a chair across the floor, probably gouging the wood, but I didn’t care.

A hippogriff lived in the loft before me, so the floor was already crap. It meant the door was double wide and there was a roof access right outside in the hallway, but mostly I took it because it was cheap and down the street from my office. It came with a refrigeration unit sturdy enough to hold a raptor’s weeklong supply of frozen meat, and the stove worked. Jean Michel probably hated it because it was spartan, but I liked living simply and cleanly.

Well, except for the five-hundred-plus books I had triple stacked on the bookcases against whatever wall would hold them. I’d even shoved my bed under the windows and against the bathroom wall so I had more space for shelves. Still, I had about ten overflowing boxes to dig through and decide if I wanted to keep.

The smell of the coffee was overpowering the sweet vanilla-and-leather aroma the books gave off, and my brain responded to the slick promise of ground beans and sugar, even if I didn’t want to. I was naked beneath the sheets, and the quick shower I’d taken before I fell face-first into my pillows probably hadn’t done much more than move the stink of the subway around my body.

“Are you going to answer me?” Jean Michel poked at my shoulder and found one of the bruises underneath my skin. I swore at him, and he chuckled. “Why the Hatter? Did someone have a bounty on him?”

“Not that I know of,” I grumbled as I gave in to his presence and sat up. Keeping the sheets wrapped around my hips, I blearily searched for the cup of coffee and mumbled a soft, not-really-sincere thank-you when he handed it to me. “He came after me. Hunted me down because he blamed me for the little girl coming across. We fought, and he lost. He told me the Red Queen has her, but I don’t know if I believe him, and I don’t have any way of verifying if it’s true. Half the things that came out of his mouth were twisted, so for all I know, she could be anywhere. And he might have said it so it would start trouble between me and Red. I don’t have the time or the power to do that.”

“I know someone we can ask.” With hooded eyes and an enigmatic smile, Jean Michel watched me sip my coffee. “And as much as I hate to say this, you’re going to have to get dressed in order for us to go. Although you look horrible right now. You have bruises everywhere, and it looks like you hurt every time you move.”

“Well, yesterday I took down the White Rabbit, had a visit from the devil who brought me here, got into a shoving round with a bunch of snobs and your head lizard, and then ended the day with a death match with the Mad Hatter in the subway,” I said, and I lifted my coffee cup in a mock salute. “And we won’t even talk about what I went through the day before. So you’ll pardon me if I don’t look fresh for you—not that I really give a shit.”

“You don’t have to live like this, Xander. Just say the word and I can change everything.” Jean Michel leaned forward in his chair, and his breath ghosted over my face. He was too pretty, too delectable, and way too much trouble for me to take first thing in the morning. “You should be—”

“I should be brushing my teeth and getting some clothes on. We’ve had this conversation more times than I can count, and I may not be the sharpest spoon on the table, but I can count pretty high.” I stared into the depths of his soulful black eyes and saw myself reflected back in their shine. “I don’t even know why you want me. I brought you nothing but pain and misery, and still you won’t let me go. What is it? Guilt? You hate losing? What?”

“Can’t it be just that I love you?” He traced down the length of my thigh with his nails and left furrows in the thin sheets.

“No. Because you don’t do anything just for love,” I reminded him as I set the coffee cup back on the nightstand. “It’s not in your nature. You’ve taught me that. So as pretty as that sounds, it’s not the truth.”

“Suppose it is? Can’t you believe that I’ve changed?”

“About as much as I believe you love me.” Sliding off the bed, I left the sheets behind and headed to the bathroom. “Give me a few minutes. And do me a favor—try to stop yourself from making the bed while I take another shower. For once in your life, let me control mine.”

“YOU’VE PRETTY much taken us to the biggest drug addicts you can find in Wonderland City.” I looked around the overgrown former park Jean Michel had driven us to, carefully closing the car’s passenger door. Blue peered out of Jean Michel’s long convertible, yawned, and went back to sleep on its plush leather seats, and I wished I’d stayed with him. “And you expect one of them to help us find a little girl? Most of them can’t even find their own toes. Some of them don’t even have toes.”

“After all this time here, you still can’t see that some of us take different paths to get where we need to go,” Jean Michel said as he strode along the walkway next to me. “Some of my best pieces of information come from people who intuit the situation with their minds rather than their ears. If the Mad Hatter was right, someone here can verify it. That way we don’t storm the Red Queen’s castle looking for a little girl she doesn’t have.”

“Or we alert her that we’re looking at her for this because one of them can’t keep their mouth shut,” I argued. “Nobody here has loyalty to you. And we won’t even get started on what they think about me.”

“Quit complaining, and let’s just go inside.”

“What inside? This is an open-air commune. These people live in trees and mushrooms.” I made sure to put an extra dose of whine in my tone just to annoy him. “And no matter what you say, I’m not going to eat anything they offer me. The last time I was here, I had some juice and was stuck being six inches tall for almost two weeks.”

Technically he was right. There was an inside. The area was surrounded by high cinder-block walls and wrought iron gates. In the center of what had been a massive park was a gazebo and courtyard that served as the commune’s hub. I’d been there before, and after the goose chase I’d been led on, I promised to never come back. But we all break promises, especially when it looked like it could give us everything we wanted.

“That’s what you get for drinking the juice.” He had little sympathy, but then I did know better. “I imagine we’ll be served tea, but don’t drink it until I tell you it’s okay. I can’t afford to have you any other size than what you are right now.”

I was never sure if Shady Acres was an insane asylum, a commune, or just a group of rich people who liked being hippies. There were servants—of course—but they appeared more nursemaids than anything else. Their uniforms were a light-pink cotton and cut along the lines of an upstairs maid’s uniform, but their manner was definitely clinical. The woman who met us at the entrance to the courtyard was a lantern-jawed battle-ax with beefy arms and thick hands. Her mousy brown hair was scraped back from her hard face, and the thin smile she gave Jean Michel was anything but subservient. Still, she moved at a fast clip through the vegetation and deposited us at the feet of the woman we’d come to see.

The Duchess.

She wasn’t alone. Society had been turned upside down following the Queen of Hearts’ demise, and odd bedfellows were the result. The Duchess’s boon companion was a former anarchist who slithered his way into the old woman’s good graces and stayed there. He’d introduced her to a number of things, including the hookah and the various ways she could alter her mind using whatever he had on hand.

Luckily for us the Caterpillar had been at Ground Zero the last time a little girl stumbled through the looking glass, so he didn’t need a lot of convincing about how dire our situation was.

The Duchess had seen some things. I’d heard rumors that she predated the Queen of Hearts’ Court, but there was no one to ask if it were true. The King of Hearts faded away soon after the queen died, and any other noble who’d been around back then was either dead or not talking.

I didn’t need anyone to tell me she was old. She was practically Jurassic. It wasn’t that people in Wonderland didn’t age. They just aged at a rate so glacial they usually gave up on life and faded away before death came to collect them—if there was such a thing as natural death. Whatever it was that kept the Wonderland-born Duchess alive, youth was long behind her.

She was a tiny birdlike woman with the nervous habit of clacking her teeth together as she spoke, accenting her words with a castanet rhythm. A turban covered what little hair she had left and did double duty pulling her wrinkled face up and back, tightening her skin so she could see. Any variation of color was gone from her flesh, so her lips were indistinguishable from the rest of her face and formed a wrinkled pucker above her pointed chin. She had long nails that she used to stab at the tiny cakes on a nearby tea tray, and she waved the delicacies about as she spoke and then sucked them off one by one.

Today she had dressed in yellow from head to toe in an ancient court dress better suited for an evening ball than an afternoon tea with a five-foot-tall blue caterpillar, but I imagined she was at the age where she could care less about what anyone thought, much less me. Sitting on a pair of oversized beanbags under the dubious protection of an open-sided gazebo, the pair had the hookah going full blast, and from the smell of the smoke rings they were blowing, it was a potent mix of citrus, mushrooms, and pot.

I stayed upwind. If the juice was something to avoid, their secondhand smoke would probably prove deadly.

“Duchess, as always it is a pleasure to see you,” Jean Michel purred and affected an elegant courtly bow. Luckily she didn’t extend her hand for him to kiss. I would’ve had to knock him senseless before he would press his lips to her smoke-stained fingers.

“Do you know my particular friend, the Caterpillar?” She croaked as she coughed out a stream of smoke. “I do not believe you’ve met.”

The woman was more addled than ever, because as far as I knew, before the Caterpillar took up playing guru on an overgrown mushroom, he’d been one of Jean Michel’s childhood tutors.

“We’ve met, Viola. I taught this sprig everything he knows about tactics and strategy,” the Caterpillar drawled. He peered at me through a lorgnette and tilted his nose up when he realized who I was. “And I see you brought your attack dog with you, Your Highness. Have you come to kill us?”

“Of course he hasn’t come to kill us. The prince would never be so rude as to not give advance notice. How ill-mannered would that be? A lady needs to be dressed for the occasion of her own death, and etiquette would demand an invitation be sent beforehand.” The Duchess sniffed and took another drag from the hookah. “One does not kill during morning calls. It’s just not done.”

“Of course not,” I agreed and sketched her the briefest of bows. “Duchess.”

“Besides, if he were going to use the Ace of Spades to kill me… I would expect the Ace to be… in formal wear not… whatever it is he has on right now,” she proclaimed in spurts as she exhaled. “Also, I’m fading. What’s the use of coming to kill an old woman when she’ll be dead soon anyway.”

The woman was about as far from dead as anyone could ever be. I glanced over at Jean Michel and his expression was impeccably polite but the Caterpillar rolled his eyes.

“So, if you haven’t come to kill me, darling, why are you here?” The Duchess handed the hookah filter back to the Caterpillar. Her eyes went as wide with shock as they could, deepening the grooves in her face. “Tell me you’re here to take back the Kingdom and you want our help.”

“I do not want to take back the Kingdom,” Jean Michel said for probably the one-millionth time in his life, and perhaps one day I would believe him. I reminded myself that I would not be around when that one day came about. “But I do want to save it. It seems we have a problem. A little girl came through the looking glass yesterday.”

The Caterpillar fainted.

One moment he was upright and judgmental. Half an eye blink later, he was slumped over, as limp as a canned green bean fished out of an overcooked casserole. I caught the hookah before it toppled over, but I left the insect to slither off his beanbag and ooze out over the gazebo floor.

“Did you ever notice he wears shoes on half of his feet?” I pointed out to Jean Michel as I set the hookah back in its stand. “How does he decide which ones are feet and which ones are hands? That’s always confused me.”

“Not now, Xander,” Jean Michel scolded lightly as he took up the Duchess’s stiff hand.

She was in shock, but the steel rod of her spine kept her in place, and she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath to compose herself. She lifted a trembling hand to straighten her turban and stammered, “I thought perhaps the chaos I was seeing in my visions were because the Ace was killing us all off—first the Rabbit and then the Hatter. That is why I thought you’d come for me.”

“First off, that’s not even the same White Rabbit that served the queen. That one bit the dust a long time ago, and I didn’t kill the one yesterday.” I nudged the Caterpillar with my foot and moved his seemingly liquid body back toward his beanbag. “And the only reason I killed the Hatter was because he tried to kill me first. I was just heading home.”

“Once you deliver death, that is all you deliver,” she moaned and wiped at her brow. “But a child. How could you let that happen? And now the prince has to clean it up?”

“I did not—” I bit the inside of my cheek. “Jean Michel, this is your circus. You figure out what you want your flying monkeys to do.”

“Duchess, I just need you to open your mind and tell me where the little girl is.” Jean Michel crouched down beside her and patted the back of her hand. “The Hatter told Xander where he thought she was, but the man was insane. I can’t trust any words that came out of his mouth, but I can trust you. Will you help us?”

“Anything for my prince.” She motioned with her free hand at the teapot beside the cake-filled tray. “Have your Ace fill my cup and put in three cubes of sugar. It will fortify me so I can see.”

“One, I’m not his Ace,” I muttered as I grabbed one of the bone-china teacups from the serving tray, “and two, apparently we can’t trust the tea either.”

I fixed her a cup of tea and ignored Jean Michel when he told me to shut up. The sugar was in rough lumps and speckled with rainbow glitter. The chunks cast off bits of light as I plucked them from the sugar bowl, and a disco ball of multihued beams reflected on the silver tongs. The tea let off a sour fragrance until I dropped the sugar lumps into the steaming liquid. Then it bubbled and released a pink-tinged cloud of steam I was careful not to breathe in.

It caught me anyway, and its sickly sweet perfume made me light-headed and burned the hairs in my nostrils.

The old woman took it like a shot of whiskey in a blues bar right at last call.

Since the Caterpillar wasn’t using it, I perched on the other beanbag and waited. Jean Michel paced and kept his attention fixed on the old woman hyperventilating a few feet away. I could see her heartbeat pounding through the thick fabric of her gown, and the spangles along the bodice flashed yellow and white as they rode the ripple of her pulse. The Duchess clenched the bag tightly when the spasms hit her, and her nails sliced through its fabric, letting tiny white beads spill out. The river of minute spheres flowed outward and away from her shaking body. As a froth began to form on her slack lips, the beads gathered together and formed a small white rabbit.

It blinked at me, twitched its tiny pink nose, and leapt out of the gazebo and into the overgrowth beyond.

“Great, another fucking rabbit,” I grumbled. “I better be gone before that fucker becomes one of your bounties, Jean Michel.”

“Hush,” he scolded. “The visions are about to hit her.”

The Duchess went stiff, her limbs stuck straight out around her, and her eyes were vast pools of kaleidoscope light behind her thick black lashes. A wind whipped around the gazebo, tore off her turban, and tugged her skirts up, but neither Jean Michel nor I were affected by it. The storm only touched her. It ripped at her clothes and her face until tears ran down her cheeks—massive streams flowed through her wrinkles and cascaded down her shoulders.

“I can see the little girl.” Her arms were caught in midair, held up either by the wind or whatever it was she called up to consume her. Her fingers bent, seemingly independent of each other and in ways a snake would envy. It turned my stomach to watch, knowing her bones were slipping into a reality where solid matter didn’t exist. “The devil has brought her. No, the devil’s chasing her, and he has set the Ace on her tail.”

“I know that, Duchess,” Jean Michel said as he returned to her side. His leather pants were speckled with the froth pouring out of her mouth, and I wondered if the substance would burn through, but they seemed to hold up. “Where’s the girl now? Can you see where she is?”

“She is in the Palace of the Crimson Squares. The Red Queen hunts her… lured the girl to her… a song of candy and spice.” The lights in the Duchess’s eyes were fading, and she blinked as her lashes were plucked one by one in the fierce wind that wrapped around her. “You have to find her, Jean Michel, and send her back before the Red Queen finds out her secret, before that secret kills us all.”

“What secret can a little girl have, Duchess?” Jean Michel asked. He flicked his gaze up to my face. “Do you know what she’s talking about, Xander?”

“No idea. What the hell can a little girl have that can be worse than her being here?” I racked my brains, but everything I knew about the situation was hearsay and bits of knowledge gleaned from other people. “It’s not like she has an army of demons with her.”

“No, it is much, much worse. She has a handful of your devil’s feathers in her pocket,” the Duchess gasped. She clutched at the torn beanbag when her vision ripped through her one final time. “If she gains that kind of power, the Red Queen will do what she’s always promised to do. She will resurrect your grandmother and punish us all.”

Five

“WE’RE GOING to need an army.” It wasn’t a suggestion. I was serious, but Jean Michel didn’t so much as blink as he let the motorcar idle and stared out at the Red Queen’s domain. “Are you even listening to me? An army. Look at that place.”

I hadn’t been to the outer reaches of Wonderland City since right after the queen’s fall, but it hadn’t changed much.

The woods creeping down from the mountains were still black, bleak, and crawling with monsters without names—the ones that had been identified likely had only been seen once and then ate their observers. A snow so cold it was blue lay in drifts along the craggy, stark countryside, and the edges of Wonderland City seemed to recoil from the icy touch of eternal winter.

The urban sprawl of the city was held back by boulders, menacing trees, and snow. I’d seen the city grow out from the palace over the years and push back at nature until it came to a rest at the foot of the mountains where the Queen of Hearts stopped her capricious advance. It was there at the edge that the Red Queen sat, carved her domain out, and waited while the other queens fought tooth and nail to gain more territory and influence.

No one moved against her.

No one dared.

Her twin sister, the White Queen, took up the other side of the realm and threw her gates open for any and all who wanted shelter. Her realm was a mess—the people starved, and the buildings were decaying, driven back down to the ground from neglect and looting. The beatific queen continued to order her harried courtiers to water the soup and scramble the eggs, but their bowls held mostly hot water, and only the weakest-willed remained. They likely reassured themselves the queen would eventually turn things around and they would prosper just by being in her presence.

She was as crazy as the entire Hatter family, but her loyal subjects didn’t seem to care.

I had a theory the twins had been a single person at one time, but Wonderland sliced them apart and gave one the heart and the soul while the other got the spine and the brain. If they’d sat on the throne as co-rulers, they would’ve ruled like Rhyme and Reason, a perfect balance of charity and steel.

Instead one held court in a desert wasteland, and the other sat in her icicle fortress, probably waiting for Jean Michel to make his move.

I’d been silent all the way over, having convinced Jean Michel to swing by the office so I could leave Blue with Dana. They had an uneasy relationship, but the dog was more than willing to stay with her when he was bribed with a very large bone. Dana was easily bought with a bag of tacos and the promise of a job at Jean Michel’s gambling hell once I went back through the looking glass. Personally I would’ve held out for pizza, but the taco shop was right across the street, and I think she had a crush on the guy who worked the grill.

“Either we go in or we go away.” I shifted in my seat and wished I’d brought more than a leather jacket with me. The seals of the convertible’s soft top weren’t great, since rubber sometimes had a dubious relationship with reality in Wonderland City. The cold seeped in and took up the challenge my socks threw out about keeping my toes warm inside my boots.

The cold was winning handily.

“You know, it’s pretty sad that you had to hear it from the Duchess’s cracked teapot and a smoke-addled caterpillar before you believed me.” I poked at him—literally. I stabbed my cold, slightly numbed finger into his side to get his attention. “I told you so. Just in case I die in the next few hours because we don’t have an army, I just want you to hear me say I told you so.”

“Shut up. You’re never right. No one would blame me for not believing you and a madman who sniffed glue for fun.” Jean Michel hissed at me and bared those fangs. “I’m concerned about the feathers. The Duchess said they were powerful, but anything can be made powerful here. It’s just a matter of how you use it. They could be worthless to the Red Queen, but maybe in your hands—because you are from where the devil gets its power—that might be a different story. I just don’t know.”

I intimately knew the feel of Jean Michel’s fangs against my neck and the sting of them piercing my flesh, and I hated that I wanted his touch again. Poking Jean Michel meant riling up his prickly nature—a surefire way to dampen any desire I might have for him. Problem was, it didn’t seem to be working.

“When you sign away your soul, he plucks a feather from his wings and stabs you with it. It becomes a quill filled with your blood, and you sign away everything the stars gave you with that one single feather.” I hunched down in my seat and rubbed at the spot on my palm where the sharpened tip had pierced my flesh. I felt my soul leave me as the feather sucked up my essence, and I accepted the spreading numbness in my body when Az drank my mouth dry. “He burns the feather when you’re done, and then the contract is sealed. I would imagine those feathers could hold any manner of things, from someone’s soul to maybe even a magical city built on the bones of the dead queen.”

The press of a cold, wet nose on my neck told me the bribe hadn’t worked and Blue had come to find me, showing up out of the… well, blue, as he always seemed to whenever I needed him. Jean Michel glanced back and heaved a deep sigh.

“I told you it wasn’t going to work,” he admonished me with a light tsk of his tongue against his teeth. “That dog has a mind of his own.”

“I had to try. If I’m going to die at the hands of the Red Queen and your stupidity, I at least wanted my dog to have a good home.” I reached back and scratched at Blue’s upright ear and took a petty delight in getting fur on the thick carpet of the motorcar. “So what are we going to do? Whatever it is, we’re going to have to do it soon, because I’m freezing my balls off out here, and from what I remember, dying is at least warm.”

“You’re not going to die.” Jean Michel started up the motorcar with the crank of its key. “I forbid you to die until you’ve been mine for at least a thousand years. Maybe even beyond that. So buckle up, Xander, because we’re off to see the Red Queen.”

WE WERE an odd couple even for Wonderland City. Jean Michel was a prince, born and raised with a silver spoon in his mouth and blue blood coursing through his veins. There was no mistaking him for anything other than the pinnacle of royalty. And then there was me.

I certainly didn’t have his grace. I didn’t have his manners. After getting free from the Queen of Hearts, I would rather die than wear a suit or anything smacking of heraldry.

And I sure as hell wasn’t going to bow to another bloody queen.

We’d been ushered in as though she were expecting us, and knowing her, she was. Her people moved around us, as silent as Az’s shadowy wings. The outside of the palace was as icy white as the sky, and the mountains it fought against were crystalline spires jutting to impossible heights around an open courtyard where her enormous throne sat exposed in the frigid air.

As ethereal as the exterior looked—a sugar-spun mimic of a faerie’s dream—the interior was as lurid as sin.

Where the Painted Rose boasted a quiet elegance despite its bawdy nature, the Palace of the Crimson Squares looked like the largest whorehouse I’d ever seen.

There were chaises and couches in every nook—overstuffed monstrosities upholstered in purple-and-scarlet velvet. Whispering clusters of people occupied nearly every space. They were hauntingly beautiful, yet their brittle, sharp features were uncomfortable for the eye to land on. They moved in languid sweeps, poised and breathless, garbed in elaborate robes that seemingly hung on their thin shoulders and hips by the slightest of threads. Their sibilance followed us down every corridor like a wave of shifting sand beneath our feet.

Jean Michel acted as though the whispering were a reflection of their awe in his presence. It bothered the fuck out of me, because I felt trapped in an hourglass while time was running out around me. Blue paid it no mind. He darted from table to couch, sniffing at the foods and half-empty glasses he found here and there, but he never once took a bite.

It just goes to show—the dog was a hell of a lot smarter than I was.

The maze of corridors finally opened into the courtyard I knew would be at the end of our journey. It was exactly as I remembered it. A nearly emaciated woman sat and tapped her long nails on the high arms of an enormous black throne made of carved bone and ebony. She looked impossibly frail and so white she was nearly translucent, but her lips were as crimson as the strapless, form-hugging gown that covered most of her long torso and legs, its skirt split at her knees and flaring out to spill on the floor. The light played with the fabric, shifting it from blood to blush and back again. Her features were pointed, and her white hair was scraped back from her face and woven into the foot-tall filigree crown she wore perched on the back of her head.

The first time I’d seen her, her hair was streaked cardinal and cardamom and a wealth of curls tumbled down around her bare shoulders. She’d laughed back then.

She wasn’t laughing now.

I almost didn’t see the little girl standing next to her, mostly because it was impossible to take my eyes off the Red Queen. I was drawn to her in a way I couldn’t understand or at least didn’t like. It was different from my desire for Jean Michel. Even though he came from an insane bloodline, he still seemed human to me—at least most of the time—but she had lost her little humanity a long time before.

Where the Red Queen was a carved piece of alabaster with a semblance of life, the little blonde girl who trembled next to her was as breathtakingly, messily human as anyone could ever be.

Her hair was tangled and looked more than a little dirty, and she had her arms wrapped around herself to stay warm, but the thin gray jacket she wore couldn’t even hold back the wind that whistled through the courtyard. Her cheeks were bright red, her lips blue at the edges, and her eyes were wide, unfocused and nearly black with shock.

Still, she gasped when she saw me. She edged her sneaker an inch forward, and the Red Queen flung out a hand and gripped her by the hair.

“Of all of the people I expected to come, you would have been my last guess, Jean Michel,” the queen pronounced. Her voice rattled as a dry-husk tumble of words echoed over the empty courtyard. Her people remained in the shadows, clinging to the black draperies slung over the white columns of the palace’s outer hallway. “Although I did predict it would be the Ace who would knock on my door. I just didn’t expect it to be you holding his leash.”

“No one holds my leash,” I growled and crossed the enormous red marble squares of the courtyard to Naomi’s side.

I’d intended to wrap my jacket around Naomi, the Queen’s apparent hostage, but the woman had obviously decided I was the threat, because with a lift of her fingers, the palace responded to my presence.

Or rather, her wyverns did.

They came shrieking down from the skies, impossibly large stygian reptilian forms held aloft by wings made of bramble and gray moss. They grabbed at the air with their powerful back claws as they scissored through the cold to sweep through the vast arena of the courtyard. The palace spires twisted about and seemed to give way to the queen’s draconian vermin.

The rush of wind they brought with them held more than the bite of the mountain’s cold air. I felt the touch of hopelessness kiss my skin, and despair leached down into my blood. If I’d had any tattered thread of my soul left, it would’ve snapped under the weight of their oppressive presence.

Luckily for me, I didn’t have a soul.

I fought the storm they brewed with their wings, but the courtyard seemed impossibly long. It stretched out in front of me, and the tiles appeared to grow and shift despite my long strides. The Red Queen stood as I neared her throne and threw her hands up into claws much like her reptilian pets. I was more afraid of the woman than I was of the lizards, but even though I had nothing left in me to carry me into the afterlife, I was still human enough to pity a lost little girl.

“Here, put your arms through the sleeves,” I said as I shucked off my leather jacket. “It’ll keep you warm.”

Somewhere outside the palace, Blue was barking his head off. The snap of boot heels on the marble floor was enough to tell me Jean Michel had followed my footsteps. And he probably looked better doing it.

I turned to reassure him but kept my eyes on the wyverns that circled far above our heads, searching for their roosts tucked away in the eaves. Then the Red Queen struck.

The sting of her nails across my cheek lasted only a moment, and even then I wasn’t sure I felt the slice until the brief flash of pain came from the gush of hot blood that poured from my open wounds onto my cold skin. The little girl screamed and grabbed at my legs, and I nearly tumbled. I was caught in her tight embrace yet unwilling to break her hold because I might hurt her.

“You dare!” The Red Queen’s shriek was as loud as her lizards as she blasted my face with her fury. Her breath was cold—mist frosted over my lips and through my hair. She had lifted her arm up to strike me once more, but then Jean Michel closed his hand over her wrist.

