Brimstone Blues
Author: James Hunter
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Dark Fantasy; mage; Bigfoot; Fantasy Action and Adventure; Mystery Supernatural Witches and Wizards; Paranormal and Urban Fantasy; Warlock; Urban Fantasy; Fantasy
Description: A Demon King. An Infernal city. The whole world hangs in the balance. Yancy Lazarus-mage, bluesman, and demon-souled-is having the worst hangover of his life. He just woke up in a dingy hotel in literal Hell with one eye missing, an arm covered in swirling golden tattoos, and no recollection of the past six months. All he wants is to figure out how he ended up in the Great Below and whether there's a way home. But getting out of Hell is no easy feat. Yancy is the most wanted man in the Infernal city of Pandæmonium, and he's being hunted by demonic cutthroats for a series of high-profile murder
Publisher: Amazon Digital Services LLC - Kdp
Rights: James A. Hunter and Shadow Allye Press, Inc.

Contents

Summary

James Hunter's Mailing List

ONE: Wake-up Call

TWO: Pandæmonium

THREE: Foot Race

FOUR: Flesh Eaters

FIVE: Wanted

SIX: Infernal Politics

SEVEN: Blood Pit

EIGHT: Shit-Kickery

NINE: Crossroad Saloon

TEN: All Hail the Queen

ELEVEN: The Cobalt Lily Rollers

TWELVE: Follow the Leader

THIRTEEN: Lost City

FOURTEEN: Helping Hand

FIFTEEN: Jackpot

SIXTEEN: Unholy Exorcism

SEVENTEEN: Ambush

EIGHTEEN: Escape and Evade

NINETEEN: Ultimate Derby

TWENTY: Powerhouse

TWENTY-ONE: Shootin’ the Shit

TWENTY-TWO: Infernal Company

TWENTY-THREE: Game Plan

TWENTY-FOUR: Sleep Well, Sweet Dreams

TWENTY-FIVE: Rise and Shine

TWENTY-SIX: Floating Market

TWENTY-SEVEN: Locked Doors

TWENTY-EIGHT: Nekropolis

TWENTY-NINE: Bone Collector

THIRTY: Rigged to Blow

THIRTY-ONE: Flesh Palace

THIRTY-TWO: Colosseum

THIRTY-THREE: Tree-Rexes

THIRTY-FOUR: Distraction

THIRTY-FIVE: Death Shot

THIRTY-SIX: Welcome Home

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

Yancy Lazarus Reading Order

Other Works by James A. Hunter

About the Author

Dedication

Special Thanks

Copyright

Summary

Yancy Lazarus—mage, bluesman, and demon-souled—is having the worst hangover of his life.

He just woke up in a dingy hotel in literal Hell with one eye missing, an arm covered in swirling golden tattoos, and no recollection of the past six months.

All he wants is to figure out how he ended up in the Great Below and whether there’s a way home. But getting out of Hell is no easy feat. Yancy is the most wanted man in the Infernal city of Pandæmonium, and he’s being hunted by demonic cutthroats for a series of high-profile murders he can’t remember committing.

Now, Lazarus will have to rely on the help of a shapeshifting stranger with a dark past to battle his way past a legion of freakish Hellions and the murderous Derby-Girl Nation to reclaim a weapon capable of killing even immortals. And to escape Hell? Well, he’ll need to pull off the greatest coup the Abyss has seen since the Morning Star took on Heaven. If he fails, not only will the King of Pandæmonium roast his soul for eternity, but his friends will be left to the mercies of the Savage Prophet and the Morrigan, goddess of death.

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ONE:

Wake-up Call

I blinked open a bleary eye, then shook my head, fighting clear of the hazy fog lingering inside my skull. What in the hell happened? Where am I?

I hunched forward, forearms resting on my thighs, and heaved onto the floor—a stream of rancid black bile, like a combination of hot tar and dirty gasoline, splattered across dull gray stone. I reached down and found the familiar shape of a toilet beneath me. I gripped the bowl, steadying myself just in time for another round of violent vomiting, which ripped past my esophagus, through my nose and mouth, before finally splashing over my black boots, stained with chalky, gray dust.

For a long beat, I remained doubled over, staring at the pitted floor, fighting to get my breathing under control.

Slowly, the urge to vomit passed, and I slumped back against the porcelain tank, lazily wiping a stream of bile-laced spittle from my nose and mouth. Gross. Though, believe it or not, the sharp stench of bile was actually less disgusting than the smell loitering in the air like a gang of scented street thugs looking to mug my nose: equal parts sulfur, old BO, and literal shit. I pressed my lone eye closed, took a hitching inhale, then ran a hand through sweat-drenched hair, which fell well past my ears in a crazy tangle.

Strange. The hair, I mean.

I hadn’t sported long hair since before my Marine Corps days. I shook my head, sweat-matted locks swaying back and forth, slapping at my neck and cheeks.

Damn, that was trippy.

A wave of dizziness socked me right in the gut, and I promptly ceased moving. It was the heat—and holy shit, let me tell you, it was hot. The bathroom felt like the inside of an oven. An oven nestled away in a volcano on the surface of the friggin’ sun. Seriously, it had to be pushing 110, easy. Finally, I opened my eye and stole a look around. I was in a cheap bathroom with cement walls, a chipped sink, and a crude shower, but no windows or mirror. The metal fixtures were all tarnished and badly pitted, and a lot of very questionable stains in various hues of mud brown and noxious yellow coated just about everything.

It looked like someone had set off a stick of dynamite inside a porta-John.

Aside from the actual shit stains, there was also an obscene amount of graffiti tattooing the gray walls.

Crudely drawn schlongs and ginormous boobs. Lots of very creative curse words, a few of which I committed to memory for future use—you never know when the phrase butterface-gutter-turd is gonna come in handy. Plus, some odd lines proclaiming things like “HAIL ASMODEUS OR DROWN IN BLOOD,” followed by an equally eloquent rebuttal: “Asmodeus is a butterface-gutter-turd—Long. Live. The Succubus Queen!” Another writer added, “For the best B.J. in Pandæmonium call the Succubus Queen at 1-666-EAT-A-DICK.”

Cute. Really.

More graffiti covered the floor around me. But this was different from the crude scrawling on the walls.

Someone had inscribed a golden circle that took up most of the bathroom floor—looked like a containment ritual, complete with a whole host of complex sigils, detailed Hebraic text, and ancient runes. A few I recognized as demonic containment wards, straight from the Clavicula Salomonis Regis, and a couple more had to do with exorcisms. Most were a mystery, however. I know a thing or two about summoning circles and containment seals, but this thing was leagues beyond my skill set.

At best, my ritual-craft was workman-like, which is to say functional, but only just.

Another wave of nausea rolled through me and I hunched back in on myself, groping at my stomach. I noticed for the first time, I was shirtless. Even stranger still, I felt abs beneath my sweat-slick fingers. Abs, dammit. I’ve never been fat, exactly—my metabolism burns too fast for that—but I’ve always been more of a keg man than a six-pack man in the ol’ belly department. Not anymore. I rubbed one palm over clammy skin, feeling the tight muscles below. I sat up with a grimace and glanced down.