“Hit him again and I will peel you apart where you stand,” he murmured, his tone matching the maelstrom brewing through the courtyard. “I’ve come for the girl because you know what her presence can do to us. Will you give her up freely? Or do we have to test the bonds of our bloodlines? I do not want to fight with you, Auntie. But if I have to choose between you and Wonderland City, I will use your bones for soup before I break a single window.”

“I have no use for the girl,” she snarled at him, and I saw their familial resemblance in her fangs and narrowed eyes. “I expected to trade her for him.”

Jean Michel released her, and she staggered back and gripped the arm of the throne to steady herself. The shadows rippled around the courtyard, and her guards slipped into the light, their livery as crisp and bloodred as the gown she wore.

“Xander is not a pawn in the queens’ games anymore.” He drew himself up, but she towered above him, a motionless statue of regal contempt. “It was one of the promises you all swore to. A promise you swore to me.”

“What?” I stammered as I pressed at the thin stripes clotting along my cheekbone. “What promise? What are you talking about?”

If the wyverns were terrifying, the Red Queen’s laughter was downright bone-chilling.

“Didn’t your precious savior tell you?” Her cackle hung in the air. “He forfeited his right to any throne in exchange for your freedom. You were as much his inheritance as any palace or castle. When it came time to divide up the realms, he swore off his legacy in exchange for freeing the Queen of Hearts’ Ace.

“But you see, nephew,” she rattled again, jutting her chin forward and pursing her lips until they nearly brushed Jean Michel’s cheek. “I grow weary of waiting for you to come to your senses and take your rightful place on the throne. You don’t want it and all it entails. I will gladly take it from you. So my price for the girl is your grandmother’s favorite toy.”

It was strange for me to have faith in Jean Michel. I shouldn’t have trusted him as far as I could throw him. And I knew how hard it was to throw him—I’d tried.

But I still trusted him.

I trusted him to do right by me, to do right by the realms he apparently walked away from… for me. Despite all of the tension and pushing we did against each other, there was a part of me that believed Jean Michel would always have my back.

It was about time I had his.

So it came as no surprise, at least to me, when Jean Michel kissed his aunt on the lips and said, “There is no fucking way I will ever let you have him.”

She threw her head back and howled, and her wyverns answered her call.

“Grab Blue and the girl,” I screamed at Jean Michel through the cacophony of the winged lizards descending upon us. “Make sure she’s safe!”

“I can’t leave you!” He dodged his aunt’s wild flails and shoved her spindly body back across the throne as he scooped Naomi up in his arms. He drew a long dagger from somewhere under his jacket. Maybe I needed a new tailor, because everyone but me seemed able to hide long weapons under their coats. “We can cut our way through them. The guards—”

“Stay here and let me clear the way.” I didn’t need a new tailor. I didn’t need a jacket that held long weapons. I really didn’t need anything other than what I’d been given—what I’d been made into—when the old queen got her hands on me.

It had just been so very long since I’d been a weapon I was half afraid I couldn’t be one again.

The fear in Naomi’s eyes was enough to still the doubts that chewed away at my insides. If I failed her, she would end up like me, broken on a Wheel of Bad Fortune, a torture rack turned by the powerful and corrupt. And I sure as hell couldn’t fail Jean Michel.

Facing the descending wyverns, I flung my arms out and welcomed their battle cries. Then I unwrapped the humanity I’d pulled around myself and became the Ace of Spades once again.

Six

I’D FORGOTTEN about the pain.

I don’t know how I could have. Everything about the Ace of Spades was pain. It was a ravaging monster made to inflict agony and destruction, a killing machine the Queen of Hearts wielded as easily as she wore her crown.

And I was that monster.

My chest burned where she’d branded me. The single spade sigil was a hot piece of iron seared into my flesh above my sternum. The keloid was the size of my hand and tinted ebony by the burnt blood and magical potions she’d rubbed into my weeping, smoking wound. I relived that moment every time I became the Ace. I carried it on my skin and suffered as it seeped into my marrow.

I became everything she’d wanted to inflict upon her subjects, including the ones who’d pleased her. Her cruelty knew no bounds. No one was safe from her machinations and certainly not from the wide range of tortures she could dream up with the snap of her fingers.

Except for Jean Michel. She loved him with an obsession as deep as the night sky and about as empty. But her love came with a price, and it was one he eventually couldn’t pay any longer. She never turned on him until the day he took me from her.

She fought him… and lost.

In the battle, Jean Michel stripped away everything she’d made me into, but there was no way to fully extinguish what she’d done. I was as much of a part of Wonderland City as its air, rocks, and its creatures. I held inside of me everything dark and terrifying in the realm and the power to unleash it on the lands once again.

I wanted to leave that life—those horrors—behind, but what the Red Queen had in store would bring about more pain than I could imagine or cause.

And I could imagine quite a lot.

The wyverns’ howling storm faded beneath the rush of blood through my ears. I was thankful I’d taken off my jacket. I really liked that jacket. I didn’t know if I’d be able to undo what I was going to become. If I strayed too far, I hoped Jean Michel would deliver me a quick death.

That is, if I didn’t kill him trying to save him.

I’d been through the transformation at least a million times, but I’d never gotten used to it. How could I? Every wound I inflicted came back inside of me once I was done, and the queen took great delight in digging out those memories and letting the conflict play out over my flesh before she tucked it back into the sigil on my chest.

God, it hurt so fucking much.

The Ace rose slowly, seemingly unwilling to break its slumber, but once awakened, it took me over, swept away my distaste for death, and left me with a razor-sharp thirst to bathe in mayhem. My skin stung, and the flesh on my arms parted first and crackled into grooves beneath my clothes. The fabric grew wet as it soaked up the viscous fluids that seeped from the fissures. The world shifted around me into a bend in Wonderland City’s already-sticky hold on reality. The courtyard slowed as the queen’s enchantment poured out of me and encased me in a slice of the universe outside of the thin tracks that time traveled on.

My armor emerged from my bones first and spilled through my skin with soft folds. Caught in the dead Queen of Hearts’ amber hold, the world skipped forward a second as the plates rose and stiffened into place. With each conflict I had gained power, and the exoskeleton she’d infused into my body flourished with every blow I gave, no matter how big or how small.

I wasn’t the first of her Aces, but I was the most successful, probably because I had nothing to lose and nothing to gain—a weapon with no other agenda than to serve her. I’d become Death’s Knight for a vicious, depraved woman, and now I was going to don that armor again to save her grandson and the lands she nearly destroyed.

I didn’t want to think about what would happen to the realm if Naomi became a weapon… like I’d been. Where I could walk through a hall leaving bodies in my wake, a child could do… untold destruction. I didn’t trust the Red Queen to turn her over. More than likely she would try to kill Jean Michel and do to Naomi what was done to me, but with much more horrifying results.

I knew how the queens’ minds worked.

My helm erupted from my cheeks and skull in a filigree of horns not unlike the Red Queen’s. I felt it grow and elongate into a forward hook, useful for impaling my victims. My greaves and gauntlets fell into place and hardened with the blink of an eye as the plates unfolded like petals emerging from a tight bud and the darkness overtook me.

I could scream uselessly in the emptiness within my shell, but I couldn’t fight what I’d been made into.

My blades came last—long, wicked swords, as black as the queen’s heart and jutting out of my shoulder blades. The agony of pulling them out made me sick to my stomach, but the bloodlust was taking over. I turned and coldly watched the Red Queen’s court scatter and stumble over themselves to get away. But I would find them. I would hunt them through the corridors and the forests and turn the snow crimson with their spilled blood. Their flesh would rot, and the salt of their bodies would render the fields barren for a generation or two; a long time, considering no one had children here.

I yanked at the hilts, forcing my weapons to break from their bony wombs, and unsheathed my blades.

The Ace in my chest blazed with an unholy black fire, the tips of the flames as ghostly blue and cold as the mountains framed in the open rooftop of the courtyard. I turned to find Jean Michel—my beloved prince—staring at me as he bundled the little girl to his chest, the sleeve of my jacket dragging on the floor.

He was so very beautiful. And I would kill for him as long as he wanted me to.

Tightening my hands on my swords, I let the spell’s hold on time fall way and faced the wyverns when they struck.

I was cold beneath my armor, so the hot rush of the flying lizard’s blood pouring down my upraised arms as I stabbed it through the neck was a welcome relief. The marble floor was slippery even before it was wet, but despite the wyvern’s blood on the slick surface, my armor was more than capable of retaining my balance.

It moved with me, and the plates sang a tenor death rattle as I slashed and stabbed my way through the first wyvern. Another tried to latch its teeth on my shoulder, but a quick swing split its nose in two and sent it back, shrieking in pain. The blood was all I needed to make the transformation complete. A single drop of the wyvern’s life fluids on the center of my sigil and I was reborn.

I could see everything, feel everyone—every heartbeat, every soft sob, every shriek from a lizard. And then the rantings of a Mad Queen echoed in my ears. I heard the screams of her court when they saw me. She’d brought Death to their door, and they were torn between their blind fealty to her and their fear for their lives. The shadows lurking behind the curtains became a rush of movement as her court was caught between watching the chaos or fleeing it. My senses caught and tracked every heartbeat, every thundering footstep on the marble to the outer perimeter where it was worn in places from countless people walking the same path every day.

The draconian storm surrounded me. Talons lashed out to score a shower of sparks against my armor, and long teeth snapped at my head and torso, impaling soft flesh on my horns or sliding away from the ethereal metal, unable to find purchase on the fluctuating shadows the Queen of Hearts used to forge my suit.

“I will own you,” the Red Queen screamed at me from her dais. She was horrifyingly glorious to behold, as hideously monstrous as I probably was. We were both creatures knitted together from Wonderland City’s darkest depths, the very scum lurking in its gutters and cisterns, held together by malevolence and powered by greed. “I will see you bent down before me. I will have you call me Mistress, and I will have you bleed and beg for the privilege of kissing my feet and lapping my hand.”

I wanted to take the armor off. I wanted to crawl into a ball in the middle of the courtyard and scrape it off of my flesh and bones until I bled from pulling it free. Instead I battled wyverns she’d sent for me because the Ace needed satisfaction, demanded feeding. I’d woken it, and I needed to pay its price, even as it rode my flesh and its armor twisted through my bones and tore apart my mind.

“Xander!” Jean Michel shouted across the courtyard. “I’ve lost the girl!”

“Then go find her!” I couldn’t spare the time, not with the wyverns on me. The flash of a wing blocked out the pale sun and warned me I was about to be attacked.

The lizard hit me hard when I turned, and its heavy weight slammed me down into the marble. The stone cracked beneath us. But I was an immovable force to its powerful hit. My armor protected me even though the impact rattled my brain about my skull. I planned to let go of one of my swords, if not both, to shove it clear… but Naomi happened.

Wonderland City and its surrounding lands were topsy-turvy most of the time. Things ran up when they should run down, and sometimes an extremely literal thing became reality simply by being spoken in the right moment at the right time. Despite its weirdness, it was mostly still bound by the laws of its physics, even though it would take smarter men than me to explain them.

It’d been driven into my head that a human child was possibly the most dangerous thing in any universe, and it was true.

I intuited Naomi before I saw her. With my senses expanded outward to the point of being overstimulated, I experienced Naomi’s panic as it hit the very membrane that held the realms together. It was both awe-inspiring and terrifying—a warp of dimensions folding over the people who ran past her and the space she stood in. She sustained everything around her with her sheer humanness, the distinct signature of a person born on the other side of the looking glass and possessing the ability—however chaotic—to wrap it around or through our world.

She screamed. Across the courtyard, tucked against a column, Naomi stood with her arms out and her hair flying back from her face in a mimicry of the Red Queen’s crown. She screamed with a horrified anger.

There was fear rippling off of her. I could taste it, but that wasn’t what fueled the reality-breaking schisms tumbling away from her. She was angry and fierce, a dynamo tucked into the body of a little girl, and I wondered how she would be once she reached womanhood and found her way through life.

My jacket was still draped around her body, its sleeves trailing down past her hands and flopping to the marble floor by her feet. And Blue was by her side, a bright beacon of cobalt and fur. He snapped at the ankles and legs of anyone who dared to come near her, but mostly he defended her against the stampeding throng.

Her chaos struck a rhino in a ball gown as it stumbled by, and the woman became a simple beast.

I saw the moment the intelligence left her eyes. It wasn’t the nothingness of madness or the quiet resignation of a fading existence. It wasn’t the unfocused meander of someone lost in their mind or even the thousand-yard stare of someone who no longer saw the world around them. I’d seen all of those things.

The rhino stumbled and tore through her ball gown, releasing a small storm of sequins and pearls into the air, a glittering rainfall of purple and pink orbs followed by delicate cascading pings when they hit the marble floor. Her elaborate headdress tilted, swung down off of her head to dangle in front of her now-bared chest, and her thrashing legs fought to free themselves from the oddly strong fabric prison she had donned to attend the Red Queen’s court. Her shoulder struck the stairs as she fell, rolling her thick, heavy body down the small flight, and when she struck the courtyard’s floor, she was undone.

There was no one there behind those squinting dark eyes. The personhood infused in that armored body was gone. A few moments before, she’d had language and thoughts, a consciousness, and the ability to change the world around her, but now only instinct drove her actions. The adornment on her sturdy body was hindrance instead of a display of individuality. The makeup on her face was a parody of a humanity she no longer possessed and mocked the woman she’d once been.

I now truly understood the saying about putting lipstick on a pig.

She thundered through the crowd, ribbons of her dress caught around her waist and flowing behind her in garishly gleeful streams. Her back feet were still clad in heels—red leather pumps, their slick soles too slippery to gain any traction on the marble floor. Frustrated, the animal raged, tossed her head about, and hooked her horn into the side of a giraffe scrambling to get free of a wyvern’s reach.

The giraffe might have been her friend. They might’ve laughed over court gossip and complained about the price of lemons as they squeezed juice into their tea. I didn’t know. And despite the Ace’s bloodlust riding me, I cried when the rhino’s horn tore into the giraffe’s side, ripped apart her hide, and then caught on the wyvern’s extended leg.

A moment later the rhino was spun away. Her horn was lodged firmly into the shrieking lizard’s limb, and the wyvern’s powerful wings lifted both up into the air to disappear into the sky beyond. Her hat broke free, and the air currents whisked it about until it was a frilly dot growing larger by the second as it spiraled down.

I couldn’t take the time to mourn the loss of her humanity or her life because I’d pissed off the Red Queen, and the young girl she’d intended to hold hostage was wreaking havoc in our world. I kept a good distance away from Naomi and tried not to wonder why Blue retained his Wonderland form despite being pressed up against her leg. Jean Michel was probably smart enough to keep his distance, but I couldn’t think about that either.

Caught on the edge of Naomi’s influence, the lizard that had me pinned down twisted, and its right wing buckled as the membrane between the sweep’s spines turned to ash and floated away. I drove one of my swords into its gullet and yanked downward toward its heart. I needed to get clear of it before Naomi’s reality hit me. I had faith my human form would hold, but it would strip my armor from me and leave me defenseless and weak.

I also wasn’t sure if I would survive it. There was too much of Wonderland City in me now, and short of a devil granting me back my soul, I wasn’t sure how much human was left.

Pushing power into my blade, I set the wyvern on fire and drove the flames into its heart so the inferno would follow the path of its pulse. Its arteries bulged beneath its thick skin, and gases built up along the way. I planted a foot into its belly and kicked it with my shoulder wedged into the depression our impact made in the marble tiles. The wyvern began to thrash and lashed out at everything around it, and I kicked again and gave myself enough space to roll away.

The wyvern died with a whimper as its skin lifted away from its flesh and the gases expanded. For a brief moment, I braced myself to be covered in wyvern innards. Bloated as tightly as an overfilled balloon, it rolled away from me, its spine ridges catching on the broken marble tiles, anchoring it in place. I gave it a wide berth. It was merely a foot or two away from the edge of Naomi’s bend in reality, and I didn’t want to see—or be near—what would happen if the wyvern were touched by her influence.

But I made damn sure I had my swords in hand when I sprang to my feet.

There were two wyverns left—snarling mindless beasts directed by the Red Queen. The first one flew up, winging toward the opening of the courtyard, but the other landed a few feet in front of me, its shifting scales flashing copper and then green and blue. It was close enough I could smell its fishy odor and almost drowned in the rank dankness of its hot breath. It would’ve had a better advantage if it stayed in the air, but I was a moving target it couldn’t grab a hold of. Its animal instincts were powerful and threatened to break the Red Queen’s hold. The fleeing bodies around us tugged at its predatory nature. I watched as its eyes flicked to the left and right, its body tense with the desire to chase after a tide of fleeing prey. Every single last one of them was a much easier target than I was.

“I’ll grab the girl!” Jean Michel yelled at me, though screaming wasn’t necessary. The streams of noise were easily picked through. His voice reached me like a beam of sunlight on a clear day, and I found him in the crowd.

“Forget the girl. Get to the queen.” I pointed him toward the dais where she stood, puppet-mastering the remaining wyverns with her will. The space was too tight for both lizards to maneuver, and I guessed she sent the other one away so they wouldn’t tangle together when they attacked. I would have to keep one eye on the sky and watch for an aerial assault while I tried to kill the lizard in front of me. “Break her hold on them. And once I’m clear….”

I didn’t need to finish the sentence. Jean Michel understood what I was saying because we’d been in that position before—not exactly that position but close enough. The stakes were higher then. That queen was more powerful, and we’d been more desperate. Or at least that’s what it seemed like back then. It was silly how a little girl with her wild ordinariness was a greater threat than a queen intent on destroying every beautiful thing around her.

“The time has come, dear flying lizard,” I mocked the beast as I lifted my swords in preparation for the next strike, “to speak of many things. Mainly killing you. Sorry about that. I’m kind of a shitty poet.”

Naomi was whispering, reassuring Blue that I would save them. Jean Michel’s progress was marked by the steady beat of his feet on the marble, and the Queen of Hearts’ armor stretched out my senses, bringing me the sound of his heart pounding as his blood rushed madly through him.

The Red Queen muttered from her throne and broke into the occasional volley of insults, condemning her people to death for leaving her side. “I will remember every single last one of you. I will peel your faces off and stitch them together to make a dress,” she shouted into the thinning crowd as she roamed her gaze over the bodies of those killed by the indiscriminate wyverns and the confused animals that were scattered about the soon-to-be-empty courtyard. “You will suffer for abandoning me! You will pay for your treachery! You will pay for not protecting your queen!”

The wyvern finally paid its addresses, and the battle was begun.

My helm kept my face protected, encased in the Ace of Spades’ monstrous visage, but it also prevented me from sinking my teeth into the wyvern’s flesh and taking what was my due. The beast within me wanted the lizard to know what killed it, wanted a show of dominance that would intimidate any other challengers. While my swords were an extension of me, they did nothing to slake my thirst. I could kill with them and drain the life of my opponents, but the power was never truly mine. Everything I’d gained had been fed back to me by the Queen of Hearts, and now free of her ties, the hunger in me raged unchecked and possibly unfulfilled.

Still, killing was killing, and it was what I did best.

Wholesale slaughter was never satisfying. The Ace of Spades liked to play with his kills. I expected to want that again, to desire the slow slicing of flesh until my attacker bled out or there was nothing left to carve away. This time was different. Once I ran through the initial bloodlust, I just wanted everything done.

I just wanted to go home.

I caught the wyvern in the jaw. My blade sang in the air and then made a solid thump when it struck bone. A magical creature, the wyvern didn’t split apart beneath my blow, but its face cracked beneath the weight of my sword. I hacked at it as I dodged its wings and its talons. I grunted when its tooth caught one of my horns and spun me about. A claw tip caught me across the cheek, taking advantage of the Omega-shaped opening in my helm. The armor responded and tightened the space, but the damage was already done. Blood dripped down my cheek, and I spat some of it out past the narrower space.

Forcing my helm opening to widen, I sucked in a gasp of fetid air. It was claustrophobic, and I struggled to breathe. I knew I could draw in oxygen, but the idea of being sealed up behind the black plates made my skin crawl. Blue barked at me, either as a warning or encouragement, but it was heartening to hear.

Last time I wore the armor, I’d been alone, hoping Jean Michel would be alive when I was done.

Now I had a dog cheering me on and Jean Michel racing to do battle with the queen once again.

This time I wasn’t going to let him go into that battle alone.

I found my mark. The wyvern was growing weak, and my slices across its body had dampened its strength. A gash rendered one wing useless and took a large chunk out of its right leg. A stab into its tail broke through the vertebrae there and left the appendage a limp dead weight behind its haunches. It struggled to fight, using its teeth mostly, but it couldn’t grab hold of me. I was too fast, too deadly for it to defend against. Its brethren appeared to have flown away, possibly freed of the Red Queen’s binding or a victim of Naomi’s roaming chaos.

Supposition. Borrowing trouble. It’s what had nearly gotten me killed before and would again if I didn’t focus.

Trusting Blue to keep Naomi out of the way, I plunged both of my blades into the wyvern’s throat and then pulled my swords back and scissored the wyvern’s head clean off.

The skull bounced across the floor, slid over the slick marble, and came to a rest at the stairs by the Red Queen’s throne. I’d heard a rumble of movement and feet but hadn’t paid much attention, so I was more than a little delighted to find a ring of guards assembled before her. Their faces were firm, although trepidation colored their eyes, and Jean Michel stood a few feet from the dais, held off by sharp spears and fear of the woman standing at the throne.

“Did you think I would die as easily as your grandmother, Jean Michel?” The smug look on her face was a familiar expression. I’d seen countless smirks and smiles just like it before. Her hair was mussed, her crown slightly tilted, but her arrogance stood strong. “Unlike her, I have no love for you, no reason for you to continue living in my world. Once you are dead, I will take the Ace and the girl and lay waste to anyone who dares to stand against me. You will be my first example, nephew.”

“Oh, fuck that, Queenie,” I growled as I stepped over the wyvern’s slack tail. “If anybody’s going to dance with the devil tonight, it’s going to be you. And right after that, he’s going to take me and the girl home.”

Seven

DEATH NEVER arrived on silent feet.

At some point in my childhood, more for the free dinner they were serving than to save our souls, we went to a church service one Sunday, and the evening’s sermon was the price we paid for our meal. For some reason, the pastor that night stuck with me. He was a large man, red-faced and jowly, and he mopped up the sweat from his forehead with an enormous yellowed handkerchief. His hairline was receding, but he’d grown a thick mane where he could. It was a light ginger hue slowly turning a silvery white. He moved wildly as he spoke, and his booming voice filled the long hall that was packed with an enthralled congregation. We were sitting in the third row, and I’d grown fascinated with guessing how long his buttons would be able to hold back his enormous chest and stomach.

He was on what might have been his two hundredth circuit of the tiny stage in front of a huge white cross that hung on the wall and a forest of candles beneath it, when he stopped and thrust his index finger out toward the crowd. There was anger in his face, the kind of emotional vitriol I’d long recognized as a precursor to violence and pain. His lips were pursed, teeth clenched, and he punched through the air with his hand and stabbed at the congregation.

It felt like his eyes found me, nailed me to the slightly sweat-dampened pew, and he shouted accusingly, “Where will you be when death comes to find you? Will you even hear it? Because death is silent. Moves on silent feet. It creeps up behind you and takes you before you even realize your life is ending. Where will you be when the silence around you holds death?”

Asshole scared me within an inch of my life, and if I knew it was possible, I would find him and punch him in the face for it.

Because if there was one thing I knew for sure, death never arrived on silent feet.

Death wasn’t pretty or romantic. It was messy. Even when the kill was clean, death was messy. When an animal died, it slipped away with an innocence I couldn’t understand. It was an extinguishing of life. When a conscious being died, the spirit and soul fought to hold on, even as the body let go. Faith and trust in a higher being or the universe or whatever it was that thrust a consciousness into a chunk of meat still didn’t stop the soul from fighting to leave.

I’d seen men—and women and creatures—resign themselves to their deaths. I’d seen people battle and fall. Death removed them swiftly from the playing field. I’d seen and brought death to so many people, but I still mourned the soul as it hooked its metaphysical nails into the flesh and fought like hell to remain.

Because no matter how someone died, the fear of the unknown sinks into their soul right before they slip away, and it is the most horrifying thing imaginable.

The first guard died that way. He stepped off of the dais, lifted up his spear, and I killed him.

Then I watched his universe unravel while he took his final gurgling breath.

Being the Red Queen’s, the guards wore stylized dark burgundy armor fashioned to make them appear to be pawns from a chess set. The pressed leather of their tunics flared out away from their hips, and their helmets were rounded at the base but pointed up top and angled back from their temples. There were no visors to protect their faces, and their pants were velvet and satin, tucked into thick leather boots and flounced around their shins.

There was nothing to protect them from a serious threat, and sure as hell nothing they wore could stop me. Still, they pressed on to defend a queen who, at her very core, thought every living thing with a consciousness was simply a parasite to be eradicated in order for the lands to thrive.

Starting with us, of course.

My first sword strike separated most of the guard’s upper body from his hips. He died in motion, his foot not quite on the marble floor, caught in midstep. I spun to avoid the splash of his guts and the river of blood that gushed from his diagonally bisected chest. He shouted something as he died, but I wasn’t listening. I never listened. If I stopped and marked the last words of every creature I killed, I’d have to carry them with me, and despite the armor the Queen of Hearts had wrapped around me, I hated bringing death.

Sure, the Ace of Spades part loved it. Me? I hated hearing the last words, loathed the rattle of breath as it left their throats for the last time, agonized over who was left standing by the front window, waiting for the person I’d just killed to come home.

I’d never imagined what a freedom it was to walk away from that. Wearing the armor once again, I remembered exactly how fucking heavy it was and everything that came with it.

Then the Ace caught me up in its maddening hunger, and I was lost in its sickening joy at spilling blood.

Snow was falling again, speckling the marble floor. The dais was protected by the angle of the roof, the inner bow steep enough to hold back the billowing ice and crystals. I heard the remaining wyvern scream, but my attention was more on carving a path to the Red Queen than defending myself from an aerial attack. On the other side of the raised platform, Jean Michel fought furiously against a pair of guards, parrying their thrusts with a sword he’d picked up from another fallen guard.

The rush of armored feet on marble caught my attention, and I turned to see another phalanx of pawns break through curious members of the court who hovered at the far end of the hall. There were shouts for the queen’s subjects to fall back, to go farther into the palace for their own safety, but even the insane loved to watch a spectacle. Whoever hid behind the columns and torn-down drapery would have a story to tell—either of the Red Queen’s fall or the Ace of Spades’ death.

Someone could dine out on that tale for years… providing they lived to tell it.

“Someone grab the girl,” one of the pawns shouted and motioned toward Naomi. His livery had gold buttons and tassels along the shoulders, visually elevating him from the other guards. “I will deal with the Ace.”

“No, leave him for me,” the queen ordered. “Take the girl! I will deal with the Ace after I kill the prince.”

Oh, that was going to be fun.

On the throne’s platform the guards fell, and their slack bodies tumbled down the stairs. I worked through the ones coming at me and dispatched them as neatly as I could while I kept my eyes from their faces. The queen’s shrieks escalated and grew feverish in pitch.

Then I heard Naomi scream.

And Blue yelped.

The lead marionette in the queen’s detail kicked at my dog’s head, his hand tight around Naomi’s upper arm. He dragged her away from the column and pulled her down the stairs, trying to leave room for the guards who were rushing to defend the queen. A glance back at Jean Michel gave me little reassurance he could take them on. Swords were heavy, and fighting for any length of time wore a man down, even Jean Michel. The incoming guards would take a toll on him, and he would have to turn around to fight them, which would give the Red Queen his back.

I was torn. Jean Michel would need my help with the guards, but despite Blue’s best efforts, the guard was pulling Naomi toward the inner halls of the palace. Blue had his teeth sunk into the man’s tunic, but his nails scraped along the floor, unable to get purchase on the slick marble. So Blue jerked his head back and nearly knocked the guard off of his feet.

Someone had gotten through Jean Michel’s guard and sliced a deep line into his right cheek. His knuckles were barked, raw and bleeding. I’d been on the other end of his right hook while sparring, so focused on my sword I forgot his penchant for punching if he saw the chance. His clothes were damp with sweat and sodden with blood, and his left sleeve was torn along his forearm, exposing the skin beneath. His jaw sported a darkening bruise, and it looked like he’d bitten through his lower lip.

Despite it all, he was still a glorious, masculine beacon of royalty with more than a little dash of arrogance. Flashing me a cheeky grin, he nodded toward Naomi and said, “Get her safe. I’ll take care of the queen.”

I didn’t have a chance to wish him luck, because a second later, he was blocked by a ring of pawns and the space around him bristled with weapons. So I turned my gaze onto the guard who held Naomi and launched myself at him.

Or at least I tried to. There was a dead wyvern between us, its body too spread out to maneuver around easily. I felt every ounce of my armor weighing down on my frame, pressing its seams into my flesh, and even though I wouldn’t tire carrying it, its presence was constant and oppressive. Once I was free of the looking glass, I would be free of the Ace, stripped of its armor, and released back into the world I knew.

Or would I?

Naomi looked like a little girl. The soles of her sneakers lit up as her feet touched the floor, and her expression held a wariness I’d only seen in the mirror. Her eyes were enormous and filled with tears, but she still fought and kicked at the man who tried to drag her along. She wasn’t like any child I remembered from my time back home. She had an eerie worldliness, a maturity I certainly didn’t have when I was her age. She just seemed different in a way that made me wonder how much the world had changed since I was gone.

Would I even recognize it? Would I be able to live there again?

I carved my way through the shank of the dead wyvern and got to the steps in a few leaps, but they were still a good eight feet away. Naomi and the guard hadn’t gone far. Blue had seen to that, and as I ran toward them, Naomi lashed out with her foot and caught the guard on the back of the knee.

It was an old trick for anyone who’d grown up with a brother or sister, and she executed it perfectly. The guard tumbled as his knee gave out and gravity pulled him down the stairs. Unfortunately he took Naomi with him. Blue let go of his tunic but snapped and bit whatever he could reach while the guard tried to get back on his feet. The ground was too heavy with snow, and large swatches melted over immense cooling pools of blood. He flailed about and yanked Naomi to the side, refusing to let her go. While Naomi lashed out at him, Blue latched on to his cheek, possibly even got his nose. I didn’t take the time to look. I was more intent on getting to Naomi’s side.

They were only a few feet away, well within my reach… until my sky filled with talons and wings.

Maybe death wasn’t as noisy as I thought.

I turned to face the winged lizard, thinking it was the final wyvern. It wasn’t.

There should have been a warning of her change, but there probably was never one for mine. Only a fool would have mistaken the slender red dragon for anything other than the Red Queen herself.

There was too much of the sorceress in her sleek, deadly form. Her eyes gleamed with a malevolent cunning, filled with intelligence and fury, and the twist of horns rising up along the perimeter of her skull mimicked the crown she wore on her head. She stood not much taller than I did, but she carried more weight. The marble floor buckled and broke beneath her clawed feet, and the snow flew up as her long frilled tail swished back and forth. Up close her scales were a chameleon blend of faint pink, bloodred, and deep crimson, the colors shifting under the bounce of light from the marble floor. Delicate wings sprouted from her shoulders and framed her ridged spine, and the jagged bony plates ran down her back and scraped together as she approached, giving off a low discordant chime.

I should’ve heard her, but I didn’t. I should’ve felt her shift. A lot of should’ve’s I missed when I was within Naomi’s reach.

The Red Queen was as beautiful as she was terrifying as she threw her head back to let loose a roar loud enough to rattle the eaves of the courtyard. Power rolled off of her draconian body, reminding anyone who could see her of her right to rule. Her subjects fell to their knees where they stood and cowered before her, their bodies pressed as flat as possible and quivering beneath her oppressive presence. They were enslaved to her charisma and suckled at the thin, bitter milk of her cruel personality. She’d drawn them to her with the promise to protect them from any harm yet casually tossed them to their deaths so she could walk across their corpses and not get her feet dirty.

I intended to get more than her feet dirty.

“Let go,” Naomi whimpered, tears pouring down her soft round cheeks. “I want to go home.”

Once again we were reminded why human children were so very fucking dangerous.

The shock wave of her fear and panic burst from her in nearly transparent ribbons of undulating perspective that visibly changed the air and environment around her. They flowed out like tentacles and pierced through everything in their path. Being closest to her, the guard was affected first, and I would hear his howling screams until the day I died.

It wasn’t a surprise to discover the Red Queen’s pawns weren’t real, or rather that she’d pulled them together from bits and pieces of the dead, infused them with life, and encased their bodies in her livery. The inanimate were easier to control. Each queen had their own way of ensuring the loyalty of their people, mostly by terrorizing them into submission.

I was a perfect example of the Queen of Hearts’ rule, and I’d been only one of the tools in her torture chambers.

When Naomi’s forced reality wrapped around the Red Queen’s guard, it broke his very existence. Distress bulged out the man’s eyes, and they began to swell. His limbs puffed out, and his uniform strained to contain his bloated flesh. It tightened around his joints, but the leather seams refused to give way and sliced through the rapidly decaying skin pressing into it. His hands fell away first, turned gelatinous, and then sloughed off his bones.

Naomi pulled her arm up, shook off the guard’s remains, and reached for my dog. I braced myself to watch Blue die. He’d been my companion since I’d been set free, and for all of my complaining about hair, spit, and the occasional headless squirrel he left at my shoes, I loved him more than I loved myself.

She sat down and collapsed into a sobbing pile. She touched his fur, and I refused to look away, even with the Red Queen breathing down my neck. Naomi flung her arms around Blue’s neck and embraced him tightly to her. I wasn’t going to let him leave the world without knowing someone loved him. I waited for the spark to leave his eyes and held my breath as though somehow that would make the heartbreak of losing him hurt less.

Nothing happened.

My dog continued to glow. The streams of her influence flowed and curved around the courtyard, eviscerating everything they touched or forcing them to conform to the reality Naomi held in her mind. But Blue panted at me and stood strong in a protective stance across Naomi’s legs. A second later, he spotted me looking at him, and his dark lips curled up into a smile that bared his teeth before it let his tongue flop out of his open mouth.

Then he wagged his tail.

“Just stay with me, Blue,” I muttered at him, even though I knew he couldn’t hear me. “I’m going to get all of you out of here.”

“You are going nowhere,” the Red Queen hissed, her words garbled by her reptilian tongue. “I will bind you after I remake you. You should have been mine from the very beginning. And I will possess you even if I have to kill you first.”

“I’m really going to enjoy drinking my morning coffee out of your skull,” I promised, “even if I have to come back and get it.”

We struck at the same time in a clash of swords and fangs. She was old, but her body was invigorated by her rage, and her attacks were fierce lightning strikes in between my swings. My side burned for a moment when her talons cut through my armor and I felt winter’s kiss touch my skin. Arcane syllables flowed from her open mouth, and the snow began to whip around my body. The ice found the wound with a vampiric chill that chewed through the heat of my spilled blood and aching flesh. I forced myself forward, hoping I could break free of the spell she threw at me.

“Using magic. Not fair,” I ground out as I slashed at her neck. I took out a small chunk of meat near her collarbone, but she easily evaded my next swing.

“Nothing is fair, little man,” the Red Queen shot back, her eyes alight with an inner fire. “It doesn’t matter how one wins, so long as they win.”

Her horns left shadow stains on the floor where the faint sunlight came through their tangled filigree. They sparkled, even when dragged through darkness, and the crown of spires glistened with a faceted gleam. I raised my sword for a thrust when the ice bit back and dug through my muscles to find my ribs and clamped needlelike prongs through my bones.

She was trying to get to my marrow, the innermost essence of my body, where the Queen of Hearts had laid her enchantment. I couldn’t risk the Red Queen getting hold of me, nor could I put down my swords. The tendrils working inside of me were insistent, an invasive force she directed with her mind. I had to break the spell so my armor could heal over the deep gash, and I hoped I could get free of Naomi’s spreading reality.

I spun about, balanced on the balls of my feet, and planted myself on the marble floor and braced for what I needed to do. I lifted my arms, crossed my swords above me, lunged, and buried my blades into her shoulder deeply enough to hit bone.

The red dragon screamed in pain with a thin, wavering howl sharp enough to hurt my ears and reassure me I’d gotten a good hit. She retaliated by digging at me with her back claw to get me loose, but I held on and took the strike with a grunt. Her claw caught me again, and she yanked hard and pulled me off of her body at the same time and at the right angle to dislodge the enchanted armor over my ribs.

The ice shattered in midair as the core of the spell fell away from my body and ripped its tendrils out of my flesh. They came away bloody, undulating furiously for a brief moment, and then, denied of my life essence, stiffened into icicle shards in midair. The spiky chunks hit the ground hard and scattered pieces everywhere, but I dodged away from the area and rolled away from the Red Queen before she could attack again.

“Stop hurting him,” Naomi yelled toward us. “Stop!”

“Shut up,” the Red Queen roared, wings pressed back against her sides as a violent anger surged through her and tightened every muscle along her sleek form. “I will have you for lunch with turnips once I am done with him. Then I will eat the dog and destroy everyone in my way. You are all blights on this land. I don’t know why I waited so long to erase you from existence, but it is time for your day of reckoning to come.”

Madness rode the Red Queen. Every person and thing in Wonderland City carried at least a small thread of it. In order for the realm to exist, the impossible had to be possible. But sometimes the insanity took hold, and spread its roots deep, and festered and fed off of a person’s darkest thoughts and obsessions. It was that way with the Hatter. It had taken over him, a parasitical presence in control of his body and mind, just like it was manifesting now in the Red Queen.

Something had happened, perhaps slowly or maybe when Naomi tumbled through the looking glass, but her madness was now an all-consuming living thing, controlling her every thought and action. She’d always subscribed to the philosophy that sentient creatures were a burden on the lands, ungrateful ticks sucking their oblivious hosts dry, but she’d never once fallen prey to the desire to consume her enemies.

There was no mistaking her intent. She would play God with us. She would be the flood, the apocalypse, and the rapture for the entire realm. Then she would bathe in its ashes, smear the dead over her body, and revel in her madness.

Even if I could win the battle without killing her, she had to die. Her reign had to end, even if it left a gaping hole in Wonderland City’s power structure. The Red Queen was just too dangerous to let live.

My armor wasn’t healing. Naomi’s influence was too persistent, or maybe the Red Queen’s magic was too strong for the enchantment in my bones. The ace in my chest plate burned in fits and starts, its blue flames sputtering down to nearly nothing before flaring back up. Blood wept from my wound and flaked off in tiny sheets when it hit the edges of my severed armor plates.

I was growing tired.

I never got tired.

Raising my swords once again, I pulled together as much of my strength as I could muster and prepared to strike the Red Queen dead. Then I heard Naomi call out once again.

“You’re not even a real dragon!” Her words stunned the genuflecting crowd to silence. Our world once hung on an unraveling thread when similar words were spoken what seemed like lifetimes ago. No one dared even a whisper, and time hiccupped, caught on a balance between realities. And then Naomi unknowingly but firmly brought the hammer down upon us all. “You can’t eat me. And when I wake up, you won’t be here. Because you’re not real!”

Eight

“YOU’RE NOTHING but a pack of cards!”

Those words whispered in the darkest corner in every house and in every court. To hear them come from Naomi’s lips sent a shiver through the Red Queen’s lackeys. I hadn’t been there when Alice tore apart the Queen of Hearts’ elite force, but I’d heard the stories. Alice was the reason I existed. She was an unstoppable malevolent force whose wave of destruction brought about the Ace of Spades. I, like those who came before me, were to be the last line of defense against the warping of our world.

When I arrived, broken and mewling from my life on the other side of the looking glass, the queen decided the best thing to fight a threat from Alice’s world was to turn someone from that world into her own personal executioner.

She hadn’t been wrong, but the humans I’d been forced to defend her from had been adults.

Children were something completely—and wildly—different.

That truth became glaringly apparent as Naomi’s fear-tinged fury broke over us.

The slender ribbons pouring out of her widened and snapped into sharp lines with edges keen enough to cut through a Wonderland City being. The courtiers who’d gathered around the edge of the courtyard fought to get clear of the swift-moving undulations, but one cannot outrun the wind.

A wave touched the dress hem of a beautiful, hauntingly featured woman. She’d stumbled over her own feet—a soft ballet flat spangled with jewels was her downfall. I caught bits and pieces of her death with the Red Queen weaving about in front of me, but what played out in the courtyard would fuel Wonderland City’s nightmares for centuries to come.

Naomi’s invoked perspective licked at the woman’s bare foot when her slipper slid off her heel. The hardening ribbon slowly grew less transparent as it moved away from Naomi, marbled with a frosted gleam. It barely glanced off the woman’s arch, but the tiniest touch was enough to disrupt her life. Leaving the slipper behind, her bared sole touched the floor, and as she tried to break into a run, the disintegrating marble seized hold of her skin and ripped it from her foot.

She left a bloodied print on the marble, and it seemed as if that was all the price she would pay for crossing Naomi’s path, but the world I’d come from would have its full pound of flesh.

The pawn’s undoing was swift, an unstitching of ensorcelled dead limbs and bones. What lay in store for the woman was far more horrifying, and despite the dragon snapping at my head, I couldn’t pull my attention away from the courtier being eaten alive by a little girl’s scream.

A single curdle of air caught at her skin and peeled it from her ankle into fine threads. Her mind didn’t grasp what was happening to her, or at least that’s all I could think of to explain why she tried to run as her frail flesh unraveled from her skeletal frame. Her clothes melted from her limbs and dripped down like wax caught in a roaring fire. The profanity of her death struck me speechless. Her blood became dust, and her limbs churned and fought to propel the woman on, but each minute stagger forward carried less and less of her.

Another wave smacked her from behind and shoved her down into the marble, but her body never struck the floor. The bends of reality were brewing their own storm, and a frenetic heat much like a wildfire grabbed hold of her unspooling remains, flung them up into the air, cast the earth and grit of her existence into the wind, and then moved on to consume another.

Only her face remained. A limp, paper-thin mask made of skin and paint drifted on the air flurries and battled the faint snowfall coming through the courtyard’s open roof. It landed a few inches away from my feet. The woman’s final, unheard scream turned her face into a gargoyle mimicry of her beauty.

The Red Queen lashed out with her injured leg, and her claws came down and shredded the dead woman’s mask, her last bit of existence.

It all happened in the blink of an eye, yet wearing the remains of the Ace’s armor drove every detail straight through my brain. I caught every whiff of her fear and tasted her blood on my tongue as its ashy flakes swirled around me. Caught in disbelief at her death, her soul’s passage into the unknown was unseen by anyone but the girl who unwittingly caused it. I wouldn’t know how to fix that loss of innocence. I didn’t even know if Naomi would remember any of it when she returned, but if she did, she would be like all of us who’d come through—broken beneath the weight of our humanity and the savagery of this place.

“Xander! Don’t let it touch you!” Jean Michel’s order broke through the stupor I’d been caught in. “I’ll see if I can get to her.”

That was possibly the most spectacularly bad idea Jean Michel ever had.

“Help me with the queen!” I shouted back, adjusting my swords in my hands. “Blue will protect the girl!”

My little dog was fierce, a cobalt-lit protector unwilling to give an inch when threatened. As silly as it was to place my trust in a canine, Blue was our best bet to keep Naomi safe. Well, him and the fragmented bits of reality tumbling out of Naomi’s tiny, shivering body.

She’d curled up against the column, dragging the dog in close. Her eyes were screwed shut, and my jacket swaddled her slender frame, but it was all the protection I’d had to offer against snow. I could only hope Blue’s ambient warmth would keep her from freezing long enough for us to kill the Red Queen, then escape.

Or at least I hoped we would escape.

God, let me escape.

The winds were growing fiercer, filled with the grit of the dead. Its heat rose, smashing into the cold snowfall overhead. The battle between the elements raged as hotly as the Red Queen’s temper, sparking a roll of electricity spikes across the courtyard’s length. A strike hit one of the columns, leaving a smoking hole in the stone, and another caught at the curtains hanging behind the queen’s throne, consigning it to flames. The palace creaked and groaned around us, the structure caught in a war it would eventually lose. If Naomi’s frosted ribbons didn’t send it tumbling down around our heads, the Red Queen’s death would bring its walls crashing down to its foundations.

“I will not let you destroy me,” the dragon spat, her breath as fiery as the currents rising from the crumbling marble floor. The tiles were disintegrating beneath our feet, becoming a sea of red-and-white sand. “I will see you dead before I let you kill me. I will not let that thing bring about the end of our realm. Not when that will be my legacy.”

“No.” And with that, I was done talking to the Red Queen.

Jean Michel was at my side before I could take the first swing. I dwarfed him in my armor, its bristle of plates and spires meant to intimidate as much as protect. He brought with him the bloodline of the Hearts, and the ace on my chest flared with his proximity. He looked better than I expected. Although still smeared with blood, sweat, and dust, he was ready to fight, hoisting up his borrowed long sword. His dark eyes were alive with an intense fire I could only hope would carry us through.

If I could have, I’d have ripped off the helm covering my face and taken one last kiss from his mouth, just in case we fell.

I was going to have to be satisfied with the quirk of a smile he gave me and the roaring yell he let out as he attacked.

I’d grown up on kung fu movies where a bad guy waited his turn to attack and everything was a fest of choreographed punches, kicks, and nerve-rattling grunts. Having been in my own share of trouble as a kid, I also knew fights were ugly, messy, and sometimes without a clear winner.

Battle was something completely different.

There was no space in a man’s mind to contemplate the grace of an attack. Each second pounded forward, fed by a low-simmering edge of fear and desperation. Even as close to invincible as the Queen of Hearts made me, the flight instinct of human nature ran strong beneath my drive to kill.

Dragons tended to bring out the worst in me, and this one was no exception, especially since I already knew she could tear me apart.

“Stay to my right,” Jean Michel barked, glancing to his side.

“Done this before, asshole.” I threw him a disparaging look. The Red Queen lashed out at me, and I countered, slicing at her front leg’s upper joint. I hit bone quickly, carving up a piece of flesh onto my blade. It slid down to the tip of my sword and I flicked it clear, not wanting to find it beneath my feet later.

The madness shone in her faceted eyes, a sickly yellow spreading through them. Blood dripped from her wounds, and her forked tongue slithered around the edges of her open mouth, spit hanging in long threads from her chin. The sands soaked in every drop she shed, sucking it up and sticking together into chunks. She was tiring but mustered up enough strength to snap at Jean Michel, catching her fangs on his arm.

My swords gleamed black under the pale sun, rivers of light playing over their bony surfaces when I brought them both down on the Red Queen’s stretched-out neck. They went in deep, and she twisted around, flinging her head back. Her crown of horns hooked into my side, tangling through the plate ridges protecting my ribs.

A spur found the slice of exposed skin there, and agony sent my stomach muscles into spasms, her jutting horn tip ripping through my side. Blood gushed over the spike, and I fought to pull free, but the hooked spur was lodged in deep. A twist of the Red Queen’s head sent me tumbling to the left, and Jean Michel barely got out of my way. The courtyard spun around me, a jittery zoetrope playing out before my eyes as she thrashed about with my pierced body impaled on her crown.

I caught bits and pieces of the palace: a flash of terrified courtiers falling beneath Naomi’s expanding curls, Blue in a fierce stance at her feet, and the shifting mounds of the dead’s unraveled remains piling up against the stairs and column bases, tumbleweeds of dusty flecks and bloodied threads rolling over the growing marble dunes.

And Jean Michel’s determined, scowling face as he sprinted toward me.

Jabbing in between us, Jean Michel hammered at the horn with his sword’s pommel, its metal hilt end striking up sparks with every hit. His grunts were harsh, explosive bits of anger giving way beneath his frustration. The dragon’s head jerked to the side, taking me with it. Jean Michel’s sword came dangerously close to my stomach, clattering against my armor, and the bounce back drove his hilt straight down into the Red Queen’s glowing eye.

I didn’t know how much of her was left in the dragon. Her cries were frenzied, animalistic in their fury, and the scream she let loose echoed about the courtyard, drowning everything else out.

Reeling, the Red Queen lunged forward, digging the horn in deeper and pushing me farther back. I choked on the dank air caught in my chest, my tongue folding back into my throat, and I struggled to catch my breath through the pain working down my body. Jean Michel was back between us before I could cry out, slamming into the Red Queen’s nest of horns as hard as he could.

The piece broke, freeing me from the Red Queen’s horns, and I collapsed, clutching at my side. Blood oozed from between my fingers, coating my gauntlet. Breathing heavily, I shook off Jean Michel’s offered hand, nodding at the dragon.

“Go.” I’d lost my weapons in the fray, and while it took me a second to get to my feet, I staggered upright. “Hold her off. I’ll get my swords.”

Jean Michel leapt back into the battle, taking the brunt of the Red Queen’s recovering lunge, but his swings were slower, growing weaker with each stroke. My weapons lay only a few feet away, but I struggled to get there. My cuirass dragged me down, and the ace in its center sputtered, dimmed to a flickering glow.

My hands were on my weapons’ hilts when the Red Queen got a hold of Jean Michel’s sword arm, and my heart stopped.

Her teeth clamped down on his arm, piercing his bicep, and she lifted him up off the floor. A pained flush mottled his face, his jaw clenched tightly, and he worked himself around, wrapping his legs around her neck to prevent her from flinging him about. Curling his hand into a fist, he punched at the Red Queen’s injured eye, driving as much force into his blows as he could.

“Off with her head,” I reminded myself, echoing a long-hated refrain.

It was the only way she would die. One of the few ways any of us could be killed outside of whatever a human child could do to us. With the exception of the Cheshire Cat, an enduring mystery in an enigmatic world, decapitation was final. I just needed to get it done.

Digging my swords into the sands, I hit solid a few inches down and heaved myself to my feet. The light had gone out of my cuirass, and my armor creaked, pieces of enchanted black metal falling away with each lurching step I took. There was a crack along the top of my helm. I could see the sky above my right eye, and the fingers on my left gauntlet were difficult to close. The bit of horn stuck in my side continued to dig into me, but I couldn’t stop to pull it out.

I had a dragon to slay, even though I wanted to fall to my knees and sleep forever.

The Red Queen flinched under Jean Michel’s blows, tossing her head back and forth in an attempt to dislodge him, but the prince held fast. His powerful thighs bulged to ride through her thrashing, and he’d dropped his sword, focused on striking her temple in the hopes she would release him.

My swords were heavy, and my arms shook from their weight. I felt every snowflake hitting my shoulders, their brief cold touch burning through me before melting off my battle-heated armor. My bones ached from wearing the heavy plating. I didn’t know if the magic was leaving my armor or if Naomi was stripping it out of the air. I was sick to my stomach, spitting blood out of my throat in order to breathe, and it didn’t look like anything we did was slowing the Red Queen down.

“Strike her heart!” Jean Michel shouted down at me. His toes skimmed the ground when one of his legs lost its purchase, and he fought to hook it back over her neck. “Now, Xander!”

It took everything I had to lift my blades up. Something I could’ve done without thinking, as if brushing a leaf from my shoulder, now left me as weak as a nearly drowned kitten. My abdomen burned, and something in my spine cracked, shooting pain down to my hips, but I brought my swords up, then drove them through the dragon’s chest.

She let Jean Michel go.

He tumbled to the ground, tossed with a shake of her head. I tried to catch him, leaving my weapons buried in her flesh, but all I did was make matters worse. He hit my right arm, taking me down with him. The sudden punch of his weight into my beleaguered body drove me down into the sand. The horn tip wormed its way along my side, and I began choking on the blood seeping into my mouth from where I bit my cheek. Somewhere a few yards away, Blue began to bark, but I didn’t have the strength to do anything other than lie there and wait to die. The Red Queen’s frenzied convulsions brought her sharp talons dangerously close to our sprawled bodies, and her eyes were now fully engulfed by bilious yellow swirls. It was difficult to tell if the woman was still there inside the dragon, at least from where I lay. She said nothing, no words layering through her deafening shrieks.

Death was not going to come for her because I placed my blades in her heart. She was too old, too powerful. Someone—anyone—needed to cleave her head from her neck. That was the only way we’d be rid of her, providing she didn’t go the way of the Cheshire Cat.

I had to move. This wasn’t a game. The Red Queen’s power stripped me of my strength and broke through the Ace of Spades’ armor, but no one was going to come and save us.

“Get off of me,” I said, shoving Jean Michel aside. “We have to finish this.”