Yep, abs. And they weren’t the only difference. Somehow, I’d acquired a pair of meaty pecs and jacked arms, which belonged on a man a third my age. And then there were the tattoos.

Jagged black symbols—Haitian Voodoo markings—decorated my shoulders and chest. Those, I recalled, were compliments of my pal Pa Beauvoir, the Voodoo shitheel who’d carved me up before scooping out my left eye with a melon baller. But those tats had since been augmented with colorful tribal swirls, pulsing neon glyphs, and otherworldly seals of power. My right arm, from shoulder to wrist, was a sleeve of colorful skin art, the symbols unknown to me and burning with a soft golden light.

There was power in that light, a sort of earthy life that I’d never felt before, not in all my days as a mage and Fix-It man.

What in the nine hells had happened to me? How had I gotten here?

My time in Haiti was still vivid and fresh—unfortunate, since I’d rather forget most of that shitshow. After Haiti, I vaguely recalled paying Lady Fate a visit before storming off to some weird shrine in Thailand. Images of stone creatures rampaging through the night flashed in my aching noggin, then blew away like dust in the wind the moment I focused on ’em. I pushed harder, straining to remember. To churn up some fragment that might tell me how I’d gotten here. Gradually, a muddy picture of Ong, the Fourth Seal bearer, and the great Naga King, took shape in my head:

First, a glimpse of his towering serpentine body, his scales—polished onyx, blood-red ruby, shimmering gold and copper—gleaming under the light of a purple moon …

Then, his many heads, each the size of a minivan, swaying and bobbing to some unheard rhythm. Teeth snapping at me as I soared through the air, astride a bulky creature with massive wings …

Finally, a flash of a dark, spike-lined gullet, swallowing me, drawing me down into Ong’s belly—except I wasn’t bound for his belly. I was after his heart …

My head throbbed with the memories, and though I could sorta piece together that battle in a half-assed fashion, everything felt jumbled. Distorted. Every picture, every recollection, riddled with holes before blurring and bleeding together on the edges. I pressed my palms into my temples, arms shaking, trying to pull any other memory from the train wreck of my brain. But nothing came. After Ong … Well, everything went black. A yawning cavern in my mind between that last horrific image and this shitty bathroom.

Dammit.

I opened my eye and stood. Time to get this show on the road.

For a moment, I just stood there, swaying listlessly as blood rushed to my head and my legs tingled—asleep from sitting so long on the crapper. What I needed was a gulp of fresh air and a breeze to dispel the awful heat beating down on me like a hammer.

After that?

After that, I could figure out where I was. Might be, I could piece more of this nightmare together and come up with a proper game plan. I took a few uncertain steps, cautiously testing my legs. Satisfied that they’d hold me up, I headed for the door, only to smash face-first into … nothing. I stumbled back as a wall of golden light flared around me in a full circle, emanating from the containment ward so painstakingly scrawled on the floor.

The hell?

I inched forward, pressing my fingers against the golden wall of light, feeling the steady thrum of arcane power. Not Vis, not exactly. But not Nox, either. Something else. Something different. New. The earthy power thrumming through the fancy tattoos along my right arm resonated with the golden light like one kindred soul recognizing another.

A rusted doorknob rattled, and I shuffled back until my calves bumped against the toilet.

The steel door swung inward, admitting a dumpy bespectacled man in his mid-forties with terrible posture and a pooching potbelly. He was mostly bald and had a creepy red molester ’stache above too-thin lips; he sported thick denim pants, a plaid button up, and a beige Carhartt jacket despite the god-awful heat. The newcomer stared at me, his brow furrowed, anger and hate smoldering in his muddy gaze. Despite his mundane appearance, he looked like the kind of guy you crossed the street to avoid. A weirdo. The serial killer kind.

After a long moment of deep scrutiny, Molester ’Stache nodded his egg-shaped head, wrinkled his nose, and let the door swing shut with a soft whoosh. “You remember who you are yet?” he asked, voice a dull monotone—almost bored, like we’d done this dance before.

“Yeah, asshole, I know who the hell I am. How’s about you tell me who you are.”

“Say it,” he said, ignoring my demand. “Your name, I mean. I want you to say it.”

I hesitated. What game was this psycho playing? “Yancy Lazarus,” I finally replied.

“Lazarus,” he said with a short, satisfied nod. “Good. That’s good. And how much do you remember?” he asked. “Do you remember where you are or how you got here? Do you remember Asmodeus or the assassinations?” His eyes narrowed into thin suspicious slits. “Anything after Ong?”

I paused, on the verge of saying something vaguely threatening like how’s about you tell me what’s going on before I set you on fire, but instead, I offered an inarticulate, “Uh, what?”

He frowned and rubbed his hands together—a nervous tic maybe. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but froze instead, coming to an unnatural stillness as he canted his head to one side, listening.

“Everything alright, pal?” I asked, folding my too-big arms across my too-big chest. All these newfangled muscles were definitely gonna take some getting used to.

“Quiet.” He held up a hand as though to physically stop me from speaking, then squatted down, fingers tracing over the floor. He caressed the stone with an odd, familiar fondness, and a flash of worry sprinted across his plain face before vanishing, replaced by cool neutrality. “No time,” he mumbled more to himself than to me. “They’re coming. Near now. Closing in. They’ve got the scent. We need to go.”

He scooted forward and dropped to a knee near the golden circle scrawled on the floor. Carefully, meticulously, he smudged a blocky line of Hebrew script running along the top of the containment circle—the golden wall wavered, danced, flickered, then died with a pop as the pent-up energy fizzled and dispersed into the drab concrete walls.

Before the man could fully stand, I charged him, throwing my body into his hunched form with every bit of strength I could muster. I’m suspicious by nature, and waking up in a disgusting bathroom, lacking a memory, with a mustached weirdo, sends up all kinds of red flags. Since I’m a big fan of not having my organs harvested, I figured a good ask-questions-later policy was the right approach here. My shoulder slammed into his face, a sledgehammer blow that should’ve laid him out right and proper. But no. Instead, my body met unyielding flesh as hard as old cinder blocks.

The guy didn’t even rock back on his heels.

I, on the other hand, reeled away like I’d just run headlong into a brick wall, and promptly dropped onto my ass with a thump.

The balding man stood, eyes narrowed, the slight frown lingering on his lips. “Don’t do that again,” he said evenly. “We don’t have time for any nonsense. Name’s Levi Adams. I’m here to help.” He offered me an awkward, half-hearted smile and extended a nubby-fingered hand. I regarded the limb with supreme suspicion. I wasn’t sure what this creeper’s deal was, but I’d bet my left arm he wasn’t some regular ol’ Rube. No average joe could take a hit like that unfazed.

Still, after a moment’s hesitation, I accepted his hand and allowed him to pull me back to my feet.

He didn’t seem to be actively trying to kill me, after all, and you know what they say: any port in a storm.

“Here’s the deal,” Levi said, pinning me in place with a stare harsh enough to peel paint. “There are creatures headed this way. They intend to capture you. That or kill you. I’m here to see that doesn’t happen. So stay close, keep your mouth shut, and do what I say. If you can follow those rules”—he paused, placing one hand against the stone wall—“well, I think we’ll be alright.” The words weren’t delivered with any particular malice or heat. No cockiness or snark. They were the words of a construction foreman calmly explaining the safety procedures for a work site.