He rolled, groaning as he clutched his chewed-on arm. Getting to his feet, Jean Michel nearly lost his balance, but I wasn’t much better. Somewhere in the sand and the dead lay his sword, and I needed to put my hands on it. A spear wouldn’t do. The blade needed to have enough strength to cut through bone and nerves, severing her spine.

“Xander! Get down!” I didn’t have time to reply or even question. I turned to see what new threat we had to face when Jean Michel tackled me to the ground… just as the air turned into a skein of opaque ribbons above our heads.

“You can’t hurt them!” Naomi stood at the top of the stairs, her filthy face streaked with dried tears and full of rage. Blue’s teeth were clamped into my jacket’s sleeve, his hind legs working to pull her back from the edge. She leaned forward, trying to tug free of the dog, but he wasn’t having any of that. Giving up, she took a long, shuddering breath and wiped her nose on the back of her hand as new tears fell from her frightened eyes. “Leave them alone!”

The air smelled different, like freshly made donuts dipped in hot melted sugar. I could’ve sworn I heard laughter and the rattle of wheels on a track, but I could only see the courtyard and the Red Queen, her draconian body heaving with the effort to breathe. She was hunched over, scraping at the ground with her chest to dislodge my blades, but the soft sand slid around the hilts, giving her nothing to wedge against to push them free.

“You’re not even really a dragon,” Naomi pronounced, her voice raw from screaming. “You’re just a mean old lady.”

The ribbons above us fell, and the Red Queen began to twist inside out.

Time is broken. Hell, we were broken. The sky above us was patchy, sheets of familiar gray heavy with the promise of ice cutting through great stretches of deep blue dotted with fluffy white clouds. Seagulls cawed while they flew from one cerulean spot to the next, never appearing in the smoky gray. We were in the mountains, much too far for seagulls, but there they were, diving in between the blues before vanishing in the clouds.

Naomi’s sobs echoed. There was no sign of anyone alive except for the three of us, the little girl, and Blue. Everyone else had either fled or died. So no one else was around to watch the Red Queen fold in on herself to become a quivering, slack-skinned woman in an ill-fitting red gown.

Her wings had fallen off, pieces of her scaly skin lying in rolls and sheets across the now-muddled, gritty squares. Her crown was broken, and the hair once strung through it hung limply around the shattered filigree, her silvery locks stripped away to colorless shanks. Age hung on her, as thick as fog on a Northwest coastline.

“You will not kill me, little girl,” she choked out, her bony finger pointed at Naomi. “I will destroy you. I will—”

The ribbons broadened, stretching the air thin, and I saw glimpses of trees, Ferris wheels, and a boardwalk set on an ocean shore in their turns. Naomi’s face went pale, and she clutched at her shirt, wrinkling the broad pocket sewn into its front. Streams of smoky black shadows wisped out of the fabric fold’s edge. A breeze caught at Naomi’s hair, pushing it away from her face. Her sobs seemed uncontrollable, hiccups racking her tiny body. Jean Michel held me tight, his arms digging into my wounds, but I didn’t care. The pain was familiar and anchored me to the world we were in.

The same couldn’t be said about the Red Queen.

She became nothing. The slices of our worlds merging poured her years into her immortal body. Her flesh could not take the Time, could not withstand the creep of death’s touch on her skin and bones. She turned to dust in front of us. A slow march of her body’s reaching for decay until it finally dawned on her, she was dying.

I watched her soul leave her remaining eye, but the madness remained. It raged with an unholy glee, a mirror of hell’s flames burning behind the emptiness of her gaze. She watched me as she crumbled, hatred keeping something alive within her disintegrating flesh until death finally sucked the last bit of her life from her.

Her jaw fell, toppling free from its place beneath her upper teeth and cheekbones. It was dust before it hit the floor. Her skull puckered and bowed, then in an anticlimactic rush, slithered down the pile of her ashen remains. The malevolent light of her madness lingered, illuminating the spot in the red-tinged powdery heaps for a long, seemingly eternal second before blinking out in a puff of smoke.

My heart pounded beneath Jean Michel’s arm, and he heaved a sigh, letting go the breath he’d been holding. We lay there, listening to Naomi’s weeping slow, then her gentle comforting when Blue whined.

“It’s over,” Jean Michel whispered into my ear. The sand was uncomfortable, but I had no intention of moving. Not yet. “I guess it’s time for you to go home.”

“Yeah,” I replied slowly. Skies were turning gray once again, and the sound of seagulls’ laughter faded gently away, leaving only the brush of snow falling on our upturned faces and the stink of the pawns’ animated flesh turning to ooze where their bodies lay. “It’s definitely time to go home.”

Epilogue

“SIT STILL,” Jean Michel admonished me. “Some of these straps have been here for decades.”

“Just cut them off,” I said between my gritted teeth. “It’s not like I ever want to wear this damn thing ever again.”

The Ace of Spades’ armor was stuck to my body as a shattered carapace of black plates, chain mail, and inert magic. I’d been forced to wear it all the way back from the Red Queen’s Palace, hunkered in the back seat of Jean Michel’s motorcar with Blue and Naomi sitting in front. The little girl had fallen asleep about a minute into our trip. Exhaustion had bled the color from her face, and dark circles were under her bright eyes, but she gave me a wavering smile before she wrapped her arms around my armor-clad knees.

That was when I asked her about the black feathers she’d brought with her, and Naomi dug through the pocket of her T-shirt to come up with a handful of glittering ebony souls.

We arrived at the Painted Rose in the early hours of the morning. Dawn was still a long way off, and I was wrung dry. A few curt words from Jean Michel had the staff hopping to take care of us despite the crowds of gamblers and partiers who filled the gambling hell. He ushered me into his private suite, his arms burdened by a sleeping girl and a glowing blue terrier at his heels. I followed slowly, the weight of my armor nearly too great for me to bear. Once he’d gotten Naomi tucked away into one of the bedrooms, he came out with healing stones, medical supplies, and a large bottle of potent whiskey.

The whiskey was already half-gone, and Jean Michel was busy trying to unravel my former life off of my battered body.

“Okay. I got this one loose, so brace yourself.” It was a good warning. I’d heard it a few times since we started to peel my armor off, and it allowed me enough time to take a gulp of whiskey. He waited until I swallowed and grunted my assent. “I’m sorry.”

Yeah, I’d heard that one before too.

The shoulder piece wasn’t as bad as my breastplate or the back side, but it was one of the few places I’d rarely been hit, so its hold on my flesh was firm. Jean Michel dug his fingers underneath its edges, and I tightened my stomach muscles in preparation. He didn’t tug carefully. We’d learned that lesson at the very start of this. This time he used every bit of strength he had and yanked downward, ripping the pauldron from my skin.

Like every other piece, it fought and refused to be discarded, but the enchanted filaments binding it to my body tore as Jean Michel cursed.

“Hold steady. I’m going to stanch the bleeding and then run a stone over.” He spoke to me as though we hadn’t done it six or seven times before. I took another swig of whiskey and felt the pain dissipate as he depleted the healing from yet another charmed crystal.

They were expensive, and once invoked and drained, they were useless afterward. Slowly the crystal went gray and cracked into powdery shards when Jean Michel was finished. Then he moved on and worked to get me free from the next piece, and I was left to stare at the remains of a fortune lying on a bar towel and tried not to think of how much more I was going to cost him.

The armor had grown through my clothes, leaving them shredded on my body, and once we’d taken care of my lower half, Jean Michel offered me a pair of loose cotton pants to wear while he dealt with the rest of it. The cuirass had been torture to remove, loosening in small pieces at a time, and I had to endure the waves of nauseating agony until he could remove it fully. It had taken two crystals to heal my torso, but when Jean Michel was done, the single spade keloid on my chest whitened and faded until it was barely a shiny ripple on my skin.

At the very least, it seemed I was free of the Queen of Hearts’ curse, just in time to leave Jean Michel behind.

“I wonder if any of these is anyone I know,” I said, contemplating the tiny rice bowl full of feathers on the table next to another whiskey bottle if I needed it. They were hard to see at times, wispy at their edges, and when waved about, they left a trail of shadows.

“I wonder if any of those are yours,” Jean Michel said, kissing my temple. The helm hurt—not as horribly as my cuirass, but I wouldn’t want to go through it again. With his fingers he traced the faded, healed-over scar on my chest and then returned to undo the straps on my other shoulder. “Ready?”

“No,” I confessed as I got a better grip on the bottle. The liquor no longer burned, but it also didn’t seem to do much to numb the tearing apart of my flesh. “But go ahead.”

We continued to work through the pieces, saving the hook of bone in my ribs for last. My mouth was bloodied from where I bit my lip by the time he extracted the horn piece from my side, and the bottle of whiskey was bone dry.

It was only then that the devil came to collect.

Az emerged from the bedroom, cradling a still-slumbering Naomi in his arms. Blue rushed ahead of him, whining and barking. He slammed his tiny body against my legs, urging me to do something about the man holding the girl he’d fought so hard to save. I picked up my squirming dog to calm him down, but Blue wasn’t ready to give up the fight.

“Hush,” I murmured, willing him to still. “He’s come to take her home.”

“And you as well.” His angelic face held a blend of wickedness and promises, but I’d been down that road before. “I see you have my feathers. Sprinkle them over my wings. They’ll find their place.”

He was close enough that I could toss them at him, and they swirled in the air, a carousel of shadows and hematite as they settled down into the stygian depths. I wasn’t too sure how I felt about returning a handful of souls to the devil who’d taken them, but I’d promised.

No matter what I’d become, I stood by my word and could only hope Az did as well.

The fallen angel’s wings fluffed and shimmered and left threads of black dust in the air. Az closed his eyes for a moment to reabsorb what was taken from him, and then asked, “Are you ready to leave? If you haven’t said your goodbyes, do so now. My time is short.”

The world was already beginning to eat away at Az. Misty swirls flowed over his shoulders and softened the edges of his form. Jean Michel tightened his grip on my shoulders, his warmth a welcome relief from the brittle coldness left by the healing stones. I set Blue down and stood up, breaking our contact.

“If you can’t exist here, why can the feathers?” I gestured with the empty bowl. “And you promised to give me back my soul first. That was part of the contract.”

Az did the one thing I kind of expected him to do, but for an entirely different reason.

He laughed.

“So you’re going to go back on your word?” I challenged. Anger fought with my disbelief, because in the past he’d delivered on every promise he made. Still, I’d made a deal with a devil, and they were known for their lies. “I thought you couldn’t. Aren’t you bound by your rules? With unknown dire consequences if you break them?”

He shifted the girl in his arms, adjusting how her legs draped over his elbow, and then chuckled. “Humans are so gullible. I never had your soul. No one can take your soul. That’s the whole point of human creation. No matter what realm you’re from, you have the free will to shape your existence. The contract we had allows me to borrow it, in a way. But you’re right, I am bound by my word, so in exchange for borrowing your soul, I am obligated to fulfill your desires in some way shape or form. You wanted to live in a world that didn’t care you were gay. So I brought you here.”

“And the feathers?” Jean Michel growled. “Are they pieces of people’s souls you’ve shaved off of them?”

“No, the feathers are… possibilities. That’s what angels’ wings are made of.” Az shrugged, and a saturnine smile settled on his ethereal features. “I couldn’t let her, with her chaos and her little-girl dreams, run amok in this world with a handful of angelic possibilities. So, Xander Spade, are you ready to go home?”

I wished I were drunk, but the pain of stripping my armor left me fairly sober despite the whiskey I’d swallowed. Blue was at my side, pressed against my leg, and Jean Michel was stroking the small of my bare back. A standing full-length mirror set between the living room and the dining table began to wobble and its silvery gleaming surface to flow into a sinuous kaleidoscope pattern. Echoes of conversation spilled from its now-liquid face, and I once again saw glimpses of a seashore and laughing people.

“I can’t take Blue?” I challenged my devil. Still reeling from the news that I’d never lost my soul to a fallen angel, my distrust ran deep. I needed to question everything Az had told me. “Or was that a lie too?”

“No, it wasn’t.” He shook his head, and the glitter of gold in his mane flashed brilliantly. “Nothing from here can go there. The fantastical cannot exist next to the mundane. It could only be dreamed about, imagined. That’s why Wonderland City sometimes needs a human. Without one, the realms cannot dream.”

“So if I go, what happens?” I asked. Jean Michel’s hand stilled but remained on my back.

“There are other humans here. Wonderland City will continue on,” Az promised. “Now let’s go.”

“If I can’t take my dog, then I don’t want to go.” Jean Michel gasped next to me, and I bent over and scooped Blue up. “You don’t just abandon the people and things you love. So I’m not going.”

“Suit yourself,” the devil said with a grin. “Just don’t think I owe you anything. We’re even. I offered you a chance to go home, and you refused to take it. The deal was struck. Those were the terms.”

“I know.” Every part of me wanted to lean against Jean Michel, but I didn’t trust myself. It was a sad day when I trusted a fallen angel more than I trusted myself, but I was where I was. “You better go. If you stay too long, Wonderland City will eat you alive, and Naomi will be stuck here. I don’t think any one of us will survive that.”

Az was gone in a flurry of shadowy feathers and rainbow sparkles as he plunged through the looking glass a few feet away. A moment later, the flashes of my world slipped away, replaced by a silver-backed pane.

I put the dog down, and Jean Michel cupped my face and gave me a kiss.

We both probably tasted foul, mostly whiskey and grit, but it was the sweetest kiss I’d ever had. It held everything dear to me—a bit of home and the promise of banter with a dash of arrogance and contrariness. I never wanted to let him go. I didn’t know if I could live with him or if he wouldn’t kill me after spending more than a few hours with me in a small room, but there was something there for us to build on, something more real and tangible than anything I’d left behind in the world I’d been born into.

“I love you, Xander,” Jean Michel whispered into my mouth when we finally broke apart. “I would give up the world for you, or if you wanted, I would take it and make it mine… make it ours. You say the word, and I will change the world.”

I laughed. Not as hard as Az, but close.

“I don’t need you to change the world for me, Jean Michel,” I murmured back and removed the wispy, shadowy feather I’d tucked into my waistband a few moments before.

“You kept one.” He cocked his head and narrowed his dark eyes slightly. “Why?”

“You never know when you’re going to need a favor, especially one from the devil,” I replied, leaning in for another kiss. “And our world could never have too many dreams and promises.”

RHYS FORD is an award-winning author with several long-running LGBT+ mystery, thriller, paranormal, and urban fantasy series, and is a two-time Lambda finalist with her Murder and Mayhem novels. She is also a 2017 Gold and Silver Medal winner in the Florida Authors and Publishers President’s Book Awards for her novels Ink and Shadows and Hanging the Stars. She is published by Dreamspinner Press and DSP Publications.

She’s also quite skeptical about bios without a dash of something personal, and really, who doesn’t mention their cats, dog, and cars in a bio? She shares the house with Harley, an insane gray tuxedo, as well as a ginger cairn terrorist named Gus. Rhys is also enslaved to the upkeep a 1979 Pontiac Firebird and enjoys murdering make-believe people.

Rhys can be found at the following locations:

Blog: www.rhysford.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/rhys.ford.author

Twitter: @Rhys_Ford

Dark Favors

By Jordan Castillo Price

Most folks in the crumbling metropolis of Calvary are ignorant sheep, but not Johnny Lockheart. He’s Chosen. Half a lifetime ago, when he was young and stupid, he sold his soul to the Devil… and he’s been regretting that choice ever since.

Now the Devil is back with a new and improved offer. Kill a major TV personality and walk free with his soul. It should be simple, if not for the star’s bodyguard. Adam is Chosen, too, and he has no compunctions about using his powers. When the two of them rub up against each other, their raw chemistry ignites—but there’s no way he’d let Johnny go through with the murder. The only way out is to cut off the power at its source. Is their connection enough to rid Calvary of the Devil’s influence for good?

Chapter One

1961

JOHNNY

I WAS young enough to think I knew everything, but old enough that my stupidity could get me into some serious trouble. I bused tables at the Inferno for a buck and a half an hour and a share of the tips. It was a fancy steakhouse, the type of place where people only went for birthdays and anniversaries, ordered a T-bone big enough to feed a family, and bragged around the water cooler the next morning about how much it set them back. But the kitchen was home to just as many rats as the Chinese joints by the river.

If you’d asked me back then—eighteen-year-old Johnny—whether or not I thought the world was fair, I would’ve scoffed. Secretly, though, in my heart of hearts, I must’ve been clinging to that childish belief. Faith is a funny thing. What else can be strong enough to cure cancer but brittle enough to shatter over a single slight?

The Inferno’s tips all went into a big glass jar under the counter by the till, where the hostess and the waiters could keep an eye on things. Because the place was every working-class Joe’s idea of fancy, tips tended to be big. Lots of Lincolns swam in the pool, and occasionally a Jackson. “Got a date with Old Hickory tonight” would thread through the staff in a subtle game of telephone, and everyone worked just a little bit harder in hopes of breaking the triple-Jackson record.

The last birthday boy had staggered out into the night with whiskey on his breath and a passable steak in his gut, and the staff was just about ready to head home. I was heaving chairs up onto the tables in the dim half-light when I first noticed the raised voices.

I kept my head down and minded my own business. I was a lowly busboy, a teenaged nobody, the type of kid who could walk into a room, look you in the eye, and walk back out without ever being noticed. But by the time I turned over the final chair, the yelling was too loud to be ignored.

“Why bother denying it?” a waiter was demanding. “There was no one else who could’ve possibly done it.”

The hostess was in tears. “What the hell are you—? How dare you? After all these years, how dare you?”

“And then, to look us in the eye and lie about it. Just say it, Mary. Admit what you did.”

“It wasn’t me! You want proof? Here!” She dumped out her purse on the counter. A tube of lipstick fell out, a comb, a wad of tissues, a handful of change. One of the quarters bounced to the floor, rolled halfway to the door, spun on its edge an impossibly long time, wobbled lazily, and clattered to its side.

The waiter was unimpressed. “No one else had access to the till.”

“Why would I tell everyone about the twenty and then steal it?”

“How should I know? Maybe you thought there were two.”

“I don’t… have… the money.”

When Mary ripped open her blouse, I was standing by the coat check, invisible as usual. I remember thinking that even if she had noticed I was there, she probably would’ve done it anyway. She’d slept with all the waiters—she was on the pill—and very nearly managed to seduce me, even though, by that tender age, I knew damn well I liked dick.

“You wanna frisk me?” she spat. “How about a cavity search?”

I’ll never forget the sight of her that night, a vision of innocence wronged—smudged eyeliner and flushed, tear-stained cheeks, hair the color of apricots sliding from her carefully pinned bouffant, high-heeled stance planted wide in wickedly pointed red leather pumps, tight skirt rucked up above her knees, blouse torn open to reveal the rigid structure of her brassiere. Angry. And gorgeous in her defiance and strength.

“Put your clothes on, whore,” the waiter sneered. “No one wants to see that.”

Mary’s righteous anger drained. She pulled her ruined blouse around her and attempted to wrap herself in her few shreds of dignity. Without another word—and without her share of the tips—she scooped her things back into her purse, gathered it to her chest, and strode out into the night.

Tips that night were pretty mediocre, but when I slipped out the back door to make my way home, I wasn’t all that put out. Even after such a short lifetime of disappointment, I’d trained myself not to expect much. Maybe all the sheep do.

I was checking for my bus when I saw the black Coupe de Ville. It was a boat of a Cadillac, all broad sweeping curves, with sharp fins and impeccable whitewall tires. The great beast lurked at the curb, practically invisible against the night. Other than the whitewalls, the only thing that showed on it was the reflection of the surrounding lights. I’d seen my share of fancy cars around Calvary, especially around the Inferno, but the big black Caddy topped them all.

I don’t know who I expected to be inside the car. Old money? An older, stiff-upper-lip driver who’d prefer a Cadillac to a Ferrari. But I sure as hell didn’t expect Mary to tumble out of the passenger seat and slam the door behind her with a vigorous, “Fuck off!”

Mary might be dramatic, but she didn’t bother with the drama when she wasn’t playing to an audience, and she had no idea I was watching. After she flipped off the Caddy’s driver, she didn’t cry and she didn’t cower, just headed toward the subway like she was eager to put the night behind her. Maybe I would’ve gone to check on her if she’d seemed a little more… vulnerable. Then again, maybe not. I was just a kid. And I’d never been one to stick my neck out.

I thought about it, though. A car rolls down a tinted window and someone tells you to get in, well, maybe you’d normally keep walking. But with no tips and the daunting prospect of finding a new job, how tempting would it be to at least hear what they had to offer?

Then again, she seemed awfully pissed off. And it’s not like anyone who’d climb into a stranger’s car would have such delicate sensibilities. So… what kind of sick shit had he asked her to do?

I was busy watching Mary make tracks when the bus passed me by. That time of night, it would be another hour or more until the next one, so I ran after it and tried to wave it down. The bus driver saw me—I caught his eye in the sideview. But the bastard didn’t even slow.

I was stooped over, hands on my knees, catching my breath and swearing up a storm, when the black Caddy pulled a U-turn and the passenger window rolled down.

I stood up quick, and said, “What?”

The driver’s face was in the shadows. He crooked his finger. Normally I might’ve flipped him off and walked away like Mary had, but thanks to that tool of a bus driver, I had an hour to kill.

Maybe I was curious too. Mary might be too proud to take his money, but I sucked off strangers for free… and it couldn’t hurt to find out the going price.

I approached the Caddy and the door clicked open, but I didn’t see the driver lean over and open it. As someone who’d never scraped together enough savings to buy a car of his own, I didn’t find that odd. Power locks, FM radio—how would I know what came with the primo accessory package?

Like I said, I was curious… and stupid. So I climbed in.

“Tell me,” the driver said. “Can you imagine what it would be like if life were fair?”

It was an older guy. Striking. A startling white smile, and ebony hair slicked back with brilliantine. Maybe my grandfather’s age—the likely reason Mary didn’t go through with it. Me, though? I was still willing to hear the offer. He wasn’t especially wrinkled or dirty. He didn’t have that chewing-tobacco-and-rotting-teeth smell that hung around my bitter old grandpa. He didn’t smell like much of anything. Beyond the suggestion of immaculately kept leather upholstery, the only thing I scented in that car was the faintest whiff of sulfur, like someone had just struck a match.

The driver looked me up and down and said, “You strike me as a perceptive young man.”

That really should’ve been my first clue that I was dealing with the Prince of Lies.

Chapter Two

1979

JOHNNY

THE WORST part about being Chosen is having the veil lifted from your eyes and seeing how the world really works. People think money makes the world go ’round, but that’s not exactly true. Real currency doesn’t live in a bank vault. The way it’s accrued and spent is nowhere near that simple.

Last call had been called, and the most persistent rummies booted out onto the greasy dark street. I let cleanup wait until the next day. The smell of cigarettes and spilled beer added to the gin-mill ambience, the one that boldly proclaimed, You don’t like it? Go someplace else.

People came anyway. Because I’m Chosen? Doubtful. It had been years since I cashed in any favors. More likely they wanted somewhere to drink when the movie house down the block let out.

The joint was busy enough—at least in short bursts after showtimes—that I’d taken on a second bartender to help out on weekends. Hired him over the phone, sight unseen, when he told me, with no hesitation, how to make a Long Island Iced Tea. I’d never had an order more complicated than Jack and Coke, but it was easier than checking his references.

Turned out Shawn was a good-looking kid. I could’ve done without the leather and studs and bondage pants—he didn’t need to try that hard. But there was a certain something about the way he held his hips that hinted he’d be good in bed. If I cared whether or not my run-down bar was profitable, I would’ve been pleased to have him manning the tap and raking in the business with his casual flirtiness. But I didn’t.

Besides, he only had eyes for me.

Most people avoid rejection. But then there are the ones who find it an aphrodisiac.

“You can go home,” I told him.

He gave me a sultry smile. “I could… but what’s the fun in that?”

I feel sorry for sheep—they don’t sense the darkness. If he had any inkling of the real me, he wouldn’t be half as eager to screw. “I’m only going to say this once, so pay attention. You’re not my type.”

He cocked his head, as if it would help the foreign concept sink in. “But everyone says you drive stick.”

“Go.” I held the door open for him, and he stepped through. I followed him out and pulled it shut behind me.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” he singsonged playfully.

Oh, I had a pretty good idea. I also knew that once our fluids cooled on the sweaty sheets, I’d loathe myself even more than I already did. “Good night, Shawn.”

With a melodramatic sigh, he sketched an elaborate bow, chains clinking on his leather jacket, and said, “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” He walked away.

I slid a look at his retreating back. I wasn’t tempted to go after him, just disappointed that I didn’t even want to.

The security gate squealed as I yanked it shut. Back when the joint fell into my lap, the neighborhood was ritzy, and such heavy-handed crime deterrent was unnecessary. But in the years since my name appeared on the license, the streets went from swanky to shabby, the customers got shadier, and the demand for high-priced steaks diminished while cheap booze flowed like water.

The Inferno still stood. But, like me, it was entirely different now than it was in 1961.

As I clicked the padlock shut, I realized I wasn’t alone. Not Shawn—he jingled—and I didn’t hear the footsteps. I felt them… in my guts. I turned.

Everyone else would’ve seen a slender woman around twenty, clingy polyester top and no bra underneath. Wild hair, coltish legs, high-stacked platform boots. Just the right combination of worldwise and naive. Since I knew she was Chosen, I took her outer appearance for the mere shell it was. After all, just because something’s wrapped in shiny paper doesn’t make it a gift.

I said, “If you’re looking for Studio 54, you’ve overshot your mark.”

“At least I make an effort. What’re you supposed to be? You’re half-starved, and you need a haircut something fierce.”

“They say the junkie look is all the rage in New York.”

“It’s your life.” Bored already with our banter, she shrugged and got down to business. “Anyhow, I need a favor.”

“And I need some peace and quiet. Get lost.”

Inky black clouds roiled inside her eyes while she wrapped her head around my refusal. Not only would helping her build my credit, but it would feel good to give in and comply. Turning down a request, though? Think of all the ugly sensations you’ve ever felt, from the crack of a rotten tooth giving way, to a betrayal by your true love. Then dial it up a few notches. That’s what it feels like when you don’t comply.

Small wonder they’re always so confused when I tell them no.

Normally that’s the last of it. They sense I’m one of them. They smell it—feel it. But I don’t trade in their currency, not anymore. And if I won’t play along, it’s easy enough to find someone who will. This one was persistent, though—maybe because the streets were deserted—and she took it upon herself to try to follow me home. I walked just fast enough that it was a struggle for her to keep up.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” she demanded. “It’s not as if you’re new at this.”

Obviously not. All the Chosen see it in my eyes, that giant cache of favors I’ve failed to redeem. Black as sin—pupil, iris, the whole nine yards. So dark, they wouldn’t even know if I was looking at them or staring off into the distance, wishing they’d just leave me the hell alone. I’ve never seen the effect myself—it doesn’t show in mirrors. But given the remarks I’m always hearing….

“Are you saving up for something big?”

My eyes must be damn near solid by now.

It would sound better to lie, to tell her I was hoarding my power to hatch some diabolical plan. And yet I didn’t care enough to bother. “Why spend favors if nothing makes me happy?”

And with that, I lengthened my strides and listened to the canter of her platform shoes receding.

As I rounded the block, the clopping footsteps behind me slowed when she spotted some other Chosen sap in the window of a twenty-four-hour laundromat to do her bidding. “Thanks for nothing, dillwad,” she called after me.

I shot her a parting wave over my shoulder and made my way down the block, through a stale lobby, and up three flights of stairs brown with nicotine and littered with trash and broken dreams. I unlocked all three deadbolts on my front door and forced it open. It dragged through half a dozen slips of paper that were scattered in the entryway like pizzeria menus. I didn’t even kick them aside anymore. Just walked on past.

The two sturdy locks I’d added to the one that came with the place were the only customization I’d bothered to do on the sorry little week-to-week hotel room I’d been renting for the past, what, three years? Shit. Four.

A shower, a hotplate, and a sagging gray mattress. Why bother amassing more stuff? Given the things I’d have to do to land a cushy job, a fancy loft, a shiny car, it wasn’t as if any of it would make any difference. I’d realized long ago, I wasn’t willing to pay the cost of wealth.

It was so late, it was early. I dug out my can opener, cracked open a can of soup at random, and set it on the hotplate. By the time I washed off the stink of the bar, it would be warm enough to cover up the taste of the aluminum but still cool enough to drink down without lingering. I knew this. I had my routines. They were the only thing keeping me plodding through my life.

The shower was a pathetic dribble, but at least it was hot. There were some advantages to the cockroach hours I kept. I lingered under the crusty showerhead for an extra moment and let the pinprick spray dance on my scalp. Thought about Shawn, and wondered if I even knew what pleasure felt like anymore. Decided it was probably overrated.

I was toweling off when I had the sneaking suspicion that something was wrong. Over the steam of the shower and the smell of cheap shampoo, I caught the faintest whiff of something burning. I dropped the towel, yanked open the door, and found my room flickering orange. The label on the soup can had browned and curled, and flames were licking up the paneling behind the hotplate. They blackened the walls and scorched the ceiling. As I made sense of what I was seeing, the yellowed smoke detector on the far wall started to bleat.

Management kept a fire extinguisher at the top of every staircase. No idea whether they worked or not, but I’d find out. I was across the room in no time flat, but then there were the deadbolts to contend with. The orange light from behind me made my shadow dance eerily across the door as I grappled with each lock, and the water on my bare back dried in a surge of heat. After three tries, I finally struggled open the third lock, tore open the front door… and stopped cold.

The Devil himself blocked my path. The moment I saw it was him, I realized there was no fire.

Coercion. Illusion. It’s what he does.

The old man kept up with the times, more or less. His suits still cost more than your typical sheep made in a month, but nowadays the slacks were high-waisted, the lapels were wide, and the silk shirt beneath it was open halfway down his chest to show off a heavy gold chain. His black hair was longer now, parted on the side and framed by a prodigious set of sideburns, and he had a tan George Hamilton would envy.

He ignored my nakedness and said, “Why haven’t you answered my messages, Johnny? You must have known I wouldn’t simply give up and disappear.”

“A man can always hope.” I turned and walked back into my room. The notes drifting around my door stuck to my damp feet. Surreptitiously, I checked the wall—no flames, no scorch marks, just a thin tendril of steam rising from the surface of the soup. I turned the hotplate off.

Some men will tower over you to prove their dominance, but not the Devil. He’s as old as original sin and has zero to prove. He eased into my single chair—a vinyl bucket refugee from a long-gone dining set—leaned back, and crossed his legs.

“Johnny, we’ve known each other how long now?”

Too long. I scrounged up a cleanish pair of Levi’s and pulled them on.

“Back when we first met, I told you how this was going to work. And you agreed.”

I was bone tired and dying to perch on the edge of my bed, but I stayed standing with my bare feet planted and my hands on my hips.

“I’m a patient man.” He was neither of those things. “But even my patience has its limits. We had a deal, if you recall, and you’ve been avoiding me long enough.”

“I remember, old man.” I crossed my arms. “I remember everything. As far as I’m concerned, we each met our end of the bargain. Which means I’ve got nothing left to say to you.”

To demonstrate that I planned to go on with my evening whether he was sitting there staring at me or not, I reached around him, grabbed my soup, and started slurping it out of the hot can. It was all an act, though. I hardly tasted it—even less than usual—and could barely force the stuff down past the knot in my throat.

He watched me with a patience born from centuries of lurking in the shadows. I may be stubborn, but there’s only so much I can take. His presence was disturbing on a deep, subconscious level. Maybe it was just the gut reaction of prey to predator.

I dropped the empty can, wiped my mouth dry with the side of my hand, and said, “What’s it gonna take to get you out of here?”

“I need a favor.”

So help me, I laughed—a dry chuckle with only a passing resemblance to mirth. “You’ve got a whole world full of minions to do your bidding. Why me?”

“Why else? You’re the best man for the job.”

“In case you haven’t been paying attention, I’m full up. I stopped cashing in my favors years ago. In fact, I’ve accrued so much interest, I could march right into the White House, give that peanut farmer the boot, and declare myself President. So what possible reason could I have to help you out?”

I’d pointed out the current state of my unbalanced ledgers to prove he couldn’t tempt me, but he’d had millennia to polish his game. Judging by the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth, I’d shown my hand too soon… and he did indeed have something to tempt me with.

Dammit.

“Everyone has his price,” the old man purred. “It hasn’t escaped me that you’re not exactly content with our bargain. Do me one final favor and walk free.”

Although my traitorous heart leaped at the promise of a normal life, I trusted his promises about as far as I could throw them. What good would it do me to remove myself from the playing field? Even if I walked away from my position, the game would still exist, but I would no longer know who was playing. No more black-clouded stares advertising who might be selling a favor or who was in the market to buy. Who could pull that veil over their eyes again and ignore the fact that Calvary was crawling with Chosen? Not me.

“I know what goes into the sausage—I’m not gonna close my eyes and bite in.”

“A do-over, then? That’s a complicated solution, but not impossible. Time is relative.”

I did my best not to show my surprise, but I’m sure it was evident in the tension of my jaw. Or maybe, like a shark scenting blood, the old man was able to smell my feeble hope. The vulnerability I felt only pissed me off more.

“Unless you’re willing to rewind to the dawn of time and crawl back into the pit you came from, I don’t see what good it would do me. Live out my life as an ignorant sheep? No deal.”

“Sayings become axioms because they contain a solid kernel of truth. Ignorance really is bliss.”

“If that’s the best you can do, then save your breath.”

He nodded, like he was hoping all along that I would drive a hard bargain. “The best of both worlds, then. I leave you the Sight. But perform one final task for me, and I’ll return your soul. No Chosen will ever request another favor from you.”

I tried to imagine being free from that infernal pull, but I couldn’t quite manage. Half my life I’d had those silken bonds yanking at my guts. To be free… no. I’d been captive too long to even remember how freedom felt.

Like the consummate salesman he was, the Devil didn’t hurry to sweeten the deal. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and waited for me to come to my own conclusion.

Maybe I could white-knuckle against the pull for a few more years, even a few more decades. But I had no doubt that eventually I’d be so worn out and used up, I’d slip. I’d cash in a favor, and darkness would flood in to fill the gap.

I always figured my soul was a lost cause. If there was a chance I could get it back, foul and blackened though it might be, I’d be an idiot not to consider it.

“What would I have to do?”

The old man’s smile reached his eyes. “You know that’s not how it works.”

Maybe not. But you couldn’t blame me for trying.

Hope is an insidious thing. Up until that point, I’d figured my only choices were to off myself and end up roasting on a spit for eternity, or to keep the darkness bottled up inside, where it festered and grew. No more favors, no more pull. A small thing, on his end, to simply cut the cord—a hell of a lot easier than turning back time.

Tempting? Painfully so. But no doubt the price would be too rich for my blood. “No deal,” I said. “Go find some other patsy to do your bidding.”

Anger flashed across his face, so subtle I wasn’t quite sure I’d seen it. But a heartbeat later, it was replaced by a genuine smile. “That’s a fine idea, Johnny. Then again, I’m not surprised. I always knew you were a lot smarter than you let on.”

Funny, it sure didn’t feel that way.

As he stood to leave, I very nearly grabbed him. But I recoiled at the last second. Even I’m not dumb enough to touch pure evil. “Wait a minute,” I said. “What are you up to now?”

Indulgently, he turned to face me. “Me? Why, I’m simply following your suggestion. You might be the best man for the job, but that frisky young thing who works for you—Shawn, is it? I’m sure he’d rise to the occasion.”

So many years I’d been resisting the call of the Mark, and all those years I’d steeled myself against the gut-twisting wrench of refusal. So many years I’d been building up my self-satisfied arrogance, too, and seeing myself as the only Chosen with balls enough to say no. Every last bit of it drained away when I thought of Shawn with his innocence torn away and his flirty eyes clouded black.

So. This was why I’d never let anyone get close to me—I must’ve sensed they’d end up as collateral damage. I pushed through my arrogant stubbornness, my pride, whatever shreds of common sense I still possessed, and said, “Fine. I’ll do it.”

The old man was pleased. A favor is so much sweeter when it’s granted unwillingly.

His power thundered through my veins. I wanted it to feel horrible, all that darkness threading through my cells, filling all the gaps between my molecules… but it didn’t. It felt amazing.

Once I was bursting with delicious darkness, he said, “You’ve heard of Helen Cross?”

I’d be the last guy to watch her TV show, read her magazine, or sip her fair-trade organic ginger tea—but I’m not entirely oblivious. “Yeah. And?”

“You’ll need to kill her.”

My blood ran cold. No one ever asked for such a massive favor—the cost was simply too high. The Devil, though? Since he kept the books, his credit was infinite. “You can’t… I won’t—”

“Obviously I can. I just did. And as for you? You’re holding on by a thread. It won’t be long until it snaps.”

“I still have free will.”

“Indeed you do. Poison her quietly or gun her down in a public blaze of glory. Makes no difference to me.” He strolled to the doorway, turned back, and said, “But whatever you do, no harm comes to Helen’s bodyguard or the deal is off… and I keep your pathetic soul.”

Chapter Three

ADAM

HELEN KNOWS everything. I’m not sure how or why, but I’ve learned the hard way that nothing gets past her.

Her dressing room is more of a suite, with a chaise, a private bath, and a twenty-story view worth its weight in coke.

“Adam, come over here.”

I joined her at the window, and she slipped an arm around my waist. We gazed out over downtown Calvary together.

“It goes without saying,” she told me, “that you and I must be deliberate in everything we do.”

“I am deliberate. Even if my reasons aren’t always apparent, it doesn’t mean they don’t exist.” I wondered what poor choice I was about to be accused of making. The new caterer, most likely. Not because there was butter in his scones and animal products were strictly forbidden… but because I didn’t exactly discourage his lingering looks. He’d be tasty… even better than his buttery scones. But if she was ramping up to have me fire him, of course I’d do it. Delicious men come and go, but like pastry, it was never any difficulty to procure more.

“I’ve noticed some irregularities lately—small things, at first. An empty seat in the audience. A change in sponsorship.”

Not the caterer, then. But I’d already lost interest and moved on.

“My Nielsen rating hasn’t changed—and rankings don’t lie. The Helen Home Show is as popular as ever with the masses. On the individual level, though, someone is turning people against me.”

“I’ll have someone handle it.” Since we had several PIs on retainer, and since Helen seemed unusually grave about the sabotage, I asked, “Who would you like me to call?”

She was quiet for a long moment. Pensive. And then she said, “No need.”

“You went poking around, yourself?”

“If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.”

That slogan was the concept that started it all. Most catchphrases are empty strings of words, but not Helen’s. In a time when liberated women relied on instant coffee and microwave dinners, Helen encouraged them to pour their own candles. And the public ate it up.

Doing it right had become not just a slogan, but an empire.

She released my waist but laced her fingers through mine and squeezed. Her hand was cool and dry, as always, and slightly chapped from her rigorous housekeeping regimen. Yeah, she didn’t just talk the talk. She knew firsthand that you really could polish copper-bottomed cookware with salt and a cut lemon.

“I had lunch with the Wives’ Club today… and I’ve figured out what’s going on.”

When Helen had first landed her show, she received a grudging invitation to one of the reigning oligarchy’s stuffy events. The golf outing was a glorious disaster. Not only did she have the gall to trounce the mayor, but after they retired to the clubhouse for cigars and bourbon and she emerged from the cloud of smoke, she was ill for a week. The men were truly odious. Their wives, however, were pleasant and genteel. They also knew a lot more about their husbands’ businesses than any of the men realized… and they shared it much more freely.

“You remember Sylvia?” she asked.

“The blonde married to the shipping baron?”

“No, that’s Stella. Sylvia’s husband syndicated nature shows.”

“I note you refer to the man’s business in the past tense.”

She released my hand and toyed absently with my hair, twirling it into a point at the nape of my neck. “I spent nearly a year having her plant the seeds of him putting the Helen Home Show in second-run syndication, only to have him shot in a ‘hunting accident.’”

“Unfortunate.”

“Oh, yes. Big coincidence. Especially since every single man on that trip, other than him, was Chosen.”

“What are you saying? The sabotage is coming from one of us?” The rabble might operate that way, clawing each other down to procure their place at the top of the heap. But a rising tide lifts all boats. Chosen worked together. And if one of them strayed from the path, it was my job as the head of security to ferret him out—not Helen’s. “What possible reason could they have to turn against one of their own?”

Helen sagged into her makeup chair and began dusting her cheeks with blusher to camouflage the pallor of her worry.

“Well?” I prompted.

“I heard a rumor going around that there’s an issue with my… values.”

For once, I found myself speechless. Chosen can be found everywhere, from whorehouses to tabernacles. Our currency was as neutral as it could possibly be—we traded favors for power. Nothing else mattered.

I considered Helen at length in the mirror while she primped her hair. Then I demanded, “How does morality come into play?”

“It’s nothing to do with morals, Adam. It’s the fact that I encourage people to be self-sufficient.”

“And suddenly this is an issue? Why now?”

“Because now my influence has grown wide enough to cause some serious ripples. And the syndication deal would let my show run evenings and weekends. It would broaden my audience exponentially.”

Weaving your own pot holders was one thing. Thinking for yourself was quite another. These small victories Helen encouraged people to enjoy couldn’t possibly be enough to erase the seductive inertia of compliance. Allowing authority figures to dictate every aspect of your life felt familiar. It felt safe. Most people simply didn’t have it in them to rebel.

“From now on,” she said, “conserve the Mark. If you want something, buy it, bargain for it… blackmail, for all I care. But keep your favors. We’re going to need them.”

It wouldn’t be the first time she stockpiled for nothing. Every spring she rotated enough canned goods out of the cellar to feed Calvary’s every last vagrant, wino, and bum.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I murmured.

“Adam.” She squeezed my hand, and I realized she wasn’t just being dramatic. She was scared. And Helen wasn’t afraid of anything. “Do this… for me.”

I sighed dramatically. “Sure, Mom. Whatever you say.”

Chapter Four

JOHNNY

SHOW ME someone who hasn’t heard of Helen Cross, and I’ll show you someone who’s been living under a rock… on the moon. Helen gazed out from the covers of all the housewifey magazines, cool and elusive. She put in an appearance at every highbrow event, from fundraisers to mall openings. She’d funded a new wing at the Calvary Fine Arts Museum. And even though, technically, Helen lived outside city limits in a twelve-bedroom country estate with its own private lake, she was still the city’s most famous resident and its shining star. She wasn’t a celebrity—she was a brand.

Her TV show was a pretty big deal. Since I sleep during the hours when decent housewives are taking a break from their daily routines, I’d never actually seen an episode. But even the lowlifes propping up the Inferno bar referred to it, albeit to sneer at Helen’s success and talk smack about how they’d like to screw that smug look off her face. The Helen Home Show taped downtown, where the old early-century high-rises dominated the riverfront. Like Calvary, they’d been elegant once, with curving Art Deco woodwork, crystal chandeliers, and marble steps with bright brass railings. But also like Calvary, their years had left them dilapidated and tired.

Scoring tickets to Helen’s taping was easy enough. I might be unwilling to cash in my favors among the Chosen, but I had no problem hitting up the sheep. Maybe it had been a few years since I used the Inferno to make me look important. Anyone who’d set foot in the joint wouldn’t have been particularly impressed with me for owning it. The security guards at the front desk, though, could be had with a halfhearted brag and a handful of drink tokens.

Everybody has their price.

If you don’t work in television, you might not notice the sets are all fake. Seen through the camera’s lens, it all looks real—the walls, the furniture, the windows. But see them for yourself in person, and the charade reveals itself for the illusion it is. The walls don’t go any higher than the camera can see. And the backdrop behind the windows is a photograph lit by an electric light with a quiet fan waving the branches of the fake trees.

To the naked eye, everything looked overlit and dwarfed by the machinery that ran the show. Sure, it was the same kitchen countertop and chintz curtains you’d see on TV. But surrounding it all was a forest of scaffolding and lighting and electronics—plus a red light to let you know when they were taping and another signal to tell you when to applaud.

Theme music piped through the speaker system, the applause light came on, and all the sheep started to clap. I told myself to follow along but couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. I’ve always been lousy at blending in.

I was dredging up the will to put my hands together when I saw… him.

It takes a lot to stir these old loins. But this one? Plenty of people had good bone structure. It was his attitude that really snared me, the “I don’t give a fuck” that was evident in the way he moved, even the way he stood. I figured he must be a producer of some kind… hell, maybe even a fluffer. But then I saw the way each of the security guys checked in with him, deferential, serious—and I realized that this was the one the old man had warned me about.

The bodyguard.

A good dozen people milled around the set—camera guys, lighting guys, and a jerk in a powder-blue leisure suit telling them all what to do. But in that anthill of activity, the bodyguard was a center of calm. When he moved, he moved with purpose, gliding through the frantic mob like an anaconda cruising down the Amazon.

He paused just outside camera range, crossed his arms, and leaned back against a broad concrete column to survey his kingdom as I surveyed his tight body. It looked good in his form-fitting oxford and dress slacks, but it would look even better without them. I don’t normally indulge in scratching that primal itch… but when I do, it’s with guys like him, arrogant bastards who don’t give a flying fuck that the only thing we’re doing together is getting off.

Activity peaked as a stage door opened and the star of the show stepped through, and even above the hubbub, the bodyguard sensed my eyes on him. I kept watching him—a challenge. He took me up on that challenge and looked right back. And then, across the studio floor, the lighting shifted and I saw it. Faint black clouds roiled around in his eyes.

I was surprised at how disappointed I felt that he was Chosen.

It only made sense, though. The old man had given me specific orders not to hurt him. But even if he hadn’t, I would have figured it out. Sheep have no reason to be so damn cocky.

The Applause sign blinked, the On Air signal lit, Leisure Suit waved his arms, and the cheerfully ignorant crowd around me went crazy. I knew I should clap, but I couldn’t find the wherewithal to care enough to do it. The bodyguard watched me sitting there, too jaded to join in. It seemed to please him—he smirked. He shifted his stance and canted his hips so that, in his expertly fitted slacks, his endowments were even more obvious.

And then Helen took the stage, and the crowd’s energy spiked in an orgasm of celebrity worship. Late fifties, maybe older, wearing a cardigan and pearls. Hair pulled back in a casual twist, as if she was effortlessly elegant, even at home. With her on it, the set became a home, a daylit kitchen where everything matched and the pots and pans were definitely not bolted to the walls so as not to rattle and interfere with the boom mic.

I hadn’t intended to give her more than a passing glance, what with the sexy bodyguard eye-fucking me from the sidelines, but her charisma was so palpable, it distracted me even from him.

Once the crowd settled in, she remarked on the change of seasons and all the homemaking opportunities that change brought about, and then settled in to show them how to make draft stoppers out of bath towels. The crowd hung on her every word as if she was demonstrating how to turn lead into gold. I hardly realized I was wondering which of my bath towels I might spare when she looked into the camera closest to me, and I saw the black clouds churning lazily through her eyes.

Since when did the old man send someone to kill one of his own?

I must not have hidden my surprise very well. When I picked out the bodyguard, his smirk had spread into a full-on grin. Welcome to the party, it said. We’re all damned here.

Signs flashed, and the sheep around me applauded. Onstage, they trotted out a guest star, some mom-type you see in all the made-for-TV movies. She and Helen shared some quiet banter about how much they loved to bake while a crew member, off-camera, filled the prop countertop with a bunch of carefully arranged ingredients.

The bodyguard gestured for one of the security guys, then pointed to me and whispered in his ear. The guy with the Taser on his belt slipped around back so as not to alarm the audience, eased his way up the aisle, and tapped me on the shoulder. I could’ve refused to go with him and caused a big scene. But even after all these years, my curiosity still got the best of me sometimes, and I wanted to know what would happen next.

Without a word, I followed. He led me through a side exit, down a twisting hallway, and up to a door with a frosted glass window and ornate hand-painted lettering that spelled out Green Room.

He rapped on the door. “Boss? He’s here.”

The door opened… and up close—damn. Helen’s bodyguard was a walking, talking wet dream. “That’ll be all,” he said.

The guard turned and walked away, but I stayed put. I was riveted to the spot while we sized each other up, the bodyguard and me.

Finally he broke the silence, casually, as if he hadn’t even noticed it was getting uncomfortable. “So. Looking to spruce up a tired sweater with vintage doilies?”

I almost laughed. “Hardly.”

“Good, ’cause you missed the spot. That was last week’s show.” He cocked his head toward the room. “Come on in and help yourself to the spread. You look like you could stand a bite. No? The stuffed mushrooms are drying out, but the crostini shouldn’t be too soggy yet.” He snagged an hors d’oeuvre from a platter of fancy grub—one of several trays, all of them untouched—and swallowed it in two careless bites. “I’m Adam. You?”

I considered lying, but why bother? “Johnny.”

He strolled the room with his hands in his pockets, surveyed the space like a prince in his kingdom, and paused in front of the makeup station. The mirror was tall and reflected the room. It made the wasted food look twice as copious and the flocked wallpaper doubly garish. I joined him, not because he wanted me to, but despite him. I don’t do anything for the sake of pleasing anyone but myself. And yet, there was the strange impulse to ingratiate myself to some man who’d only just introduced himself to me.

Our eyes met in the mirror. “Hazel?” he said. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Eyes may be the window to the soul, but their reflections tell you nothing… nothing but a sorry glimpse at what you’d never be again. Adam’s eyes were a brilliant clear blue, striking as a tree-framed winter sky against his thick black lashes—at least as far as the sheep could see.

He watched me watching him for an unhurried pause and then said, “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

He turned toward me, still moving with that sinuous grace, and somehow managed to flow right up against me, almost touching but not quite—eye to eye, chest to chest, and groin to groin. Our bodies hovered there, too close to slip so much as a hand between us, close enough that it seemed like a magnetic pull was dragging us together. “Your eyes…. How long have you been stockpiling, Johnny? Years? Your eyes are so dark—your reservoir is so full of unspent favors—I can’t even tell where you’re looking. What could you possibly get out of holding back?” He leaned in even more so his breath played across the stubble on my cheek. “And who knew it would be such a turn-on?”

“Awfully cocky of you to get all up in my business if you can’t read my expression and see which way I swing.”

“Your eyes might be blacker than my onyx cufflinks, but your body language isn’t exactly cryptic.” Adam took an expansive breath, and his chest brushed mine. It was as if he’d lit a match and then touched it to the rest of the book. “If you were straight, you would’ve stepped back by now.”

Desire ripped through me like flame, and when my breath caught, our bodies grazed each other again. The sensation wasn’t blunted by familiarity the second time through, not even a little. I backed up half a step. So much time spent building up my reserves, only to find myself vulnerable to something as common as desire.

“I didn’t come here to get cruised,” I said. “I want to meet Helen.”

If I expected him to be put out by that, I’d have been wrong. He wet his lips—damn, his lips were almost as distracting as his eyes—and smiled. “And you think I can make that happen?”

The Green Room door burst open, and Adam eased off, so casually that it looked like he’d only been strolling past me, not hovering in front of me, daring me to close the deal.

A security guard barreled in and said, “Boss, come quick. Supermom’s got a psycho-stalker down in the lobby.”

A grin teased at the corner of Adam’s mouth as he flicked a knowing look my way. “Dinner, then? Eight o’clock. And don’t dress up on Helen’s account. It’s surprisingly difficult to shock her.”

He didn’t even bother to wait for my reply. He just turned and glided out of the room, leaving me with a tableful of stale food and the feeling that I’d just been blindsided.

Chapter Five

ADAM

CALVARY’S FINEST might be a little jaded from picking vermin from the city’s underbelly, but as a rule, they’re not stupid. It can be a challenge to differentiate a stalker from a fan, since adoration can turn to vengeance at the drop of a hat. The toothless man who was ranting about the multimillion-dollar actress owing him a pair of used panties, however, was clearly not the type of fanbase my mother’s cohorts would encourage.

Calvary PD had sent two officers to deal with the situation. One was Chosen and one was not. Normally I’d take aside my brother in sin and ask him to do me a favor—keep it quiet, ensure nobody makes a scene. But after seeing this Johnny character’s ebony eyes, dark as a moonless night and twice as intoxicating, I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe I’d been exerting arcane influence where a simple request might have sufficed.