He turned and slipped through the door, leaving me to follow if I wanted more answers.

Begrudgingly, I trailed after him because I did want more answers. A metric ass load of ’em.

The filthy bathroom connected to an equally run-down hotel room illuminated by a single uncovered light bulb in the ceiling. The floors were pitted stone without carpet, and the walls featured stained and bubbled 1950s’ floral wallpaper. A full bed—yellow, heavily stained, and sans sheets or bed linens, which looked like it belonged in a Goodwill dumpster—dominated the center of the room. There was a monstrously old television, big and boxy, with a formidable set of bent bunny ears perched on top. There were no pictures. No phone. No hum of air-conditioning. No minibar or fridge.

I’ve been in some world-class dumps, but this one took the cake. I mean, even in the most down-and-out places, the staff usually tried to polish things a little. But this one? Nope. This turd of a room had been left to fester in the bowl for a good long while.

A stained black T-shirt, my ever-familiar black leather jacket, and my shoulder holster, complete with monster-killing pistol, lay on the bed. Since I didn’t feel like running around topless, even if I did have some nifty new muscles to showcase, I took a minute and slipped the shirt on, followed by the holster. I hesitated at the jacket—the thought of wearing leather in this heat was sickening—but finally pulled it on, too. I’d rather be hot than dead, and my specialty jacket might keep my alive if things went sideways.

And considering the current situation, it was really more a matter of when than if.

Next, I inspected my black steel hand cannon, glad to have its comforting weight in my hand. I raised an eyebrow in surprise as I ran an eye along the barrel, and traced my thumb along a new series of swirls and runic markings etched into the metal. Someone had upgraded my piece, and though I wasn’t sure what purpose these new markings served, I could feel the thrum of potent power buzzing up through my fingertips.

A quick brass check revealed the bad boy was loaded, which was groovy as all get out, but unfortunately there were no more rounds loitering in my pockets.

Six shots.

Well, you work with what you’ve got. Into the holster it went.

Levi stopped at the front door, palm once more pressed against the wall as if he were feeling for something. Listening. “We need to be quick,” he said over his shoulder, voice carrying a thread of barely suppressed urgency. “We’re going to exit and hang left. Keep your head down. Don’t talk. Don’t look behind you—wouldn’t want someone to spot you before we get to the safe house.” His nostrils flared a bit and he absently pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. “Understand?”

“I’d understand better if you explained a few things,” I replied, holstering my pistol. “Like where we are and why you’re interested in helping me. I tend to be suspicious of folks who give me a hand out of the goodness of their hearts.”

His nostrils flared again and his face rippled, wriggling like he had a brood of snakes living just below the surface of his skin. “I’m not helping you out of the goodness of my heart,” he said, thrusting a plump finger at me. “You’re going to help me murder someone. A mutual acquaintance of ours.” His eyes narrowed, hate radiating off him in waves. “A man by the name of Arlen Hogg.”

TWO:

Pandæmonium

Arlen Hogg.

Now there was a blast from the past. Last I tangled with him, he was working with the Little Brothers of the Blade at this lab over Hub-side, trying to create an uber virus that’d make a loyal army of the near-dead. I didn’t know his story, but the guy had some awfully powerful backers—including the Irish Morrigan—and was as crazy as a college kid on bath salts. I’d shut him down, burned his mad-scientist lab to the ground, and killed a bunch of his goons. He’d managed to beat feet before I could turn him into meat paste, though, and I hadn’t heard anything about him since.

What could this guy want with Hogg? Hogg had done some brutal, messed-up experimentation of humans and halfies alike, so personal revenge maybe?

Before I could ask him, Levi simply pulled open the door and strode out onto a wide street packed with the hustle and bustle of commuters on their way here or there. Except these weren’t your typical urbanite dwellers. Ahh, no. Not even close. Many were human, men and women of every nationality, but they all looked oddly washed out and pale. Plus, most of them were rotting and moldering, their skin sloughing away in places, revealing ropy muscle beneath or the gleam of white bone. Many of the fresher-looking corpses were missing big chunks of meat, as though someone had taken out a big bite.

Uncomfortable recollections of the zombies Pa Beauvoir had summoned in Cité Soleil flashed through my mind. Except, these zombies didn’t seem all that interested in eating brains or terrorizing the unprepared living. They seemed like people, just dead ones. The craziest thing, though, was that the almost-zombies were the most normal looking freaks in the crowd.

Horribly disfigured people—clad in dusty leather and adorned with barbed wire, wicked hooks, and rusty chains—bebopped along like this was just another day at the office. Most were hairless, their lips and noses carved away, their skin melted like wax or flayed clean off. Other, less human, things scuttled by en masse. A prodigiously fat bald man slithered by on a set of giant octopus tentacles studded with fleshy spikes. Farther up, I spotted a cloven-hoofed woman with saggy tits and decaying wings protruding from her back walking a praying mantis the size of a large Rottweiler on a leash.

And that was just the opening act of this horror show.

There were nightmares of every flavor, in endless iterations, for as far as the eye could see. I faltered for a second as a little girl of ten, with blonde hair, big blue eyes, and a faded floral dress, ambled by on my right. She looked perfectly normal. Absolutely adorable, really. The bleeding heart in me almost stopped to see if she needed help, but then I noticed the bubble of open space she moved in. Monsters on every side shot secretive, fearful glances at the girl and gave her a wide berth as though she were the real nightmare walking these streets.

I shuddered involuntarily.

I’d been to a lot of awful places, but this was the worst, hands down.

Still, I couldn’t afford to stay in one place, and since none of the commuters glanced my way, I edged out into the flow of the crowd. My skin, clammy before, instantly broke out in rivulets of sweat, matting my shirt to my chest, while perspiration exploded across my brow. Holy shit. As unbearably hot as the inside of the room had been, it was even worse outside, and the press of too-hot bodies certainly didn’t help. Maneuvering through the crowd was like doing the back stroke through a pool of liquid magma. The blistering heat was a sucker punch to the teeth, which left me drunkenly reeling, fighting off a wave of dizziness.

Naturally, no one else seemed to notice the ungodly weather, and I briefly wondered if it was just me.

Was I sick, maybe? That would certainly explain a few things.

A few people—again, “people” only in the most generous sense of the word—jostled me in passing, their disfigured faces contorted in hateful malice. Whatever those monsters saw in me gave ’em pause, though, because they all kept right on trucking, biting back any angry remarks. Remembering Molester ’Stache McGee’s warning, I coaxed my feet into motion and carved my way through the foot traffic, stealing cautious glances at the ginormous city stretching out around me.

Craggy black spires, tall as skyscrapers, clawed at an infinitely dark sky devoid of stars but marred by a single blazing column of jade light, which shot upward like a massive blowtorch. Pinpricks of fiery light, which could only be windows, dotted the towering structures like insect eyes while huge veins of glowing magma zigzagged over the building faces. For some reason, all I could think of were termite mounds. Ginormous, otherworldly termite mounds. Though the unnatural buildings flanked me on either side, stretching forever upward, the street itself was filled with shops.