While the Chosen officer was busy getting a statement from my ground-floor security, I took the other one aside and said, “Thanks for getting here so quickly. I’m hoping this issue can be handled without drawing any undue attention.”

The cop was a good dozen years older than me, paunchy, with the look of a guy who’d rather be propping up a bar. He gave me such a long, assessing look, I wondered if he could read my Mark. But when he smiled, low and nasty, I realized I’d misjudged him.

“Gotcha,” he said, “I’m happy to make sure word don’t get out.” He rubbed his fingertips together in the universal signal for money. “Must be pretty important to keep up your show’s reputation.”

Never in my life had I stooped to giving a bribe—not because I couldn’t afford it, but because the mere thought of it disgusted me. I expected the rabble to serve me willingly. I shouldn’t have to pay a police officer to do his job any more than I’d pay someone to suck me off.

I considered telling him exactly where he could shove his bribe. And then I saw a paparazzo lingering just across the street, lighting one cigarette off another, as though he planned on being there a while.

Helen was feeling edgy enough lately without adding a perfectly avoidable scene to her worries. I peeled a few twenties from my money clip and handed them to the crooked cop. Then I leaned back and watched as he hustled the panty sniffer out the alley door in cuffs.

The other officer, the Chosen one, was just wrapping up statements. I gestured him over, waited for my guards to step out of earshot, and said, “Care to do me a favor?”

We sized each other up. He wasn’t a physically imposing man, but he had the calm demeanor of someone either Chosen or on quaaludes. His reserves were greater than mine, but he had plenty of room to stockpile more. One hand has been washing the other since time began. The air between us thickened in anticipation of a primordial exchange.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

With his acquiescence a connection was forged between us. Auras? Electromagnetic fields? Souls? I wouldn’t begin to guess. Whatever it was, our word was literally our bond, and when the verbal contract was signed, our energies linked together.

“Your partner needs to be taken down a few pegs,” I said. When the cop grinned, I added, “And make sure it’s profoundly humiliating.”

As my request was heard, a thread of power danced through our connection and leached from me to him. It’s dizzying, both to send and receive. Some folks get addicted to the sensation, I’m told, and they find it practically orgasmic. Others feel it like a full-body whack to the funny bone and become reclusive shut-ins to avoid that unsettling surge of energy. For me it’s neither here nor there, an indication that the system is still working.

A means to an end.

Once the light-headedness cleared, I followed the Chosen cop out into the alley, where the stalker was trussed up in the back seat of the black-and-white. The cop who thought he’d coerced something out of me gave me a parting look of smug satisfaction.

I could barely stop myself from returning the smirk.

Chapter Six

1961

JOHNNY

“THE ONLY people who waste their time wishing life was fair,” I told the old man, “are snot-nosed kids and has-beens.” I felt pretty clever about that comeback.

I had no idea how stupid I was.

He relaxed into his plush leather seat and smiled. “You’re awfully young to be so jaded.”

I wasn’t even sure what the word jaded meant, but it sounded like it might be a compliment. Maybe. “Listen, you don’t need to butter me up.” I gestured toward his lap, hoping for ten bucks and wondering how sorry it would look if I settled for five. “You want something from me? Name your price.”

“That particular proposition is wasted on me,” the old man said. “However… we can still do business. What would you say if I told you I knew who skimmed that tip?”

I shrugged. “So what? What’s done is done, and by tomorrow night, it’ll be old news.”

“But what if you were guaranteed that your swindler would pay for what he’s done? The idea of someone getting their just deserts holds no appeal whatsoever?”

I didn’t want it to, but if I thought about it, really thought… then, yes. Deep down inside me was a tiny glimmer of hope that perked up over his little story, at least until I saw it for what it was—fiction.

“I’m just a busboy. No one will give two shits if I blow the whistle.”

“Ah. So that’s what you’re after. Clout.”

Was I? It sounded awfully vague. I shrugged.

“You give me what I want,” he said, “you get what you want, and your swindler gets what he deserves.”

“What is it you want?”

“Patience, my boy, patience. Rest assured, your end of the bargain is a mere pittance… nothing you value at all.” He leaned in eagerly. “What do you say?”

“Okay, I guess.”

From the shadows he extended his wrinkled hand. “Very well. Shake.”

It was when I touched him and felt my immortal soul abandon me that I realized I was in seriously deep shit.

Chapter Seven

1979

JOHNNY

MOST CHOSEN squander their favors on stupid things—by that, I mean anything you can do without or anything money can buy—anything at all, when it comes right down to it. It’s all stupid.

The Cross estate was impossible to reach by foot, and city buses didn’t run in that neck of the woods. I slipped on a pair of mirrored shades and hailed a taxi.

In the rearview mirror, the driver’s eyes looked normal. But when I told him where I was headed, he said, “That’s one hell of a long trip,” and turned around. Black clouds scuttled across his eyes. “Show me your money.”

He used the tone most of us take when we’re ordering around sheep. It didn’t faze me. The dumb kid who’d sell his soul for a flicker of respect was long dead.

I flashed a pair of twenties and told him, “Drive.”

He drove.

It took nearly an hour to get there. We maneuvered through city traffic and onto the highway. That leg of the trip was quick enough, but once we got off in the boonies, it was all blind curves, switchbacks, and dirt roads. I was beginning to think the driver was just hauling me around to make sure he tapped out all my cash when he pulled up in front of an imposing iron gate and rolled down his window.

He pressed the intercom button and said, “What’s your name, pal?”

“Johnny.”

He snickered, then announced me to the faceless voice on the other end of the speaker, as if he was fully expecting us to be turned away. Maybe someone with more clout would feel satisfied with themselves when that gate swung open. Me, though? I was just numb. The old man had sent me to end someone, and faced with the reality of his orders, I was beginning to suspect I was nowhere near as tough as I made myself out to be.

The front drive was so long, the taxi meter turned over another click as we rolled up to the front door. A man stepped up—one of Adam’s guys, I guessed, since he looked more like security than household help—and opened the taxi door for me. Teenage Johnny would have gloated over the welcome, at least a little. I just tossed the fare at the driver and headed in.

The entry hall was a massive affair—three stories high, marble floors, polished wood, and gleaming brass, with a grand staircase front and center. Adam stood at the top, hands on hips. It might’ve been his job to protect Helen, but he lorded over the place like he owned it. He looked marginally more casual, in that he wore loafers instead of wingtips and he’d lost the suit jacket, but he was still better dressed than I’d been since the last funeral I’d suffered through.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” he said dryly. “I take it you found Briarwood okay?”

A smarter man would’ve practiced a few pleasantries on the long ride there, but I’m no rocket scientist. I slipped off my mirrored shades and looked up.

Adam froze—just a flicker—and his breath very nearly caught. He recovered, then glided down the stairs and threaded an arm through mine. More quietly, he said, “Helen’s busy in the kitchen, and dinner will be a few minutes, so why don’t I give you the grand tour?”

“She’s cooking it herself? Doesn’t she have people to do all that menial stuff?”

“Absolutely. But if she doesn’t have her hands in something, she can’t trust that it’s perfect.”

He recited the mansion’s history as he walked me through a bunch of big, showy rooms. Old-fashioned decorating with lots and lots of wood. Traditional, but with a feminine touch—fresh flowers instead of dusty taxidermy. Maybe newly done, maybe phenomenally well-preserved, from the days when gentlemen waxed their mustaches and women sipped laudanum to cure their hysteria. I didn’t much see it. I was too busy stewing on the task I’d been sent there to carry out.

“War is hell,” Adam said lightly. “This wing was added later, after the man of the house came back from the trenches shell-shocked, and the rest of the family decided it was best to keep him out of the way so they couldn’t hear his screams.” He opened a set of french doors with a flourish. “And now it’s my private domain.”

Passing through that doorway was like stepping through a portal into the modern era. The structure was still the same—wood and moldings and marble—but the decorating was different. Plush white shag stretched underfoot. Huge blurred black-and-white photos of people backlit by streetlights covered the paneled walls. Glass-topped tables glittered with chrome. The room didn’t just look and feel different either. It smelled different.

It smelled like Adam. Citrus and earth.

The door swung shut behind us. He turned to face me, grabbed my belt loop, dragged me up against him, and angled in for a kiss. I turned my head, and it landed on my jaw. Even so, the touch of his lips tore through me like electrical current.

“What is it?” Adam said lightly. “You don’t kiss on the mouth, or you haven’t been sufficiently wooed?”

“I didn’t come here to get laid.”

“No, you came here to meet Helen over dinner.” He gave a little grind against my thigh, and I felt a distinct bulge. “But you’ve got to admit, a taste of my secret stash would make one hell of an appetizer.” Off in the distance, a bell tinkled, and Adam let go of my jeans. “I’d point out that you were saved by the bell, but clichés are so tedious.” He leaned in as if to tell me a parting secret, then trailed his tongue across my earlobe. A carnal shiver raged down my spine. “We’ll take this up later… Johnny.”

Outside his chambers, Adam dropped the touchy-feely act. And even so, he managed to skewer me with his eyes. Maybe he didn’t know exactly where I was looking, but his security guards did. They were sheep. And maybe I was holding on to more useless pride than I realized if I cared whether or not they saw me cruising their boss.

Even with Adam’s expansive personality sucking all the air out of the room and leaving me light-headed and distracted, I still felt it when the reigning queen of homemaking made her entrance. Her presence was magnetic, and her charisma was palpable. And while her eyes were nowhere near as black as mine, they churned with enough power to lay low anyone stupid enough to get in her way.

Helen Cross was a sturdy blonde woman in her fifties—maybe not delicate enough to be called beautiful, but like her mansion, well-preserved. She wore a dove gray sweater set topped by a checkered apron she’d probably sewn herself, if all the hype was anything to go by. And she seemed totally at ease serving a lowlife like me.

“Johnny,” she said warmly, “a real pleasure to meet you. Please, have a seat.”

The long mahogany table, I noticed, was set for three. Obviously, Adam was more than just an employee. The housing arrangements had made that pretty plain. No matter how sprawling your country estate is, no one gives a hired gun his own wing. Under Helen’s watchful eye, servants trooped a multicourse meal out of the kitchen and then left the three of us—Helen, Adam, and me—to our own devices.

“Sit,” Helen said. “We don’t want dinner to get cold. I’m vegan, but since Adam takes issue with so-called ‘rabbit food,’ I prepare two meals. Which do you prefer—cashew loaf or lamb?”

My insides were in such knots, neither one sounded appealing, but I needed to keep up the appearance of being at ease. “Lifelong carnivore.”

“Don’t worry,” she said amiably. “I won’t hold it against you.” She portioned out a rack of lamb while I wondered if maybe I wasn’t the only one who thought of the ignorant masses as sheep. Her seat was at the head of the table, with Adam across from me. He stared at me with bedroom eyes, smiling naughtily to himself.

It was a nicer spread than I’d ever seen, even back when the Inferno was a high-end steak joint… back before I let it all go to seed. I hardly tasted the food. Between Adam’s relentless invitation and the thought that I was there to kill his boss, there was no time to worry about eating, especially when I was busy gauging whether to go for the carving knife or the steak knife. The serrated carving knife was more of a sawing implement, and the steak knife was pointy but small. Maybe, though, in the side of the throat….

And what then? Hamstring Adam and run away? Or apologize for offing his employer and try to talk him into moving past me slaughtering his meal ticket? Even if he did somehow get over it, I doubted it would land me an invitation for dessert.

Helen wasn’t just a powerful woman—she was a gracious one. While I squirmed in my seat and did my best to choke down the meal, she made the conversation flow. “How’s your mint sauce, Johnny?”

“Fine.”

She nodded as if she didn’t notice I had the social grace of an ape. “Mentha piperita. That mint was grown right here at Briarwood, fed by our soil, watered by our well, and pruned by my own hands. If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. And when corners have been cut… you can always taste it.”

I dry-swallowed and chased it with a gulp of wine.

“It might be rude in some circles to mix business with pleasure,” she said, “but we’re all Chosen here. And that makes us family.”

Across the table, Adam smirked at me as if he was having particularly incestuous thoughts.

“When Adam told me how much of the Mark you were carrying, I thought he might be exaggerating, since he does have a flair for the dramatic.”

Her hand dropped to cover his. No sirree, not just a bodyguard at all.

As he watched me take in their casual touch, his smirk broadened.

Open relationship? Swingers? Whatever their arrangement was, it didn’t matter. Once I carried out the old man’s orders, Adam wouldn’t have much to smirk about anymore.

I tore my eyes away from him and steeled myself. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know the price of freedom would be obscenely high… but I must have overestimated my own reserves of apathy.

I tested the weight of the steak knife in my hand. Like everything else in Helen’s domain, it was high quality. I plunged it into the rare lamb, and it cut right through.

It would do.

I gripped the knife harder and decided how things would have to go down. I hadn’t asked a favor of anyone for years, not since the time I was clipped by a bus and left for dead behind a dumpster. But since I’d be free of that evil urge to trade favors soon enough, I’d give it one final spin. Bend my head to Adam’s as if I was telling him a secret—or tonguing his earlobe—and instead offer something a hell of a lot more intimate than a fuck. Do me a favor.

He’d say yes. He was running on fumes, and the power of my Mark gave him a bigger hard-on than the thought of rooting around between my legs. And when he agreed, when the dark connection was forged, I’d tell him to hold her down, look away, and don’t make any move to stop me from doing what I had to do.

As if he could skim the words right from my mind, Adam narrowed his eyes in assessment. He wet his lips and smiled a sultry smile.

Carefully, I placed the steak knife on the tabletop and took another drink.

“It’s a 1971 Bordeaux,” Helen said. When I put down my glass, she refilled it. “That bottle was here when I bought Briarwood. Fully stocked wine cellar, home theater, heated pool. Still a bargain, because the place had been neglected for years. The lawns were overgrown, the electricity was shoddy, and the whole place needed a thorough cleaning. But I was a single mother—not many people know about that, since I keep my private life private—and for someone like me with a fledgling TV show barely off the ground, purchasing this estate was a major coup.”

The single mother bit seemed like an awfully lucrative piece of information. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m on the verge of big deal, Johnny, and I need to make sure I’ve got people on my team with a solid bank of reserves. There’s more to success than just cashing in favors. Case in point—I was Chosen when my show took off. But to buy this place, I didn’t cash in a single favor. I don’t know how long you’ve been Chosen, but I can see you know a thing or two about self-restraint. Obviously you’ve sought me out because you need a favor—something big. I understand. I’ve got connections. But it would be a shame to squander all this potential for the sake of a single transaction when we could both benefit from an extended relationship. If you want something from me, chances are I can make it happen. With or without burning a favor.”

Whatever she was trying to sell me, Adam couldn’t care less. He must’ve heard the whole song and dance before. While he was busy poking through the roasted new potatoes to decide if he wanted seconds—him across the table, and me within striking distance—I swallowed my dread and took my shot.

In the movies, when people fight, it’s neat and controlled. Psycho killers slit throats in a single decisive sweep. Me? I grabbed at Helen, snagged part of her apron and part of her sweater, drew back the knife as if I could punch her with it, and then… I hesitated.

Adam didn’t.

He had a gun pressed into my temple before I could gather the courage to go through with my half-assed plan.

“Drop the knife,” he said, as easily as he might tell me to pass a side dish. I dropped it. Helen backed away, shaking. Adam stayed exactly where he was, one knee on the table, peas and mint sauce upended, poised to blow my brains out. “What a shame, Johnny. I knew you were after something. Even though that something wasn’t me, I was hoping we could be more than just friends.”

“Put your hands behind your back,” Helen said briskly. Once she’d trussed me up like a Sunday roast with a dozen yards of twine, Adam lowered his gun regretfully, as if he’d been hoping for an excuse to use it. “Listen, Johnny.” Her voice shook, but only a little. “This doesn’t have to end with you in prison. You’re Chosen. If anyone understands how delicate that can be, it’s me. So tell me… are you here of your own volition, or are you carrying out a favor?”

“Lady, I have no reason to want you dead.”

“It’s Oscar Warren, isn’t it?” She shook her head and told Adam, “Haven’t I always said that horrible man saw me as a threat?”

Adam had climbed down from the table, but he was still staring at me like he saw right through me. “When you interrogate someone, I believe it’s customary to let them answer.”

“It wasn’t Warren? Then who?”

If I had any pride, I might’ve been hesitant to say who was pulling my strings. But in all the years I’ve had in the old man’s service, I’d learned pride’ll do you just as much good as fairness. But when I made to tell them, the words died in my throat. The compulsion was like nothing I’d ever felt dealing with other Chosen. I’d bonded directly with the old man, and like it or not, I couldn’t move or speak against him in any way until the deed was done.

Chapter Eight

ADAM

YOU KNOW things are serious when Helen breaks out the rye. I poured, since her hands were shaking hard enough to chip the crystal. She pulled out two glasses, but I left mine empty. Glorious adrenaline was blazing through my veins. I had no desire to dull the edge of what I was feeling.

“We need a plan.” She threw back her drink, and I refilled it. “The key is to make sure panic can’t get the better of us.”

I didn’t feel panicked—more like exhilarated—but I kept a lid on my excitement for my mother’s sake. She might not let on that a few chinks of vulnerability mar her armor, but they do exist.

I stroked the back of her hand and said, “I’ll take care of him.”

“It’s not that simple. If you dispatch this Johnny, someone else will come. Maybe someone who wouldn’t dream of hesitating. Maybe someone we already know who’s been turned against us. Maybe someone who’s been waiting for years to put me in my place. It would be foolish to get rid of this man. He’s just a pawn, but as long as he’s in play, it keeps someone worse from filling his shoes.”

“Whatever you think is best.”

“I’m serious, Adam. Don’t just agree with me and then go off and do whatever you please. We only have one shot at this.”

And if something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. “Fine. What would you have me do?”

“Put him to use. Find out who sent him and why. Take it slow and don’t do anything that can’t be undone.”

It was tempting to have her clarify whether or not she was actually telling me to torture her would-be assassin. But I knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ve got this.”

The Briarwood staff knew something was happening, but we didn’t fill them in on any of the particulars. My men are well-paid and reasonably loyal, but everyone’s got a price. I doubled up the front door security and assigned some muscle to stand guard outside Helen’s room… and then I headed to my quarters to check on our guest.

The reinforced anteroom off my bedroom suite had been converted to a walk-in closet—maple shelving, floor-to-ceiling shoe racks, a three-way mirror, and absolutely no windows. In space, nobody can hear you scream, and the same could be said for my closet. Not only was it well off the house’s beaten track, but the walls had been built especially thick—the prior owners needed somewhere to lock up their dear old dad on those days when his mind was still in the trenches. With my clothes lining the walls, the sound was so deadened, we were in our own private world.

Back at the studio, when I first caught sight of Johnny among all the housewives and tourists, I was intrigued. I’d never met someone so angry and fuckable—and, best of all, seething with power. I had no idea how intoxicating it would be to strip that power away.

I opened my closet door. Dead center, Johnny was tied to a chair with a muslin shoe bag over his head, looking just like something out of a spy movie. I’m not generally fond of role-play, and seeing him slumped on that chair with his head bowed and covered, I realized why.

Fantasy is such a pale imitation of real life.

Through the bag, he said, “Do what you want. It won’t make a lick of difference.”

“I don’t know about that. I’m told I can be very persuasive.” The soles of my shoes whispered against the carpet as I approached. I stood before him, close enough to smell the thick metallic tang of his fear hanging in the air. I bent at the waist, angled my face into the crook of his neck, and inhaled.

Delicious.

“If you were to disappear,” I said softly, “would anyone miss you? Don’t answer that. It’s a rhetorical question. We’ve got a PI on retainer who can find out easily enough.”

“Don’t waste your time. There’s nobody but the rummies who’d be waiting for my bar to open. And none of them would care enough to come looking.”

“So what you’re saying is, I can do anything at all here… with no repercussions.” I took his shirt collar in both hands and snapped it open. Buttons sprang off and pattered silently to the carpeted floor. His body was as tough and ropy as I’d imagined it would be. Surprisingly, no ink that I could see. Then again, he probably didn’t care enough to bother adorning himself any more than an animal would. I traced the valley of his sternum with my fingertip, and his skin flicked. That’s what he was—an animal—not livestock, but something untamed, maybe not even mammalian. I straddled his thighs and yanked the bag off his head. When I looked down into the opaque midnight of his eyes, I saw them for what they were—shark eyes. “Judging by your darkness, it’s clear you’re fond of granting favors. I don’t know that I’ve ever met anyone quite so altruistic.”

He barked out a bitter laugh.

I cocked my head and studied the sinews at the side of his throat. “No? Unless you’re a masochist, why bother giving without ever taking something for yourself? Or maybe you’re one of those folks with self-control I’m always hearing so much about, socking away your pennies for a big splurge.”

“Hardly.”

“Then what? Saving for a rainy day?”

“I can’t remember the last time I saw the sun.”

“And yet you’ve got so many favors stored up, you could have anything at all. Imagine that. You could’ve walked through this door and said, ‘Helen, do me a favor and put me on your show.’ She would’ve done it. Hell, for that matter, you could’ve told her to give you her show. But I’m guessing you have no desire for the limelight.”

He tried to look away, but wherever he looked, there was a floor-to-ceiling mirror that reflected both of us back to him, me straddling his thighs.

“You’re not struggling,” I observed.

“What good would it do me?”

“None at all. I just thought it might be a turn-on. So if nobody’s waiting for you back home and you’ve got nothing to lose but a fading dive bar, then why don’t you just make things easier for yourself and tell me who’s behind this and why?”

He paused, searching for words, and then said, “I can’t.”

Interesting. “You… physically can’t?”

Either he shook his head or he was giving a cursory yank to his bonds. And I’d been right. It was a turn-on.

“Which means you’re doing someone a favor,” I said, and felt his muscles clench between my thighs. I eased onto his lap and reveled in the sheer hardness of his body. There wasn’t a bit of softness anywhere on him, as though he lived off spite and regret. I dropped my face as close to his as I dared, breathed in the scent of his maleness—his dread—and murmured, “Here’s the thing, Johnny. In my vocabulary there’s no such thing as can’t. I’ll just need to be more persuasive.”

Chapter Nine

JOHNNY

I SHOULD have known I didn’t have it in me to murder someone in cold blood. Even if they were Chosen. Especially if they were Chosen. It was easy to presume that if they had any dealings with the old man, they were damaged goods. Maybe Helen Cross had clawed her way to the top with blackmails and bribes. From what I’d seen, though, she spent her time sewing cloth napkins and folding them into flowers—and encouraging the fine women of Calvary to do the same.

Her bodyguard was a different story. His Mark was running on empty and the darkness in his eyes was barely a haze, but the way he smiled hinted at a much deeper darkness.

“I have an idea,” Adam said.

I imagined him tearing my clothes the rest of the way off. And then I had to tell my traitorous dick to calm the fuck down. Chances were he’d just as soon take me out as get me off.

Tenderly, he smoothed my hair away from my eyes and stared at them as if he could see right into my black heart, if only he looked hard enough. “As you can well imagine, Helen has made plenty of enemies over the course of her career. Men hate it when a woman outdoes them, and perfectionist that she is, she just can’t help herself. So let’s start with all her magazine’s competitors. Is it Stan Brinks? Lou Gutman? Max Harvey?”

When I tried to answer him, my tongue seized up. Neck and body too. Everything went so rigid, it hurt.

Adam trailed a finger down the sinew of my throat. “I see. Well, then. We’ll need to get creative.” He slid off my lap and loosened his tie. It was almost a relief to have a beating coming. Over the course of my life, my face had been introduced to its fair share of fists. Slowly, methodically, he undid the knot and hung the strip of silk on a rack alongside a dozen others just as fancy. He turned back toward me, looked me in the eye, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Unnervingly, he watched me, calm and deliberate, as each button parted and revealed the snug white undershirt beneath. When he turned to drop the oxford into a hamper, the overhead lights played across his chest. The thin white fabric was so tight, it augmented more than it concealed. I would have reached out and touched it if my hands weren’t tied behind my back.

He turned toward me again, looked me up and down, and unhitched his belt. “If you can’t tell me who sent you and I can’t let any harm come to Helen, that puts us in a real bind.” He slid his belt from the loops and caressed the leather. “Any ideas?”

“Just finish me.”

“Oh, I intend to.” He trailed the belt edge down my shoulder, and every hair on my body stood on end. Excruciatingly slow, he circled me, dragging that belt along with him. My shoulder blades hitched as the edge grazed them. Then my other arm. My chest. My nipples hardened—one and then the other—at the touch of the warm leather. And by the time he was back where he’d started, my dick was fit to bust out of my jeans.

“We’re a lot alike,” Adam said.

“I doubt that.”

“True, I’ve had certain advantages you haven’t. But we’ve both been graced with the Devil’s Mark. We’re both here, in this time, this place.” He set the belt aside, toed off his loafers, and unbuttoned his fly. “We’re both hard.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. As he stepped out of his slacks one leg at a time, the wisp of a sheer black bikini brief he had on underneath barely contained him. I reminded myself that he couldn’t tell where I was looking and kept my head still, as if my eyes were on the door, but I couldn’t keep myself from watching. His dick wasn’t just interested—it was full-on erect. It was so stiff, it had poked out sideways, trapped against his hairy thigh. The tip was exposed, gleaming purple and wet at the slit. My heartbeat careened off-kilter as he folded his pants, deliberately and unhurried, as if having a man trussed up in his closet was such an everyday occurrence that he barely noticed.

He hung the slacks on a thick wooden hanger, then turned to me in nothing but that ridiculous slip of underwear and a pair of dressy black socks. “So. Do you normally bottom or top?”

I didn’t answer. I doubted he actually expected me to, but if I did, I would’ve said, “Neither.” My inglorious conquests took place in the woods behind Center Park or down by the docks, with a dumpster at my back and a stranger’s hand down my pants. Ideally in the dark.

He planted himself in front of me so I couldn’t possibly look anywhere else without turning my head. The closet was scrupulously well-lit.

He leaned over and, directly in my ear, said, “Tell me who’s gunning for Helen.”

My jaw twitched, and my molars ground together.

“Didn’t think it would be that easy. But it can’t hurt to try.” Adam dropped his hand to my fly and worked the zipper down. “Maybe if I sufficiently diverted your attention, the words would just… slip… out.”