I mean, they didn’t look like shops, just twisted black mounds with crude doorways slicing into the huge termite-towers, but the riot of neon signs advertised the wares within. One sign, burning a merry fire-engine red, looked like another motel: Wayfarers Rest. Another advertised high-quality body-shop work, but instead of mufflers or head gaskets, there were actual human body parts dangling in the grimy window: hands, arms, feet, lungs. Other signs—fallout green, lightning-strike blue, cotton-candy pink—boasted everything from sex and pain to gambling and food.

Honestly, I was expecting the weird shops, but there was also a variety of mundane businesses, which gave me real pause: Payday Loans. Greasy spoon fast-food joints. A ghoulish lingerie boutique with monstrous mannequins sporting far too many limbs. There was even a shop offering tax-auditing services—“Don’t lose an arm and a leg this tax season,” their sign read. I simply dropped my head, refusing to look at the twisted cityscape, the horrible shops, or the stomach-churning city folk, and forced my feet to keep on keepin’ on.

Survival was the important thing now, and survival meant not gawking like some country bumpkin in the Big Apple for the first time. That was a surefire way to get picked out as an easy mark in a place like this.

Levi trudged along at a good clip, so I picked up the pace, each footfall churning up a small cloud of dust the color of chalky cat litter. I raised a hand and covered my mouth, blocking out the fine grit fighting to get into my nose and clog my lungs. Like the oppressive heat, the dust didn’t seem to bother any of the other denizens, so my odd gesture drew a few unwanted eyes, but I couldn’t help it—the shit made it impossible to breathe. I edged my way past an emaciated woman with two hairless heads and found my flannel-wearing guide waiting patiently for me at a tight intersection.

He was leaning stiffly against a stone wall, shooting for casual and inconspicuous.

He failed spectacularly.

I hadn’t known Levi for long, but I got the feeling he wasn’t really a casual sort of guy. No, he looked perpetually uptight, like he had a stick shoved so far up his ass he wouldn’t be able to sit right. And as for inconspicuous, the guy was groping the wall with one hand, his muddy eyes hazy and unfocused, lost in whatever strange magic he was up to. After a few seconds, he snapped out of the trance, his gaze latching onto me. He nodded and jerked his head toward a connecting street, one lined with more shops and filled with more weirdos, which quickly snaked out of view.

I beelined toward him, cutting through the ebb and flow of bodies.

“Think we might’ve lost them,” Levi said matter-of-factly as I drew near. “They’re still in the area, though, so we need to be careful. Come on, we’ve got a ways to go before we get to the safe house, and a lot can happen between here and there.” Without offering any other explanation, he turned and headed down the connecting street, sticking close to the wall so he could drag his plump digits along the stone.

“How’s about you tell me who is after us? I might only have one eye, but it works alright. I can keep watch if you tell me what to watch for.”

He stole a sidelong glance at me, then shook his head. “If you see ’em, it’s already too late. From that close, they’ll taste your scent in the air and be on us like a school of piranha.”

“Still,” I replied dryly, “I’d feel a tad bit better if I at least knew who I should be on guard for.” I absently squeezed over to the left, making room for what I could only call a minotaur. The passerby had an actual bull-head and was covered head to toe in coarse brown hair. Poor fella had to be hot as balls. He certainly smelled like he was hot as balls—the odor wafting off him was a delightful perfume of musty cheese and rotten old cabbage.

“Flesh Eaters,” Levi replied, pitching his voice low and eyeing the passing minotaur suspiciously, as though afraid of being overheard. “They’re Asmodeus’ secret police.”

Asmodeus again. The name was so familiar—like it should be easy to remember, like it should mean something to me—but it didn’t.

“You say that like it oughta mean something to me,” I offered, before stealing a look over one shoulder. Maybe Levi’s paranoia was spreading, but it almost felt like we were being watched. Nothing. Just the awful heat, the press of unnatural bodies, and the warren of shops illuminated by the constant glow of neon lighting.

“But I can’t remember anything,” I continued. “Not you. Not this place. Not Asmodeus. None of it, pal. So maybe you could pretend like I know all of jack shit and start at the beginning. Just tell me who this Asmodeus guy is, why he’s sending people after me, and where we are. I’ve traveled all over Outworld, and I’ve never heard of a place like this. Never.”

Levi sniffed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You really don’t remember any of it?” he asked, voice brimming with skepticism. “No recollection since Ong?”

“Sorry.” I tilted my head and puckered my lips into a thin line. “Bad, bad hangover. I’m sure you know how it is.”

“Maybe I do,” he replied with a cryptic nod. Carefully, he ran squat hands over his pants, his thin lips pressed into a tight line. “Your memory loss is probably a side effect of the exorcism,” he threw out offhandedly, like it was no big deal. As though ritual exorcisms were as commonplace as picking up a carton of milk from the store. “It should come back to you in bits and pieces,” he continued. “As to where we are, you’ve never heard about this place because most people who come here don’t leave. We’re not in Outworld. We’re past Outworld. In Hell.”

“Hell?” I asked, the word distasteful in my mouth. That couldn’t be right.

Demons occasionally crossed the threshold, but the living didn’t go to the Underworld, and the dead, in turn, didn’t venture back to the Mortal Planes—Inworld or Out. Ghosts and specters managed it by not crossing over in the first place, but once over … Well, that was it. End game. Checkmate. The final nail in the coffin. And to top it off, Hell’s gates were guarded by Arawn the Horned, Protector of the Unfettered Fae, who maliciously hunted down any unfortunate soul stupid enough to try and escape from the fires of the Great Below.

No one got past Arawn—that psycho was more dangerous than a dirty bomb.

Levi nodded his head. “Gehenna,” he confirmed. “We’re in Pandæmonium, the capital of the Second Circle. Presided over by King Asmodeus. The same Asmodeus who wants you dead.”

THREE:

Foot Race

We walked on in silence for a few minutes, pushing through the dense foot traffic, largely flowing against us, as the terrible weight of the situation began to settle around my shoulders. Holy shit. Somehow, I’d ended up in Hell—and not in the metaphorical sense of the word. I was stuck, smack-dab in the middle of the Underworld with legions of the damned all around me. I’d always expected to end up here sooner or later, but not this soon. For a heartbeat, I wondered if I’d actually died while fighting Ong.

Was it possible I’d jumped down his throat but never made it out in one piece?

Everything was fuzzy and indistinct inside my head like a blurry photo, but that didn’t sit quite right.

Surely I would’ve remembered kicking the bucket. Which meant I’d arrived here by some other means. So, for some unimaginable reason, I’d willingly come to Hell, and even worse, I’d somehow managed to piss off the demon lord who ruled over one of the nine circles, which was no bueno.

I had no idea who this Asmodeus was—my head throbbed whenever I thought about him—but in my experience, you didn’t get to the top of the corporate food chain by being an all-around nice guy. Especially not the corporate food chain in the Inferno. On top of all that, I had about a million other questions.

How long had I been tooling around down here in the Great Below?

And what was going on topside?

Was the Savage Prophet—Old Man Winter’s latest reincarnation—still alive and on the loose?

What about the asshats collecting Apocalyptic Seals, hoping to turn themselves into gods?