He dragged out my dick, and he was right; it was as hard as his—stiff enough to point at the ceiling without anyone holding it up. It was just a quick, utilitarian grab. Even so, jutting there, engorged and rigid, my hard-on ached from the absence of his hand.

“Impressive,” he purred into my hair. The word vibrated down my spine. “I was worried this whole sordid business would sour the mood. I’m so glad we can still be friends.”

He threw a leg over me and shoved down his briefs to free his straining erection. The sheer underwear cupped him, just beneath the balls, and his cockhead pointed directly at the hollow of my throat. It jutted there between us like a weapon.

I’d never had the urge to fall on a sword… until then. I’d never been presented with such an enticing sword to fall on.

Adam was still moving slowly, as precise as a dancer and twice as fierce. His face was a mask of bland amusement, but even through the Mark, I saw the fire in his eyes. He gripped the chair, one hand on either side of my head, and allowed his back to arch. His chest mashed into my face, and his dick trailed stickiness down my chest. He blotted out the light, and his earth-and-citrus scent drove the air from my lungs. It was like he could erase the very existence of me with his body.

The feel of him rubbing up against me was eroding my will faster than a sandblaster, and I was so damn weary of fighting a pointless battle. Would it really be so bad if he punched my clock? Wiped me from the face of the planet? Made it as if I’d never been born? Most men think about their legacies, but me, I wouldn’t leave much of a mark behind—a shitty room, a shitty bar. Once I was gone, both of those things would fill in, like a hole in the sand at high tide. They’d level out as if they’d never existed, and no one would even notice they were gone.

Except the one who’d be recruited to fill my sorry shoes—Shawn.

I turned my head away and sucked air.

Adam eased back—either that or he was drawing wet pictures on my chest with his leaking dick. “What is it, Johnny? Did you have an idea?”

“Only that if you kill me, I figured out who’ll be sent in my place. Nobody you’d know.”

“Are you sure?”

“He’s an innocent.”

“Ah. Then probably not.” Tenderly, he threaded his fingers through my hair… and then made a fist and yanked my head back. His face filled my field of vision, blotting out the sensation of his dick poking me just below the ribs. “I still can’t tell whether or not you’re looking at me. This purported ‘innocent’… what is he to you? A relative? A friend?” He nuzzled his jaw against mine. “A lover?”

I scoffed into his neck. “Right.”

“I didn’t think so. Even if you had one, you’d never acknowledge it. You’d just think of him as someone you happened to screw.”

“We can’t all be snapped up by rich old ladies looking to hang on to their youth.”

He did pull back then, without letting go of my hair. “Helen?” He looked into my eyes—one, the other, and back again. “Our relationship is intimate, I’ll give it that. But you truly don’t know the half of it.”

Abruptly he stood, hooked his foot under the chair rung, and gave my chest a shove. My arms snapped taut against their binding, straining to windmill and put me right. My gut clenched, bracing to hit the floor, but something caught me before I fell flat on my back, tied to that chair—a bench, a footstool, maybe an open drawer. I found myself at an odd angle, tipped back with my feet in the air and my face looking up into a rack of suit coats. Adam swept the jackets aside, then planted a knee beside my head and straddled my face.

His briefs were gone.

“This is the part where I’d normally tell a guy he’s got a hot mouth… but frankly, when I look at you, I can’t see anything but those fathomless onyx eyes.” He took his dick in hand and trailed the velvety tip down my temple. If he wasn’t so well-endowed, his balls would’ve grazed my mouth. As it was, though, they were hanging just out of reach while he stroked my face with his cockhead. “Under all that stubble and raggedy hair, you’re actually kind of adorable, not that I’d ever let a pretty face lull me into getting my dick bit off. But that’s okay. I’ve been blown plenty… and honestly, my true preference is for a good, solid rimming.”

He sighed happily and lowered his spread ass against my mouth.

My world went dark as he engulfed my face. My body bucked as I tried to throw him off, but I was tied up and tipped back with my blood all rushing to my head. His thighs clamped around my ears and he drove the pucker of his ass against my lips. I tried to see and saw nothing. I tried to breathe and breathed him. There was nothing in my existence but the world between his thighs, a world I ached to lose myself in. Because if he reduced me to nothing but a mouth, a tongue… I could stop being me, if only just for the few glorious minutes it took to get him off.

And then he could put me out of my misery.

“Get busy, Johnny. There’s a gun pointed at the top of your head… and it’d be a crying shame to soil the carpet with your brains.”

Maybe I wasn’t so eager to throw in the towel after all. Adrenaline spiked, and the pressure from tilting back made my blood rush in my ears with every raging heartbeat. My breath was loud and ragged, constricted by the space between his thighs, and the rest of the world was muffled. It was like being underwater—in so many ways.

Suffocating.

Freeing.

At first, with panic juices flooding my veins, it just felt like a mass of indiscriminate, musky flesh pressing against my face. My sensitive tongue knew better. I felt along his smooth taint to the wrinkle of his pucker, then traced the shape of it, felt it quiver. As I tongued him, I figured out the lay of the land. His balls were draped over those eyes of mine he dug so much, and the hair on his thighs tickled my ears.

He rocked his ass against my mouth, and I ate it up. Because, when it came right down to it, even with so many favors banked that I was ready to bust, I was essentially powerless. It was a relief to stop pretending I wasn’t.

A huge fucking relief.

At first I was tuned into myself, but as I worked my tongue, I turned my attention outward instead. Adam wasn’t a moaner. In fact, I think he was doing his best to keep quiet and give me as little to go on as possible. His movements were controlled, and his breathing was even and steady… at least until I did a flutter that made his breath catch. And then I did it again.

My reward? A quiet sigh.

I’m nothing if not stubborn, and I was determined to do whatever it took to make this man—this arrogant, powerful, gorgeous man—as desperate for me as I was for him.

I kept working him, licking, prodding, until he was drenched with my breath, my spit. And maybe, if I really focused, I could feel his thighs quiver. I’m not sure how long I ate his ass. It felt like forever. It felt like a heartbeat. Eventually, carefully, he dismounted my head. When it hit me, the air of the room felt cold and foreign. I almost expected him to look as cool and unruffled as he had when he was holding a gun to my face. But instead he looked flushed, pink at the cheeks and lips, even vulnerable. He looked needy. And at the sight of his need, the true desire I’d kept squelched down inside me ever since I could remember rose to the surface like the foamy head of a freshly tapped lager.

He said, “If you think I’m going to untie you, think again.”

With a jerk he tipped my chair back up on its feet.

All the blood in my body rushed from my head down to my dick. It jutted out in front of me, pleading for attention. Anything—a touch, a breath. I struggled again, rocked forward and back, but I was trussed up tight. The cords dug in to my ankles and wrists, and my hands were getting cold. Unconcerned, Adam stepped away, hard cock bobbing in front of him—and that was torture, too, being left with my dick out and no hope of release. In any sense of the word.

“After all, I still need to find out who sent you.” He opened a drawer, rifled through it. Strolled back into my line of vision. Holding a bottle of lube. “You never bothered to ask what I prefer.” He squirted a shot of slippery gel into his palm. “Bottom. Insatiable… so I’m told.”

Even though he claimed he couldn’t tell where I was looking, he knew damn well there was nothing else to see but him. He planted his feet wide, held his junk aside, and pushed a pair of slick fingers up his own ass. He smiled, but only to himself. And I could see damn well where he was looking. Right into me.

He approached. His ruddy dick pointed at me like an accusation. He slung a leg over me and straddled my lap again, but naked now. He eased his way down, hands-free. As if our bodies were a pair of magnets, they lined themselves up—and if anyone had told me it was possible to be that gloriously hard, painfully hard, I wouldn’t have believed it. But there I was, poised just right for Adam to impale himself on me.

He looked me in the eye and lowered himself. The wet kiss of a lubed asshole touched my aching dick.

And then he stilled.

“I’m also told I have no self-control, but that’s in regard to spending dark favors, not sexual ones. The thing about sex is that no matter how long the journey—quick and dirty, or riding that knife-edge all night long—all that matters is that in the end, you get where you’re going.”

The sight of him, ruthless and beautiful, was too much. I closed my eyes.

He bore down, but only marginally—a promise he might very well break. He pressed his mouth to my ear and whispered, “Tell me who sent you, and I’ll bury you in my ass.”

Nothing came out of me but a shuddering breath.

“Can’t blame me for trying,” he said, and did a nearly imperceptible gyration with his hips. My stiff dick went along for the ride, poised, pressing, but not quite in. “It must be torture… having a giant favor to dispatch and not being able to carry it out. Being in favor-debt is such an uneasy feeling, like an itch you can’t scratch, but bleak and ugly, deep down inside. I hate pain. When I owe a favor, I drop everything and get it over with. But I’m an important man, in the secular sense of the word, much too busy to go around catering to some stranger’s whims. I suppose that’s why I haven’t racked up nearly as much dark favor as you have.”

He adjusted his stance. His tightness pressed against my dick, promising entry, then eased off again.

“I can’t imagine the power… if you’d been capable of carrying out your plan, I mean. It’s so inconsistent, how much of a charge these things carry. I’ve had a bigger rush from hailing someone a cab than shoving a cheating husband into traffic. But ridding the world of Helen Cross? I’m guessing that would come with a pretty sweet payout.”

Maybe. I supposed I’d never know. I thought I could feel the thrum of his pulse throbbing against my cockhead, but it must’ve been the pounding of my own heart.

“I’m just curious—are you one of those Chosen who gets off on the rush when someone else’s power fills you?”

I shook my head no.

“Really? What a surprise.” Adam leaned forward and dragged his lower lip delicately across my eyelashes. “Given your pretty, dark eyes, I figured you must enjoy it. But maybe you never really enjoy anything.”

He had my number, all right.

“Now, me,” he went on, “I adore that moment when someone empties himself inside me.” He dipped down, and holy fuck, my gullible body thought it was actually gonna happen—me, sinking into him.

But no. It was just a tease.

“It pains me to admit it, Johnny, but you truly are an enigma, hoarding power you neither want nor enjoy. And for what?”

That wasn’t how I saw things, but when he put it that way, I did have to wonder. “Some people are only alive because they don’t know how to die.”

“Is that a quote from a Clint Eastwood flick? If not, it should be.” He rocked himself—fucking hell, the tip was in… and then it wasn’t. My body screamed out for me to fuck him, and I flexed my hips, but he rode the motion and managed to keep himself just touching. “Here’s what I think. You run on spite, pure and simple.”

He must’ve been right. I couldn’t deny it.

“Imagine if you could really sink your teeth into your contrarian nature.” Adam punctuated the observation with the press of his ass. I expected it to be a tease that time, so he lingered with me poised there, tip partially in, for an extra heartbeat, in which my dumb dick thought it might be true. Then he pulled up again, barely touching. “Have you ever tried overwriting someone else’s favor with your own? No. I suppose you were too angry to experiment and test the limits of your power. Turns out it’s a huge waste of time. Once the original favor’s seeped into someone’s pores, there’s no stopping it until it’s… finished.”

He bore down again, and I screwed my eyes shut to stop him from looking right through me as my dick sank into him—not all the way, not in a single shove, but definitely in. I was so focused on my dick that I didn’t realize his lips were on mine until it was too late. And when he kissed me, I kissed him back. Once I figured out what was happening, I turned my head away. Too late. The deed was done.

“I taste myself on you,” he murmured.

I clamped my jaw shut tight.

As if the kiss hadn’t just happened, he went on briskly. “I don’t recommend trying to countermand someone else’s favor. Not only is it useless, it’s about as satisfying as flushing your blow down the toilet. Too bad—otherwise I could ask you to forget about your mission and be done with it. But don’t worry, Johnny. I’m nothing if not resourceful.”

He pressed his forehead to my temple. “Do me a favor,” Adam said, “and before you say no—I’m guessing that’s your knee-jerk response—let me reassure you, it contradicts nothing you’ve already promised. It’s imminently doable. And….” He flexed his supple body. “I’ll make it truly worth your while.”

Now that I’d breached him for even that single, shallow moment, I sank in more easily. I might not claim to know him, but my dick did. I moaned despite myself and felt him smile against my cheek.

When I answered, my voice was ragged. “No.”

“So you say… now.” He sank down hard, and everything went white as my body screamed for release. Not from the bindings, but from the pent-up frustration I’d been carrying around with me my whole sorry life. “But I’ve danced this particular number before. I know how to drive a man crazy… so it stands to reason I can make sure I’m the only one who comes away from our little encounter with a smile on my face.”

He rose and then drove himself down again.

“We fit together so well. Just enough curve to your cock.” He gave a grind. “Right there. That’s the spot. Uhn. Perfect.”

And so, Adam fucked himself on me. I did my best to think of something else, but it was useless. I don’t know which was worse—the dizzying, hot grip of his ass, or the look in his clouded eyes as he used me to work himself up. Everything about him made me ache with want, and my body responded. But whenever that brink crept up on me, he knew it—felt it—and he eased off the throttle.

“I can go all night,” he said. “So what do you say? Over the course of your life, you’ve obviously been generous with your favors. Why not do one for the man riding your cock?”

I managed to find my voice. “Sometimes, a thing gets too fucked up to put right. You can try, but it’s like rolling in shit and hoping to get clean.”

“Kinky. Perhaps some other time. Right now, I’m grooving on the way you’re rubbing up on my sweet spot.”

He wasn’t just saying so either. His cheeks were pink, and his lips looked swollen—like they weren’t sexy enough to begin with. He was starting a climb, and I had no doubt he could take himself right over that brink but leave me hanging.

“I’m so close,” he said right against my lips. “And it’s so good. It can be good for you too, Johnny. Do it. For me. One tiny favor… and I guarantee, you won’t be sorry.”

I was sorry already. The old man had told me specifically to leave him alive. Did he know this coupling was inevitable? Did he want me to complicate something that was already way too convoluted?

Adam drove himself down… and no. I shuddered, deep in my guts. No way anything that felt that good was part of the plan.

Even with my big head hijacked, I was overthinking everything. Free will does exist. It’s the only reason favors have power. I hovered on the brink of a decision, second-guessing, doubling back.

It was the sight of him coming that broke me.

I’d be going against my nature if I promised a favor to Adam. But if I looked back at the scope of my existence, I realized that whatever I’d been fighting had no more interest in me than the chair I was tied to. I’d been hitting a brick wall and wondering why it didn’t care that my knuckles were bleeding. But just because I’d been doing something my whole life, it didn’t mean I couldn’t choose to stop.

Sometimes an offer is too good to refuse, and even someone as jaded as I am gets sucked in. But at least this time I was going in with my eyes wide open.

As Adam’s body went rigid and his breathing stuttered, I looked into his eyes—crystalline blue, misted by clouds—and said, “Fine. The favor’s yours. I’m in.”

He looked surprised. Then pleased. And then he pressed his mouth to mine and plunged us both into that scorching abyss.

Chapter Ten

1961

JOHNNY

SO COLD.

The Devil let go of my hand, but what did that matter? It wasn’t the handshake that sealed the deal, but the agreement. He was watching me with this little smirk, like he’d trained a dog to dance and was pleased with himself for doing it… but was also a little bit sad for the stupid mutt who’d just traded its nonexistent dignity for a bone. “Go fuck yourself” was right on the tip of my tongue. I’d even sucked in the breath to say it—when I saw his eyes.

Black. Solid black.

“You don’t strike me as someone who thinks of himself as innocent,” the old man said. “But now the veil has been lifted, and you can truly see. There are two types of people in this world—those who are Chosen, and those who are not. Don’t expect any favors from the clay. They’re nothing but the steppingstones to greatness. But enlist the help of the Chosen, and you will have what you seek.”

I was only half listening. Mostly I was scrabbling at the door, yanking the handle and feeling it snap shut without doing a damn thing.

The old man waxed eloquent. “The world is simply a great wheel of exchange. The idioms are innumerable. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. You can’t get something for nothing. There’s no such thing as a free lunch. And that’s just in the English language. Pay attention, Johnny. You’ll need to know how this works, and I’m only going to show you once.”

His smile deepened. I yanked frantically at the door.

“Johnny… do me a favor.”

“Sure,” I managed to say. Not that I thought he bought it—I was clearly humoring him and wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of that car. But as soon as the word left my mouth, that icy feeling of nothingness morphed into something else.

Back when I was a kid, I would save my pennies for model airplanes just so I could huff the glue. The feeling I got when I acquiesced to the Devil was something like that nauseating head rush, but a thousand times worse.

It filled the emptiness, and yet there was no satisfaction. Only the urge to capitulate.

The old man paused, made sure he had my attention, and said, “Be a sport, Johnny, and unlock the door.”

The urge grew, intensified. And while I felt no more calm than I had before the agreement, there was, at least, a queasy sort of focus. I got a better look at the car door, found the lock, and despite my sweaty fingers, pulled it open.

Such a small thing. But when I performed the act, another floodgate opened, and where the sickening urge to please had been, something else rushed in. Pure potential.

Raw power.

With the lock disengaged, the door clicked and swung open… not by any mechanical means, I now saw.

“I’ve given you a lot to think about, Johnny, but remember what you’ve learned tonight. Fairness exists, but it’s up to you to make justice happen. Rudolpho was the one who took that tip. Who else but the owner could hover around the hostess station without attracting undue attention? Bad enough he rakes in all the business and sends you home with only a few skimpy dollars in your pocket, but then he skims off the best of the tips, spends it on his uptown mistress or a downtown whore, and then leaves that poor, innocent girl to take the blame. Think about all of that. Remember it. And when you find someone else with my Mark, someone like you, ask him for a favor. And tell him to make things right.”

Chapter Eleven

1979

JOHNNY

ADAM DIDN’T apologize for the deep red welts the cords left on my wrists and forearms, and if he had, I wouldn’t have believed him. Sorry just wasn’t his style.

His private bathroom was as big as my apartment, and the shower took up the entire far wall. Like the rest of his suite, it was updated and modern, all chrome and glass. He pulled me into the shower with him and held me there, not with force, but with kisses. The water was so hot, it seemed like it should scald away the stain of the task I was there to do. But unless he sliced me open and let the spray pound against my filthy soul, that wasn’t gonna happen.

With his dark hair slick with water and his long eyelashes clinging together in gleaming black points, he looked almost innocent. Especially now that I’d taken his last favor. The Mark was so thin on him that his eyes held only a suggestion of clouds, and I could clearly make out the crystal blue of what they used to be.

No doubt mine were as dark as my heart.

I turned my head and broke our kiss. I’d hoped giving him a favor would take the edge off the Devil’s work, but I was wrong. It only made things worse. “Just tell me what to do,” I said, “and I’ll do it.”

“You don’t need to sound so demoralized about it. Don’t you trust me?”

I laughed bitterly, sputtering shower spray.

He touched his tongue to my shoulder and caught a bead of water. “I know what you’re thinking—I’ll tell you to off yourself. Here. Where the blood won’t stain. But in the little time we’ve known each other, haven’t you figured out that I’d never stoop to something that obvious? Besides, I’d rather deal with you than with whoever would take your place. I know you.” He slipped a wet hand between my legs and caressed my balls. “Biblically.”

I doubted that made much difference, and I still didn’t entirely trust him.

But I liked him a hell of a lot better than I did the old man.

“I already agreed,” I said. “You can stop selling it now.”

“I know. But I get off on seeing you squirm.”

If it gnawed at me to have a favor undone, then being in that precarious spot of agreement—the one where the deal is sealed but the particulars are still hanging—was worse than waiting for Adam to decide whether or not he’d let me shoot my load. I thought about the quarter that rolled out of Mary’s purse—back in my former life as a human being—how it spun, wobbled, careened around like a drunk with the spins. An extended moment of unresolved tension.

That’s how it felt. Times a million.

He skimmed his palms up my arms. The slick heat of the water made our skin glide like silk. Then he paused with his hands on my shoulders and gave me an encouraging push. I folded to my knees. The hot spray parted my hair and needled my scalp. He nudged his wet dick against my cheek, not even bothering to aim for my mouth. Marking me in his own way.

“I don’t really remember what poverty is like,” he said, “but I look at you, and I wonder if it might be better if I did. Nowadays I’ve got access to anything money can buy… and anything it can’t? Well, that’s what favors are for.” As he spoke over the echoing rush of water and mashed his dick against my cheek, I felt it start to firm up again and fill out. He cupped the back of my head and stroked himself against me even harder, and pretty soon he was stiff enough that his cockhead flicked my earlobe. “When you picked up that knife… I got such a rush. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you hesitated, because we’d be having an entirely different conversation right now if you hadn’t. But the danger….” He sighed. “Now that’s what it’s like to feel alive.”

I’m guessing he didn’t want an answer, and not just because he was in love with the sound of his own voice. He jammed his dick into my mouth. Even without the cords binding me, I didn’t stop him. Nothing to struggle against anymore, but I didn’t even try. He’d made a mark on me—different from the blackness in my eyes, different from the red welts at my ankles and wrists. And I welcomed it. He and I were in it together now. For better or for worse.

He eased his feet apart and said, “You know what I want. Touch me.”

I pressed a finger up his ass and wondered why it was still so slick. Then I realized what I felt inside him was the dregs of my own jiz. His body was a welcome distraction from the urge to rage through the house in search of Helen and get myself killed by the security staff.

He grabbed my head more firmly, two-handed, and started fucking my mouth, deep. “It’s almost a shame,” he said as he pumped his dick in and out, in and out, “breaking that tension.”

I made a sound in my throat.

“You don’t agree?” He peered down at me through the spray. “You’ve been awfully good tonight, so I suppose this time I can let you have what you want.” He slowed his squelching thrusts, pulled out, and skimmed his cockhead across my lower lip, back and forth, in a wet caress. “After all, knowing I have a merciful side will only keep you more off-balance.”

He touched my cheek with his fingertips. I closed my eyes and leaned into his hand.

“Here’s the favor.” He spoke so low, I could hardly hear him over the sound of running water. “Promise me you will never again, under any circumstances, utter Helen’s name.”

In all the years I’d been doing favors, and in all the favors I’d done, I’d never heard one framed as a promise. But I had no doubt at all that once I gave the word, I’d be permanently bound. And, as favors went, it seemed suspiciously simple.

“Okay. I promise.”

As he smiled down at me, the remaining traces of darkness drained from his eyes. They were only a man’s eyes, now. Winter blue. Their Mark was so tapped, I couldn’t even tell that he was Chosen anymore.

“One more thing and you’ll be free.” Adam pulled me to my feet so we were equal, gazed deep into my eyes, and said, “Now it’s my turn to grant you a favor of my own. Just tell me who to kill.”

Chapter Twelve

1961

JOHNNY

EVEN WHEN, on the surface, something seems fair… chances are, it’s as shady as the wrong side of a crapper.

I left the big black Caddy full of the righteous indignation you only find in people too young or too stupid to know any better. I’d never had much to do with Mary—her being front of house and me a lowly busboy—but I felt a certain kinship with her, in the way the waiters treated her. It was the same way men treated me when I ventured into the woods at Center Park.

It wasn’t just the power seething through my veins that had me so turned around—it was all that talk of fairness. Anyone’ll tell you not to believe a damn word the Devil says, but my folks weren’t religious. Maybe other kids were threatened with Old Scratch dragging them down to hell when their parents caught them jerking off to the men’s underwear page of the Sears catalog. I just got the belt.

The world looked different once the veil was lifted. I stood on the double yellow line down the center of Main Street and ignored the horn blasts and catcalls of the occasional late-night joyrider and took in everything with fresh eyes. I’d always figured the rich side of town was somehow better than anyplace I’d hang my greasy hat. But now I saw it was all steel and concrete and wood, just the same. And the alleyways still reeked of rat piss.

After the black sedan drove off, it took me a while to find someone like me, another Chosen. I’d been walking for who knows how long, oblivious to the cold. Long enough to take me into a neighborhood that wore its desperation a little more proudly. A wino in a stained overcoat was pawing through the trash outside First Calvary Bank. Most of the time, guys like that scuttle away when they hear someone coming, but this one was different. He glanced up, cool and calm, and looked me square in the eye.

His eyes were seething with dark clouds.

I hesitated.

He smiled grimly and said, “Welcome to the club, kiddo. You got something you want to say to me?”

Somehow I stammered out the story of the Inferno—the tip, the argument, the sight of Mary in her torn blouse, striding out into the night. I was wondering exactly how much of the conversation in the big black Cadillac the bum needed to know when he said, “Look, kid, it’s simple. Just tell me what you want. Make sure it’s possible—I can’t go lift up that Buick, for instance—and if you tell me to, you’ll gum up the works and we’ll both regret it. Keep it simple. Say what you’re looking for and let me figure out how to make it happen. It all starts with you asking me for a favor.”

When I asked him for a favor and he accepted, the thread was forged. My insides lit up with anticipation. I didn’t like the feel of it, and the urge to chafe it away was probably to blame for the careless way I phrased it. That and sheer stupidity.

“What happened at the restaurant—it wasn’t fair. Make it right. Make Rudolpho pay.”

As I said the words, power rushed out of me, thundered through the connection, and filled him. Power fresh from the Devil himself.

The wino’s grim smile deepened. “Say what you want for broads with experience. Nothing beats a virgin.”

It took a few days before I noticed what was what. I was too busy test-driving my newfound power. You don’t realize how small your shell is until you outgrow it. And me? I’d blown that old carapace to pieces. In less time than it took most people to read a book, I’d stolen a car, returned a different car, punched out someone’s deadbeat husband, and taken a piss on the stodgy memorial in the town square. For every boon I granted, I got an even better favor in return. It wasn’t so much that I was invincible. No, even more useful—I was Chosen, part of an invisible brotherhood where I could always count on a fellow sinner to bail me out, no matter how public my transgression.

It was one hell of a week.

I was sprawled on my narrow twin bed—sleeping off a bender, with a stranger’s watch on my wrist and the pong of spunk at the back of my throat—when real life finally intruded.

Not sure how many times my old man said my name. A week earlier I would’ve snapped wide awake, but now? I wasn’t scared of him anymore. Not even a little.

When I knuckled the grit from my eyes, I really saw my father for first time in forever. He was nowhere near as big as I remembered. Not nearly as threatening—just a stooped, graying man with nicotine-stained fingers and confusion on his face.

Or was it fear?

“The cops are here, Johnny. And they’re asking about you.”

Let ’em ask.