Most importantly, though, were my friends okay?

All burning questions that I simply had no answers for. Pretty much, the whole world was teetering on the edge of utter destruction and I was stranded in the friggin’ Nether Realm, completely lost in the sauce.

If I could get back to the Mortal Planes, though, maybe I could fix this apocalyptic shitstorm. Anxiety built and built the more I thought about it. The bigness of the problem threatened to crush me under heel and leave me a gibbering ball of madness. But I beat the growing worry back with a baseball bat of pure will and determination. This wasn’t the end for me, dammit. I couldn’t afford to get bogged down by the flood of details; I just needed to stay focused on the here and now—I needed to figure out how to move forward one step at a time.

First, I’d find a way to break out of Pandæmonium. Then? I couldn’t think about then. Escape was all that mattered for now.

“Okay,” I said with a sigh as we headed onto an even more tightly packed street, “so this guy Asmodeus wants me dead, and he’s got goons out scouring the city looking for me, right?”

My odd tour guide glanced at me and nodded.

“So, let’s go back to the basics. One”—I thrust a hand into the air and started marking off my questions—“why am I in Hell? Like how did I end up here in the first place? Two.” Another finger joined the first. “What did I do to piss this guy off so bad that he’d want me dead? Three, why am I covered in glowing tattoos and why is Azazel no longer running the show? And four, who are you and why are you helping me? Obviously, you’re not human,” I continued, “so are you some kinda Hell-based travel guide or something? Do you spend your days on a tour bus, showing visitors around, pointing out all the nifty attractions?”

Levi halted and rounded on me, arms folded across his chest, staring at me over the top edge of his glasses. “Is there something wrong with you?” he asked in all seriousness. “What part of this seems like a joke to you? Because this”—he turned and swept an arm around—“is Hell. And Hell isn’t a joke. It isn’t a game. This is as far from a game as things get.”

I glanced away, not wanting to meet his accusatory glare. Of course this wasn’t a game—I knew that better than anyone—this was my life. “Life’s a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot,” I replied eventually. “Charlie Chaplin said that, and I think it pretty much sums up my story. You just gotta laugh, otherwise you’ll start crying instead.”

He grunted, sniffed, and needlessly readjusted his glasses. “To each their own,” he mumbled, then began walking again. “To answer your question—no, I’m not a tour guide. A lot of people went through a lot of trouble to get me here. Specifically, to find you.”

“That so?” I replied, listening to the crunch of dusty gravel beneath our feet and the bustle of foot traffic around us.

My guide abruptly stopped, holding up a hand to silence me as he stared around, wide-eyed and slightly panicked. The crowd around us had thinned, folks giving us a wide berth, but nothing else looked out of place. Well, everything looked out of place, but nothing looked more out of place than it should, considering the circumstances. Levi dropped to a knee and squashed his palm flat against the gritty earth, his fingers digging divots into the dirt.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, feeling goosebumps break out along my arms and legs despite the ungodly heat.

He shot back to his feet, ignoring me completely, his gaze roving urgently across the mass of deformed Hellions. His breath caught a moment later; it sounded like someone had just decked the poor guy in the gut. A clamor from behind caught my attention—a string of deep guttural curses filled the air with threats of violence followed by squawks and shrieks of protest.

Keeping my head low, I turned, surveying the congested street, and immediately caught sight of two gangly sons of bitches in black bondage leathers—zippers, hooks, and barbed wire running every which way—rudely shoving their way through the crowd. These ugly assholes stood head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd, moving on over-long spidery legs, their rail-thin arms swaying as they walked. One had stringy black hair while the other was as bald as a spoiled egg; both wore black ventilators and thick steampunk goggles embedded directly into maggot-white skin.

“Flesh Eaters,” Levi muttered under his breath. “They found us.” He turned toward me and wrapped a hand around my forearm, his grip as strong as a steel cuff. “Keep close and keep up,” he admonished before wheeling around and barreling into the crowd, tossing people aside like a professional linebacker.

I knew I needed to run.

Instead, I stood there, paralyzed by the sight of the strange creatures.

The one closest to me—Stringy Hair—stopped, its ventilator opening wide like a set of mechanical jaws while a black tongue, two feet long, slipped free and probed at the air. Tasting the foul heat. Stringy Hair swiveled its face, left, right, left, right, the motions slow and sinuous before its gaze came to rest squarely on me. It canted its head to the side and raised one arm, its hand missing, replaced by a rusty meat hook screwed directly into a red, swollen, amputated wrist. For a second, I almost thought ol’ Stringy Hair was gonna wave at me, but then a nasty inarticulate screech broke through the air.

The noise was like a saw blade chewing into a metal pipe.

The Flesh Eater broke into a sprint, swatting passersby out of the way with contemptuous ease, utilizing a terrible strength masked by its emaciated body.

Yep. That was probably my cue to beat feet.

I spun and hauled ass, legs pumping as I ducked and dodged my way around slower moving Hellions, following in the wake of Levi’s lumbering passage. Thankfully, Levi had left a trail wide enough for a tractor-trailer to follow. I glanced back as I ran and saw the long-legged Flesh Eaters moving through the crowd a whole helluva lot faster than me. I slipped past a plodding cart loaded down with what looked like chunks of roasted squid and skittered into a connecting intersection.

There was a trail of carnage leading to the left, so I bolted that way.

I was shooting past a vendor stand when a rock-hard hand wrapped around my bicep and spun me sideways, slamming me into the wall of a building with a thunk. On instinct, I opened myself to the Vis, reaching for the power to protect myself, to punish my enemies … and came up short. There was a trickle of energy, true, but it was half-strength at best: like a gulp of the shitty, watered-down bourbon that cheap bars like to pass off to drunk suckers. I could still do some damage, but it would take a helluva lot of muscle.

“Let go of your power,” Levi grunted, his hand still clamped around my arm. He stood with his back against the wall, a disapproving scowl coating the lines of his plain face.

I bared my teeth at him as a flash flood of irrational anger swept through me, and drew in another kind of power: Nox. The force of death and destruction. Its oily presence was like rancid sewer water and an arctic blizzard—churning my stomach and freezing my insides all at once. A surge of vicious strength exploded in my limbs, urging me to crush and break and kill. I sunk the fingers of my free hand into Levi’s forearm, dimpling his unyielding flesh. “Don’t do that again,” I said, voice low and guttural. “We’re on good terms right now, but throw me around one more time and see what happens.”

He nodded and let go with a grunt, drawing his hand away. “Sorry. Got carried away. You still need to let go of that other power. The Vis. It draws them.” He hooked a thumb toward the street we’d just left behind. “They can smell that kinda power a mile off—that’s how they found us in the first place. How they track us. You reek of the stuff.”

Reluctantly, I let the thin trickle of Vis go, shutting myself off from the source. “What do we do?” I asked, drawing my hand cannon. “Do we fight? How tough are those things?”

“Tough,” he replied tersely. “We can’t fight. Not here. We do that and we’ll bring every Flesh Eater inside of three miles down on our heads.” He ran a hand over the wall, caressing it fondly, then nodded. “No. We run,” he said. “I’ll clear the way, you keep close and try to stay out of trouble.” Before I could reply, he broke into a shuffling gait. Not a sprint, but more of a slow lumber, like a freight train building up steam with every step.

I slid over and glanced around the Hellion vendor’s table—Stringy Hair and his Hellraiser-reject pal were maybe twenty feet away. Even worse, I saw more of the pale ventilator-faced assclowns shoving through the crowd, throwing people out of the way as they beelined for me. Asstastic.

FOUR:

Flesh Eaters

I slipped my pistol back into its holster and sprinted after Levi, who’d vanished around a sharp bend in the road not far ahead. The street ran straight for twenty or so feet before snaking left, giving way to some sort of cramped open-air market packed full of claustrophobic shops, all covered by colorful awnings. Levi was already lost to the jumbled warren of tables and freaks, but the trail of destruction he left in his wake was easy enough to follow: items strewn across the floor while disgruntled patrons and angry shopkeepers hollered or shook fists in his direction.

True to his word, he’d cleared a trail for me.

I stole a look over my shoulder and watched the gangly limbed freaks come around the bend, flying toward me like a hail of gunfire. The street behind was mostly clear, save for my ugly pursuers, so I turned and called up a lance of pure Nox. I thrust my right hand out, palm up, fingers splayed, and unleashed a spear of brilliant purple flame. The ferocious blast slashed through the dust-laden air and broadsided ol’ Stringy Hair, who was loping along on all fours like some sort of perverse humanoid hound.

The beam carved through Stringy Hair’s chest, throwing the unlucky bastard into the air, flipping it ass over teakettle and shearing off its gangly hook-handed arm in the process.

More of the S and M turd-baskets rounded the corner, only to trip over the felled body of their leader, sprawled unceremoniously across the grubby street. Their spidery legs tangled in the limbs of their fallen friend and down the front line went, slamming gracelessly into the earth with horrific shrieks. I didn’t stay to watch the rest of the unfolding train wreck. Instead, I turned and hoofed it for the market, calling up more Nox in case I needed to blast any more of these shitheads en route to wherever Levi was taking us. Flickering purple fire bloomed in my palm and spread up my right arm as I ran, wreathing me in a halo of dark, dirty flame.

Some part of my mind screamed a warning, shouted that I shouldn’t be using the deadly, demonic power which came so readily to my call, but I couldn’t seem to remember why exactly. Besides, that heady power—dark, cold, and corrupt—felt too good to push away. Like a cigarette after a night of rockin’ sex.

A shopkeeper—a blue-skinned woman with petite nubby horns protruding from her forehead—was carefully collecting a bunch of brass trinkets and rune-carved charms from the ground. I blew past her, shouldering her out of the way, then barreled into the market’s heart, the purple Nox illuminating my way against the poor lighting. As unhappy as the market’s patrons were in the wake of Levi’s passing, they made way for me in a hurry. Their eyes fixed on the cold-burning fire engulfing my arm, and then they scampered away as though I might be contagious, which was just fine by me.

“Telal Xul, Telal Xul!” several market-goers cried out. The words weren’t English, but somehow, I understood them. The sounds twisted in my head, distorting, conjuring images of bat-eared jackals scouring the sprawling African plains, hungry for spoiled meat. Flesh Eaters, Flesh Eaters!

The call came again, “Flesh Eaters!” resounding from behind me, carried on a multitude of panicked voices, immediately followed by more of the buzz saw on metal screeches, which only motivated me to run faster. Surprisingly, I could. I’m not really a “gym guy” or a “health-food guy” or even really a “healthy guy.” I’m more of a prolific smoker in love with booze and artery-clogging Southern food—the deadlier the better: Pulled pork. Tangy savory ribs. Fried catfish. Fatty po’ boys, loaded down with meat curtains and slathered in mayo. But here I was, sprinting outright, moving better than I had in my Marine Corps days, and making it look easy.

Guess those fancy new muscles weren’t just for show.

The path twisted left then right, the trinket sellers giving way to some kind of fish market, though the things on display didn’t resemble any sea critter I’d ever seen. Metal trays littered tottering tables chock-full of creatures with withering tentacles, jagged teeth, or too many eyes. Sometimes all of those features at once. A pudgy man-creature with bulbous eyes and grotesquely enlarged hands wasn’t quite quick enough to clear the way, so I shoulder checked him into a nearby tray of arachnoid looking shellfish with engorged scorpion tales and spiked shells.

The little buggers were so incredibly disgusting. They looked like the worst part of every nasty creepy-crawly on the planet all rolled into one, then pumped full of growth hormones and dipped in toxic waste.

The pudgy shopper stumbled from my blow and smashed face-first into the platter. Naturally, the table holding the nightmare shellfish buckled beneath his weight, spilling a handful of captive critters onto the unlucky shopper. He let out an agonized cry—one part terror, one part unimaginable pain—his stout body thrashing on the floor as the things swarmed him, stingers stabbing down, angry pincers gouging out chunks of fatty flesh. He swatted at the sea-terrors, but his bloated hands weren’t nimble enough to wrangle the suckers.

A pang of guilt clawed its way up from my gut … My steps faltered.

Sure, I was in the Inferno, and yes all of the residents of this far-flung shithole made me want to cannonball into a pool of hand sanitizer, but that poor bulbous-eyed schlub probably didn’t deserve to be mauled while grocery shopping. I mean, maybe he did deserve it-—he was in Hell after all—but then so was I. Given the bulk of my awful past choices, I wasn’t really in a position to cast a whole lot of stones. Against my better judgement, I slowed and turned back, surveying the market place behind me. I’d made pretty good time, but the Flesh Eaters were gaining on me despite their size and the tight quarters.

Dammit, I needed to go.

Instead, I rushed over to the downed shopper and started swatting off the fat otherworldly arachnoids, setting them ablaze with consuming Nox as I dislodged ’em. Each went up with a puff of acrid black smoke and an ear-bleeding hiss.

It only took a few seconds, but those were precious seconds I didn’t have to give—the lead Flesh Eater was within spitting distance now.

Shit.

I pulled my pistol and leveled the hand cannon, taking a deep breath as I sighted in on the creature’s sunken chest, buried beneath a layer of crude black leather. I squeezed the trigger on the exhale, the slight recoil kicking the barrel up as fire belched from the muzzle. Purple fire. That was new. The round punched into the Flesh Eater’s belly, tearing through skin and muscle, leaving a ragged, bloody-edged wound behind. The creature stopped, swaying dumbly on its over-long legs, poking at the injury with one spidery finger as though it wasn’t sure what exactly had just happened or how.

Then, in a flash, purple tendrils crept up and out from the wound, running through veins as the creature started to smolder and smoke.

I glanced at the pistol. That was one badass upgrade. Too bad I didn’t have any extra bullets.

The Flesh Eater burst into noxious flame a second later, its pale skin charring as it screamed and flailed, desperate to put out the fire.

I offered the downed shopper a perfunctory apology, then wheeled and bolted, brushing past one of the mantis-like doggos I’d seen earlier on, this one tethered to a tent pole like a cherished household pet. The market meandered right in a long graceful curve, which ended at a tight three-way intersection. Straight ahead, the market continued on, the tables filled with wicked knives and barbed hooks. A broad street shot off to the left and a cramped alleyway cut away on the right, shooting into blackness illuminated by sparse torchlight.