I took my time pulling on my clothes and slicking back my hair and swaggered out through the apartment with a cockiness only ignorance can fuel. The flatfoot at our door wasn’t Chosen, but so what? Someone at his station was bound to be, and whatever it was they were pinning on me wouldn’t amount to anything more than a free ride downtown.

“John Lockheart, Jr.?” he said.

“That’s my name.” So fucking cocky.

“You work at the Inferno?”

I’d been expecting him to try to pin one of the stolen cars on me or maybe the stack of cash I’d carted out of the bank, whistling, only to toss it in a nearby trash can when I realized I had no real use for it anymore. So I was caught with my pants down when he asked about that old place.

“Yeah… I mean, I guess you could say I do. I, uh, took a few days off….”

“You might want to sit down, son,” he told me, which was ridiculous. Even the old geezer trembling in the kitchen doorway never called me that.

“You got something to say, pal, then say it.”

The cop sighed. “There’s been an… incident… at your workplace.”

So what, I thought. And then I remembered the first favor I’d asked. The one where I told the wino to make Rudolpho pay. Not only that, but to make it fair.

There was a slim chance the gas leak had been an accident, the cop said. But given that the whole staff had been locked in the kitchen while it happened, more likely than not, it was deliberate.

They came to that conclusion for sure once Rudolpho’s body turned up with a bullet in its brain and a revolver in its hand. Newspapers carried the story on the front page, ten days running. Local Restaurateur Kills Ten, Takes Own Life.

What they didn’t report on was the convoluted nature of Rudolpho’s will. He had distant family back in Italy and some cousins in Cleveland who were especially ticked off. But Rudolpho had left his business to be divided equally among his employees.

No one understood why he’d do such a thing and then turn around and kill them all—all but the one who’d been sleeping off half a case of Schlitz. None of the sheep could figure it out, anyhow.

But I knew. To compensate for the skimmed tips, the twisted channels of dark favors had engineered for Rudolpho’s ill-gotten gains to go to an employee, along with everything else the poor sap owned. And as for all the collateral damage?

That’s just how the Chosen got their rocks off.

Chapter Thirteen

1979

JOHNNY

IT HAD been years since I’d asked anyone for a favor. How many? Too many to count. So I was unprepared for the feeling of the Devil’s Mark leaving me when I passed the burden to Adam.

I sprawled on his silk sheets, still wet from the shower. They clung to my back and grasped at the moisture. Me, though… I was just so drained that I felt dazed.

When you ask someone a favor—when you forge that infernal connection—you can’t see it. It’s not physical. And yet I’d been amassing power for so long, when I told Adam what he had to do for me, I swore I could see the darkness rush out of my soul and into his.

At the very least, I saw his crystalline blue eyes cloud over, solid black. And once the power left me, I was too weak to lift my head off his pillow. Which smelled of citrus and earth.

His breath hitched—I had no doubt his toes curled too—and he arched his back like a cat rising from a nap. “You sure know how to make a guy feel good, Johnny. In more ways than one.”

I didn’t even have the strength to reply.

He rose to his knees beside me and ran his hands along his naked thighs and belly, his ribs and chest, and luxuriated in the feeling of a body sizzling with power. He was hard—when wasn’t he? But his arousal went so much deeper than plain ol’ sex. I should know. I’d been carrying it with me all this time. Hating every minute of it.

And what was I without the power? A bitter, hollowed-out shell.

Or so I thought.

Adam bent over me and settled a tender kiss on my forehead. Everything lit up, even the emptiness inside me. The connection of the uncompleted favor raged between us like a sparking power line with enough voltage to burn us both to a crisp. Yet somehow we were unscathed.

“That you trust me with this?” he murmured against my brow. “It means everything.”

It was either him or the old man. That old saw, better the devil you know? It’s shit. I’d take my chances with the one who’d just coaxed a load out of me, and it would be over soon enough, anyhow. An unfinished favor can only hang there so long, and pretty soon, the pull would be too much. He must’ve had some kind of plan for the aftermath—march across the estate, put a bullet in Helen’s brain, and then what? Pin it on one of his men, no doubt. And use all the mojo he’d drained from me to make sure the accusation stuck.

I felt bad for whoever would end up taking the fall, but… better that poor sap than me.

I could already tell it would be brutal when Adam left my side and even worse when he dispatched the favor. As a rule, I don’t let myself get attached to anything. But there I was, trussed up with him now by something far stronger than any physical binding. It was tense, like the second-last note of a song hanging in the air, or the clench before you empty your balls. But without the promise of release.

He surprised me by attempting to scratch the itch by fucking. There’d be no substitute for him actually fulfilling the dark favor, and yet he tried. Fueled by the lines he snorted off his glass-topped nightstand, he coaxed me to stiffness and rode me hard, over and over, until the sheets dried from the heat of our bodies and then dampened again with our sweat and jiz. Maybe, at each dizzying peak, we experienced a shining moment of freedom from our infernal bondage. But just as soon as my dick would start to soften in his needy hole, the unmet favor sizzled between us again, twice as hungry.

Eventually, when he’d rubbed me too raw to go again, he stretched out alongside me and trailed a fingertip down my collarbone. “How angry do you think he’ll be,” Adam said, “when he finds out you didn’t carry out the orders yourself?”

“Like I give two fucks.”

“Feel free to drop the tough-guy act anytime. We’ve shared our bodies. It wouldn’t kill you to share a misgiving.”

Was it an act? I’d always figured if you cracked open my heart, there’d be nothing there but cobwebs and dust. But now this connection hung between us, buzzing with tension that hurt in all the best possible ways. It would be a real shame if he didn’t walk out of this alive.

“Just act like you’re in it for the power. If the old man doesn’t know I took a shine to you, he won’t have any reason to take you down.”

Adam bolted upright and looked at me. If I could still see the whites of his eyes, they would have been showing all around. “Damn, Johnny. I had no idea the stakes were so high.”

And I had no idea how he’d just managed to slip under the Devil’s imperative and loop me into telling him who sent me.

Fuck.

Talk about distracting.

He settled back, uneasily now. “You’re not gonna be a very popular guy once a certain someone finds out you made yourself a loophole.”

“No shit.”

“I want to be there, Johnny. When he comes to collect.”

“I can see that you get off on living dangerously, but this isn’t fun and games. Do the deed and then save yourself. That’s the only way you make it out of this shit show alive.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.” The ghost of a smile danced behind Adam’s darkened eyes.

Three days later….

I STOOD against the bar and tapped the business card on the worn wood. It was plain matte black, with nothing on it but a number. I’d been handling it for days, and it showed. The card was bent, and its edges were soft. Second-guessing myself? Who knows.

I’m not a sentimental guy. When I told Shawn to fuck off and find himself another gig, it was easy enough to ignore the hurt anger in his eyes and dodge the shot glass he pitched at my head. But if Adam hadn’t been such a hot piece of ass, I probably would’ve slipped out of his bedroom and done what I’d gone there to do in the first place instead of asking him the favor of carrying out my dirty work.

Still, part of me had to wonder if he’d figured out a double-cross. Our connection was still there. It was an ache that thrummed through my guts with every breath I took, and if our souls were still tethered, his and mine, it meant he hadn’t carried out my favor.

Maybe it was the connection that alerted me and left me hypersensitized to the old man’s evil mojo. After stewing in it so shamelessly, for so long, I felt him coming. The barflies must have too. The crowd was sparse that night, and what few bothered to show up had slowly trickled out of the Inferno like they sensed the general pall that hung over the joint. I stood alone in my dingy bar with my hand poised over the phone. And at midnight, when the digital clock by the register flashed its grimy red 12:00, a silhouette that hadn’t been there at 11:59 appeared outside the front door.

Heart pounding in my throat, I keyed in the number on the card. In half a ring, an operator picked up.

“Mr. Lockheart,” said a cool, unflappable female voice. “Are you at the Inferno?”

I grunted.

“I’ll page him right now,” she said, and hung up just as the front door opened.

The wind howled, and a stray gust kicked in the rotten stench of sulfur. “Hello, Johnny.”

I placed the receiver in its cradle and turned around to face the music.

The old man wore a black trench coat against the clammy midnight chill, and he carried a walking stick with a crystal knob that out-sparkled the Hope diamond. He paused in the doorway with fog rolling in around him to let me get the full effect, and then he smiled.

“How am I not surprised you couldn’t manage to carry out one simple request?”

I wasn’t too shocked that I’d screwed up either, though I had no idea how Adam had managed to go so long without doing the deed, especially given his close proximity to Helen. The power of love? Hard to imagine, but anything’s possible. The only thing I knew was the gun was still cocked and the trigger hadn’t been pulled. The unfulfilled favor seethed through our bond with every heartbeat.

Feigning an indifference I didn’t feel in the least, I pulled a dusty bottle of wine from beneath the bar and set to work paring the seal off the cork. My current customers drank bum wine, but this stock was a throwback to the old Inferno, back when it was a classy joint. Back before I dragged it through the dirt and left it as soiled as everything else I touched.

The door closed itself behind the old man. He strolled up to the bar, cane tapping the sticky floorboards. I supposed I should feel nervous, but all I could summon was a sick sense of dread. I was slow at uncorking the wine, but it wouldn’t buy much time. Even though I dealt in screw-tops these days, I still owned a bar. There’s only so much incompetence a guy can fake.

I poured. In the dimness the wine shone like spilled blood. “I get why you picked me,” I said. “No connection to this big-time TV broad—barely knew who she was—so I was the perfect guy to send in. Plenty of lowlifes fit that bill, though, and even more would gladly pull the trigger for the size of that reward. But the key was in getting past Adam and leaving him standing.”

The old man swirled his wine and let it breathe. Me, I wasn’t so lucky. My lungs felt like lead, and my head spun with the worry that there was no way I could stall him long enough. Even so, I had to try.

“I’ve been wondering why it was so important to leave him intact. It’s not as if he could run the hot-shit housewife empire without her. She’s not just the name of her brand—she’s the face, the heart. I’ve been turning it around, looking at it this way and that, and the only thing I can figure is that you knew I’d be too weak to off the guy.”

He inhaled the bouquet, frowned slightly, and put the glass down on the bar. “The heart wants what it wants.”

“Even in self-defense, I’d hesitate. You knew it. But you knew he wouldn’t, and all the power you promised me, all that dark favor of yours running through my veins? It wouldn’t do me a damn bit of good with a bullet in my head.”

The old man smiled grimly. “I never said you were stupid. Just stubborn.”

Oh, I was plenty stupid. If I had half a brain, I wouldn’t have been in the situation I was in. “I get why you’d take me out. Can’t have the rest of the Chosen thinking they can thumb their nose at you their whole sorry lives and come away with a big payout in the end. But what I can’t figure out is this—why her?”

The Devil toyed with the stem of his glass and then said, “You’re more alike, you and Helen Cross, than you realize. She’s just as stubborn as you—just as intractable—and her platform reaches far beyond the end of a tacky bar top. Unchecked, within a few short years, her power multiplies tenfold and her influence is staggering. And we can’t have other Chosen getting ideas, now. Can we?”

The door creaked open, and the Devil looked annoyed. A guy in a postman’s uniform stepped in, glanced around, and planted himself in front of the jukebox. Before I could tell him to move along because we were closed, a couple of streetwalkers came in and sat at one of the tables to take a load off their feet. And then a guy in a business suit showed up. And an old lady in a babushka.

One by one, the most random cross-section of people I’d ever seen filtered into the Inferno, and not a single one looked as if they expected me to pull them a beer. They filed in quietly until they filled the bar, from the old hostess stand where Mary had made her dramatic exit so many years ago, to the kitchen where the rest of the staff was found in a gassed pile by the locked door. And once the newcomers were close enough for me to see the polluted whites of their eyes, it became clear that every last one of them was Chosen.

My heart sank as I pictured the lot of them bowing down to their master, dismantling the Inferno board by board, brick by brick, with their own hands, and then turning on me and tearing me limb from limb. Adam had told me to trust him. He promised he’d fix everything. But how could he? I still felt the unfulfilled favor that bound us together. If he hadn’t managed to take care of Helen yet, how could he possibly bail me out?

And then the crowd parted.

One by one, as if they were choreographed, the housekeepers and lawyers and street sweepers and cops fell aside, and at the end of the magical path, stood Adam. I expected him to be brimming with dark power, crackling with energy, eyes pure black.

But no.

They were as clear as the sky on a brisk winter day.

All the mojo I’d funneled into him?

Spent.

My stomach bottomed out from the knowledge that, even combined, we didn’t have enough reserves to defend ourselves… but then I realized that the mob gathered in the Inferno wasn’t there to serve the old man.

They were waiting for a cue from Adam.

With those breathlessly clear blue eyes, Adam locked gazes with me. He smiled. Spreading his arms wide to encompass the group in his benediction, he indicated the Devil with a nod and gave a simple, clear instruction.

“Kill him.”

The crowd erupted.

There were no weapons. They went at him with their bare hands. The Devil was shocked, but only for a moment. As he went down off his barstool, he managed to turn a few of the crowd against the rest, but the numbers were just too great. Chosen swarmed like lice on an unwashed junkie and tore first at his dapper trench coat and then at his leathery, tanned flesh. He was actually smiling at first, but the smile twisted into a cringe of fear when he realized he was outnumbered.

I’d climbed up onto the bar, partly to watch, partly to keep myself from being torn to shreds. Hands clawed at him all around. A long-nailed secretary put a ribbon of deep scratches in his arm that let the others tear his flesh and peel it like old wallpaper. Someone tore off an ear. He howled as his tongue was ripped from his head. Someone else hit an artery. Blood sprayed. Amid the chaos, it seemed improbable that I’d feel the moment the old man bought it….

But I did.

Darkness gouted from his bloody mouth, oily, crawling out of his spent body like a sentient thing. It spread over the scarred floorboards and drooled through the cracks. And as it left him, the physical manifestation of his power, the hold on my soul, released.

For the first time since I made that fateful decision in 1961, I could actually breathe.

I searched the crowd for Adam and found him pressed against the wall by the front door, white shirt smudged and torn at the shoulder, his hair falling forward, but otherwise unharmed.

“You did it,” I called to him. He couldn’t hear me over the wailing of the mob, but he saw, at least, and I think he got the gist.

The tether between us evaporated as the old man’s life force drained away. How Adam had managed to hold off on killing his girlfriend for so long, I had no idea. He did it, though. He outsmarted the Devil.

I had my eyes on him as I filled my lungs with the stale-beer and fresh-gore smell of the Inferno, when a canister of tear gas arced through the window.

Chapter Fourteen

1982

ADAM

I LOST count of how many prison guards I had to blow to get someone else to confess to the murder so Johnny could walk free. Three years’ worth of hardened bullies slapping me with their dicks, each one a bigger creep than the one before—and then, finally, a great, hairy beast who insisted he was straight while he shot all over my face. Maybe he was lying to himself. But in the end, he did right by me and talked someone else from that mob scene back at the Inferno into taking the rap.

I hadn’t seen Johnny since his sentencing. Why? Figuring out my next move.

Cops had hauled off Helen long before I showed up at the bar that night. I don’t think the Devil figured out precisely how I managed to tangle up the hit he’d put out on her in an unsalvageable loophole, but when the days ticked by and Helen remained unflappably alive, he knew something was up. If he couldn’t kill her, he’d settle for stripping away her money and power instead.

Tax fraud.

So they said.

I was full up with dark power at that point—Johnny’s power—and could easily have asked a Chosen cop to put a bullet in his partner and let my mother off at the end of the drive. But she looked at me and gave her head a single shake no. Hopefully she knew what she was doing. And maybe, in women’s prison, she’d even be relatively safe until the dust settled.

Johnny, though? No way could I save him—too much confusion, too many bodies. And him, at the nexus of it all, covered in gore and proclaiming aloud that the Devil was dead.

The insanity plea recommended by the defense attorney didn’t fly, and now I supposed that was for the best. Otherwise Johnny would still be clogging the pipes of the mental health system.

He wandered out the prison door with a handful of other inmates who’d just been cut loose. They carried their meager belongings in identical plastic bags, all of them staring up at the sky as though they misremembered the sun. A few of them broke off for tearful reunions with family and friends, but Johnny glanced at the bus stop and started digging in his plastic bag for a quarter.

I rolled up, powered down the window, and leaned across to let him see it was me. He blanched, and I wondered if my mirrored aviator glasses weren’t quite enough. But then he shook off the pall and brightened… as much as Johnny Lockheart ever brightens. He jogged over and climbed in.

We both stared. Before, he looked like he was cobbled together from hard living and mistrust. Now, prison had amplified him, and he was downright intimidating. But as fascinating as this crystalized version of Johnny might be, it wasn’t his tattooed neck or his harsh, chiseled cheekbones that captivated me. It was his eyes. Green-gold, like a meadow at sunrise… and not a hint of black.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

He didn’t smile—that just wasn’t him. “She was your mother?”

I sniffed a humorless laugh and pulled away from Cavalry Country Maximum Security. “By all accounts, still is.”

He raked a hand through the lank hair that hung to his shoulders now. “All the ways that could’ve gone wrong. Sure, you blocked me from saying her name. But you couldn’t have known I would tell you to off your girlfriend.”

“Maybe not, but I had a hunch.”

“You could have said something once the favor dropped… once she was safe.”

“I had to see how it would all play out.” I noted he hadn’t referred to her as Helen. I also suspected he had no idea that the compulsion still held.

He dropped his hand into my lap and groped me through my slacks, not even bothering to wait until we were alone—not that there was anyone to see us on the isolated county road that led from the prison. But it was still a far cry from the self-contained bartender who had no use for anyone else.

“Ever been with a woman?” he asked.

“No.”

“So, no girlfriend, past or present, and the whole damn time we were waiting for the old man to show up, you hauled around an impossible favor. Sure, I could feel it on my end, but you? It must’ve been gnawing at your guts like a rabid tapeworm. How long? Two days? Three?”

“Give or take.” Three years now, actually. But I wasn’t about to tell him that.

“Part of me thought you’d figured out some way to screw me over,” he admitted. “But then I tuned in to the promise between us, and I knew that, even if you wanted to, you’d need to make good on it somehow. You dream big, though, bigger than a sorry asshole like me. I never would’ve thought it was possible to rid the world of the Mark.”

Seeing how happy it made Johnny to think we’d actually succeeded, could I really take that away from him? Our plan certainly yielded a corpse, though I wouldn’t go so far as to say it belonged to the Devil. If we’d actually succeeded in killing him, then why was I still trading in his Mark?

No, the body the police recovered was just some anonymous old man.

I’ve pondered that at great length over the past few years, trying to figure out how things might’ve turned out more advantageously if only I’d made different decisions. There was no way of knowing his body was just a shell. No one had gotten as close to destroying him as we had.

My cock shifted. Johnny jacked it through the fabric and murmured, “Good fucking riddance. No amount of power is worth having the old man’s bony fingers sunk in up to the knuckle.”

After this long, I wondered, would I even know what it was like to go without the Mark? The favor I’d promised Johnny that couldn’t be dispatched was my constant companion, a yearning that verged on pain. Nothing could bury it. Drink, drugs, men—I’d tried it all, even wined and dined a few ladies to see if I could retrofit them into the agreement. But no. Even without laying a hand on their slender young throats, I could tell it would be a waste of time. When the dark favor was forged, there was no girlfriend. And so I’d had to come to terms with the perpetual craving.

It was simply a part of me now.

“Fuckable as ever,” Johnny told me.

I glanced over at him raking his gaze up and down my body. It was truly bizarre to know exactly where he was looking now that he wasn’t bursting with dark favor anymore.

His appearance had changed so dramatically that he could’ve been a different person—and only partially because of the hair spilling past his shoulders and the prison tattoos. Mostly it was his eyes. Hazel. I told myself that maybe I’d feel some existential sense of relief when I could be with him again—though, thankfully, I didn’t really believe it. If I had, I’d be sorely disappointed. The pangs of the undone favor still licked at me mercilessly. Even so, it was good to see him again.

I’d missed him. Imagine that.

Evidently he’d missed me too. I had to pull over, out by the old water tower, or risk running us into the ditch at the side of the road. He handled me roughly when he wrangled out my cock. It was rock hard when he pried it from my pants and dove for it, face-first.

I suspected that, like me, he’d had plenty of opportunities to hone his skills over the past few years. Maybe someday, once he’d scrubbed off the prison stink and covered the amateur tattoos on his neck with something more fashionable, he’d whisper in my ear and tell me his lurid stories… all of them true.

My cock gave an eager kick at the mere thought of all the filthy things he must have done, and then another as I realized I now had that gorgeous ruin of a man all to myself. His mouth felt good, but it was his desperation that spiked my desire. He had a gearshift grinding into his liver and a steering wheel smacking him in the skull, but he was so starved for me that the only thing he cared about was sucking me off. He even remembered how I liked it vividly enough to toy with my ass while he blew me. The clothes in our way stunted the sensation somewhat, but even through the fabric, the rough prod of his fingers was enough to escalate the situation—fast.

I tangled my fingers in his hair and forced myself in deep, and he took it, all of it, right down to the root. Close. So close. Already. My eyelids fluttered shut behind my mirrored aviator shades. I leaned my head back against the tinted window and enjoyed the feel of that telltale gathering as my body ramped up to spill down Johnny’s throat.

As a rule, I’m nearly impossible to startle. But a sharp rap on the window while I was riding that delirious knife edge was enough to make even me jump.

A state trooper stood, arms akimbo, glaring into the car. I glanced first at his face—stony, and mirrored shades not unlike mine—and then his belt. Taser. Cuffs. Colt semiautomatic. Johnny had scrabbled to the far end of the cab, aiming to get as much of himself as possible out of the lawman’s sight. Me? I considered tucking myself away, but I was still hard. If anything, playing to an audience with a belt full of weapons was more of a turn-on than a deterrent.

I powered down my window and casually said, “Officer?”

“It may have escaped your attention, but this is a county highway, not a truck stop bathroom. Bad enough I gotta deal with the hitchhikers without fag scumbags like you….”

A cloud scuttled over the sun and my reflection shifted in his sunglasses. I caught a glimpse of his eyes. Roiling black. I considered letting him vent about our gay repugnance, but was too eager to enjoy the look on his face when he saw me for what I really was.

I pulled down my shades and gave him a meaningful look across the top of the frames. My reflection looked back at me from his mirrored cop glasses with piercing blue eyes.

But that wasn’t what the state trooper saw.

He stopped his tirade midsentence and worked his jaw. Imagine what sorts of favors he could have done for me, given all the toys at his disposal. Back before I met Johnny, I might have been tempted to have him put his arsenal to creative use.

Not now. The sight of Helen being hauled off in cuffs had changed everything.

These days I hoarded my favors for a rainy day. True, not like Johnny, back in the day. He was the champion of scrupulous self-denial. Still, I kept myself so amped up that, to my fellow Chosen, my eyes would shine like sleek black onyx.

I could have asked the trooper for a favor and told him to go take a hike. Instead I merely stated the facts. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen my lover. We’d appreciate some privacy.”

Why spend the Mark, after all, when the mere sight of my eyes was enough to let him know I wasn’t anyone you’d want to fuck with?

Without a word the trooper turned tail and stomped back to his cruiser.

Johnny and I sat and listened to the receding crunch of soles on gravel.

He smirked, but only because it was expected from someone as jaded as he was. “Your lover, huh?”

Well, my cards were on the table. I supposed I’d need to prove to myself, sooner or later, exactly how he saw me. I slipped my shades the rest of the way off and leaned in to kiss him.

He kissed me back—no hesitation, none at all. I’d figured as much. The kiss wasn’t the test. When I pulled back… now, that was another story. I eased away from him without the barrier of reflective glass between us and let him have a good look at me. He met my eyes. Unerringly. In a way that proved, in no uncertain terms, what he saw.

Blue.

He didn’t know me for what I was, because he was no longer Chosen. Not because he’d earned back his soul, but as a punishment for his audacity.

Poor Johnny. Nothing more than one of the herd now. Even worse, he thought everyone else had got their balls cut off too.

Was that really so bad? It must have brought him some measure of peace. And as for me, I found him just as alluring, even without the darkness swirling through his eyes. I still thought of him as the guy badass enough to try to kill the Devil.

And my punishment, other than the insatiable urge to rid the world a person who didn’t exist? Knowing we’d somehow failed… and grappling with the task of breaking the news to Johnny.

I was still hard, though my cock was settling toward my stomach now, and not jutting straight up. I glanced down at it. Johnny took the cue and got busy again.

Apparently it held some advantage for him to know where I was looking.

Enough to compensate for the fact that he was no longer seething with dark favor? Surprisingly, yes.

I cupped his straining jaw and ran my thumb over the single teardrop tattooed at the corner of his eye. His fellow inmates thought he’d killed a man. But more importantly, Johnny believed he’d vanquished the Devil. I couldn’t keep him in the dark about it forever, but I did want him to enjoy his newfound freedom first—without the burden of knowing he’d donned the veil and now had to wonder who was Chosen and who was not. When the time was right, I’d come clean.

And until then… I could be his eyes.

Author and artist JORDAN CASTILLO PRICE writes paranormal sci-fi thrillers colored by her time in the Midwest, from inner city Chicago to various cities across southern Wisconsin. She’s settled in a 1910 Cape Cod near Lake Michigan with tons of character and a plethora of bizarre spiders. Any disembodied noises, she’s decided, will be blamed on the ice maker.

Jordan is best known as the author of the PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of paranormal mystery and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who’s plagued by ghostly visitations. Also check out her fascinating psychological M/M thriller Mnevermind, where memories are made… one client at a time.

Connect on Facebook: www.facebook.com/Jordan-Castillo-Price-257078438055

Connect on Twitter: @jordancprice

Website: jordancastilloprice.com

Published by

DSP PUBLICATIONS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA
www.dsppublications.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Devil Take Me

© 2018 DSP Publications.

Edited by Tricia Kristufek

Infernal Affairs © Jordan L. Hawk.

Collared © TA Moore.

The Counterfeit Viscount © Ginn Hale.

11:59 © C.S. Poe.

Wonderland City © Rhys Ford.

Dark Favors © Jordan Castillo Price.

Cover Art

© 2018 Reece Notley.

reece@vitaenoir.com

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact DSP Publications, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or www.dsppublications.com.

Digital ISBN: 978-1-64080-887-4

Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-64080-888-1

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018906980

Digital published October 2018
v. 1.0

Printed in the United States of America