Levi’s mustached face poked out from a pocket of deep murk in the recessed alley. “Here, in here,” he hollered, waving at me, his expression surprisingly placid.

I shot past him, came to a clumsy halt, and spun, catching sight of a pair of Flesh Eaters breaking into the intersection at a sprint, their goggle-clad eyes scanning in every direction as black tongues whipped at the air. I half expected Levi to take off down the alley, but he didn’t. He must’ve come to the same realization I had: there was no way we were gonna shake these guys—they were too fast, and there wasn’t any place to go.

Nowhere to hide. No building that could offer us shelter. No taxi to slip into. No options, except fighting. I brought my pistol up with one hand while I prepared a nasty Nox-based working with the other. There were worse places to duke it out, I suppose. The alley behind us was clear and stretched off for a good long way, which meant we’d only have to hold ’em off as they tried to cram their way into the bottleneck. I squared my shoulders, ready to fire, and cracked my neck, left then right. Ready.

Levi, though, seemed remarkably unperturbed.

Instead of preparing for a good ol’ fashion knock-down-drag-out, my flannel-clad partner in crime scooted toward the center of the alley entryway and knelt. He lifted his right hand, examining the appendage as though we had all the time in the world. He turned his hand this way then that, and as he did, it changed. Shifted. His fingers elongated, stretched, and thinned until a gunmetal-gray butcher’s cleaver—gleaming and razor sharp—formed on the end of his wrist. I stared, mouth agape.

Now there was something you don’t see every day.

And that’s coming from a man who shoulder-checked an amorphous blob-man into a platter of Lovecraftian seafood.

I stole forward a few paces, turkey-peeked the corner, and immediately caught sight of more bondage-clad dicknoodles. They’d finally spotted us and were racing toward us like a pack of wolves running down wounded prey. “Don’t know what your plan is, pal, but you’ve got about twenty seconds before those bastards are elbow deep in our asses.”

“Get back,” Levi commanded, still examining his meat-cleaver hand. Carefully, he turned the blade on himself, running the razor’s edge along the inside of his opposite forearm. The skin parted, but instead of bright red blood welling to the surface, some kind of viscous golden liquid bubbled up. In a blink, the cleaver vanished, becoming a normal hand once more. And then—I shit you not—this dumb douche-hole started finger painting on the ground with his own … Well, whatever that golden shit was.

He splattered a line of the goopy crap all the way across the alleyway mouth, then began tracing out some kinda Hebrew scrawl on our side of the uneven line. His finger moved with deft agility, each stroke economical and precise, no sign of hesitation. He’d done this before, many times. The whole while he muttered under his breath, a prayer by the sound of it. I didn’t catch much, a few words here and there, none of ’em English—Barukh attah Adonai Eloheinu … ve’al tashlet banu yetzer … Utuk xul edin na’zu.

The work reminded me of the containment circle I’d seen on the bathroom floor, though far cruder. More hurried. The lines were the same, and the script was a dead ringer, however. Heck, even the golden liquid was the same. The thought was fleeting, though, as the yowling pack of Flesh Eaters drew into range, their black tongues whipping back and forth in a frenzy. I inched back and raised my pistol, finger curling around the trigger.

“No,” Levi hollered, rounding on me, hand outstretched in supplication, his fingers stained with gold. “Don’t break the seal …”

FIVE:

Wanted

I stayed my hand as the ass-ugly Flesh Eaters cannonballed toward us, sweat rolling down my face as I idly wondered whether I’d made a crucial and life-ending mistake. I flinched as a pair of the leather-clad goons smacked into a golden barrier with a dull thud: a shield, exactly like the one that’d stopped me cold in the bathroom, had appeared in the mouth of the alleyway.

One of the Flesh Eaters—this one covered in odd tattoos—hammered uselessly against the shimmering wall of light, his tongue trailing long strands of muddy-green saliva along the surface of the strange barrier. Probing. Searching. Examining it for some sign of weakness. From this close, I could see its tongue was studded with a host of circular suction cups, each with a barbed hook protruding from the middle. Looked like it could strip flesh right down to the bone.

“Not my best work,” Levi offered tersely, eyeing the barrier, then shifting his gaze to the hasty writing on the ground. “But it’ll hold for long enough. Come on, time to move.”

He turned, only to find the barrel of my pistol leveled at his head.

“I’m game, but I think it’s time you give me a few answers. About who and what you are. About what’s going on here. So we’re gonna walk”—I flicked the barrel of my gun down the alley—“and you? Well, you’re gonna stay in front of me, you’re gonna keep your hands visible, and you’re gonna lead us to wherever we need to go. While you do that, you’re gonna answer every question I ask, and if I think you’re lying to me in any way, I’m gonna plant a couple of rounds in your kneecaps. Blast your legs clean off if I have to. Then I’ll ask again and see if we can’t get some honest answers out of you. How’s that sound, bub?”

The words sounded harsh in my head, but I was in Hell and I had next to no memory, so a little paranoia seemed justifiable at this point.

Levi regarded me coolly, a calculating look in his eyes—How fast could I shoot? How much damage would I do? Was I bluffing? Finally, he nodded and set off, leaving the Flesh Eaters to pound against the golden shield in impotent rage. I flipped that assorted crew of assholes the bird for good measure, then turned and trailed after Levi.

“So let’s start off with something simple,” I said as we headed deeper into the alley, passing by doorways, lit with more garish signs. “Like what in the hell you are. I’ve been around the block a time or two, and that back there”—I waved vaguely toward the glowing barrier—“isn’t normal. Neither is that whole meat-cleaver, shapeshifting hand thing. As a general life rule, I don’t trust someone until I know what they are. And you? I don’t have a friggin’ clue about you.”

“Nothing’s ever simple,” Levi replied, staring straight ahead, plodding along methodically, largely unconcerned about my monster-slaying pistol.

“Still,” I said, “I’d feel a lot better if you gave it the good ol’ college try.”

He shrugged his shoulders but kept walking. “Golem,” he said flatly. “A MudMan. Built during World War Two as a vessel for a demonic murder god. Things didn’t go according to plan”—he spread his hands—“and here we are.”

I was quiet for a spell, letting the sound of our feet carry on the unnaturally hot air. What the hell was I supposed to say to that? Golem? MudMan? Demonic murder god? His answer left me even more confused. Finally, I cleared my throat and tried to come at it from a different angle.

“You said you wanted to kill Hogg?” I asked. “Why?”

“What do you know about him?” Levi countered, glancing over his shoulder, his steps faltering for a second.

I hitched a shoulder and frowned. “Not much. Roly-poly looking bastard. Got that mad-scientist vibe going on in spades. Other than that?” I shrugged and shook my head. “So why you after him?” I asked again.

Levi was silent for a time, head bowed, eyes locked on the ground. “It’s complicated,” he offered begrudgingly. “Personal. I’d rather not talk about it if it’s all the same to you. Ask a different question.”

“Nope,” I said, cocking back the hammer on my pistol with an audible click. “It’s not all the same to me, and that’s not how this works. I ask questions, you give me answers. Now, who’s Hogg to you?”

Levi spun, face rippling and contorting in hate, murder burning in his eyes like a smoldering tire fire. “Shoot me, then. Be done with it or respect my decision. My connection to Hogg is personal. I’m after him for my own reasons, and I’m willing to help you to get him. That should be enough.” His voice changed as he spoke, growing deeper, raspier, more primal with every word. “Now ask another question or pull the trigger,” he growled.

I cleared my throat, then glanced at the gun. Shit. “Fine, fine,” I said, de-cocking and stowing the hand cannon. “You called my bluff. I wasn’t really gonna shoot you.”

“Think I don’t know that?” he asked through clenched teeth. “I’m not the brightest bulb”—he tapped at his forehead—“but I’m not stupid. You’re lost, you have no memory, and you’re the most wanted man in the Second Circle. Without me, you wouldn’t last fifteen minutes.” He turned and resumed his trek down the twisting alley. “Now, ask a different question or keep quiet. Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.”

We trudged on for a bit in silence, Levi disgruntled, me thinking. The problem wasn’t finding a question, it was finding the right one. There were so many things I was confused about, and I honestly didn’t know where to start—this whole shitstorm was like a giant knot with a thousand loose ends poking out from the center. “Okay, so I’m in Hell,” I finally said, owning the situation. “Let’s talk about how I got here and why someone is trying to murder me, then maybe you can explain how you fit into the story. Who hired you and why.”

He slowed his pace and waved me over to his side as we continued our trek. “During your fight with Ong,” he said, “you let loose Azazel the Purros, the Horseman of War. I don’t know how it happened. Whether he escaped. Whether you freed him willingly. Guess the how doesn’t matter.” He absently dry washed his hands. That’s all behind us, the gesture said. “All that matters is what happened next. Somehow, you killed Ong and took the Fourth Seal, and with it the demonic power of Buné, the Horseman of Death. Then, Azazel went home. Right back to the Pit.” He swept out a pudgy hand.

Once more I caught a flash of Ong’s serpentine body looming atop a huge pyramid. An old, old temple. Primal, even. Then came that glimpse of a dark spike-lined gullet swallowing me, drawing me toward Ong’s stomach—except I wasn’t bound for his belly … I could almost taste the hot, metallic blood in my mouth, could feel the fibrous meat of his thudding heart rip between my teeth. Except they weren’t really my teeth, they were pointed and sharp like jagged pieces of broken glass.

A new memory came next, kicking its way into my conscious mind an inch at a time.

I lay atop that ancient pyramid. Beaten. Broken. A shard of white bone jabbed through my jeans: my left shin, folded in half. Ong raged above, battling the Savage Prophet—a monstrous flock of Garuda circling the snake-god like buzzards—while Ferraro, Darlene, and the cold hearted Arch-Mage fought fruitlessly against Black Jack and his crew of Brown-Robes below. A wave of soul-crushing hopelessness flooded through me with the images. We’d lost. Epically lost. I was going to die. My friends were going to die. And the Prophet was going to win. To kill Ong, claim the Fourth Seal, and end the world.

The memory of a whispered voice echoed in my ears. Azazel’s voice, of course. A broken leg is nothing to me. Nothing, he said. I could give you the power you need to win, to save your friends. Such terrible power, the likes of which you’ve never dreamed. Of all my brothers and sisters, bound to the Seals, there is none more terrible than I …

And that’s when it hit me like a baseball bat to the kneecaps.

I’d cut a deal with that asshole. I didn’t remember a damned thing after slipping down Ong’s massive throat, but I remembered giving up. Giving in. Letting Azazel free from the shoddy prison I’d stuck him in. Suddenly, I felt numb and cold despite the heat. I’d murdered Black Jack: crushed his head and turned his skull into a friggin’ pancake. Then, I’d killed Ong and claimed the Fourth Seal. I wanted to sit, to puke my guts out in revulsion, but instead, I kept walking, the wheels in my head cranking away.

“That still doesn’t explain why someone’s trying to kill me,” I replied, the words distant and half-hearted.

We walked on for a few more steps, then Levi stopped; a cherry-red neon sign illuminated a rough door set into twisting black stone. The script was harsh and foreign, but my mind translated it with ease. Southside Blood Pit. Something, it looked like a rough sheet of paper, was pinned to the door.

“This is us,” Levi said with a nod. Before pulling open the door, however, he carefully removed the poster, peeling up each corner in turn, then freeing it with a gentle tug. “And this,” he said, handing me the paper, “is the reason Asmodeus wants you dead. Like I said before, you’re the most wanted man in Pandæmonium—maybe the most wanted man in all Nine Circles. Congratulations.”

I would’ve said he was being sarcastic, but he spoke with all earnestness. I’m pretty sure he was actually congratulating me on being the most wanted man in the Inferno. The guy was obviously a nutjob.

I flicked my wrist and held up the poster.

My face—well, a version of it with blister-red skin and jutting ram’s horns protruding from my skull—took up half the page. Across the top ran one word, all in caps: WANTED. Azazel’s name was below, followed by a laundry list of offenses: Treason. Criminal conspiracy. Sedition. Murder. Lots of murder. A phonebook worth of murder. Marquis Aamon, Duchess Dantalian, Marquis Leraje, Duke Eligos, and Earl Malthus. Apparently, I’d been busy since shoving ol’ Ong off the mortal coil.

At the bottom was a stern warning: Anyone caught assisting this man will suffer the unending wrath of King Asmodeus.

SIX:

Infernal Politics

I folded the sheet and slipped it into my pocket as I followed Levi inside, letting the door creak shut behind me. The building’s interior was murky and uninviting, illuminated only by a handful of flickering torches and beer signs. The weathered stone floors were covered with a loose gray sand, and vaguely Roman columns littered the room. The tables—wooden things, rough and poorly made—were filled with Hellions of every shape and sort, each more twisted and disturbing than the last, no two exactly alike.

There was also a pit in the center of the room: a hulking cavity carved into the ground, a good thirty or forty feet in diameter and ten feet deep, with a stone retaining wall around the top. It looked like an oversized well. Its walls were slick black, its floor covered with more of the coarse gray sand, though heavily stained with suspicious patches of dried gore. Likely blood, though most of the colors were all wrong. A splotch of piss yellow here and metallic silver there. A splash of tar black and a spattering of rusty red.

Based on that crude fighting ring and the name of the establishment, The Blood Pit¸ it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what they used that thing for.

Levi ignored the pit, hardly offering it a glance, and led us to an empty wooden table in the corner. He eased his weight down onto a rickety wooden stool with a soft sigh.

“Why would I kill all those people?” I hissed as I took a stool of my own, glancing around nervously to make sure no one was close enough to hear.

“Not people,” Levi replied, thrusting up a hand and waving someone down. “Demons. And not just run-of-the-mill demons. Esteemed members of Asmodeus’ court. Earls. Duchesses. Counts. You shouldn’t feel guilty about them,” he said abruptly. Defensively, even. “They were all monsters. Vile, vile monsters. I know a thing or two about killing, and everyone on that list deserved a death sentence a thousand times over.”

Levi fell silent as a hulking creature, nine feet tall and half as wide, his skin a pasty green and covered copiously with swollen warts, lumbered over to us. Our server looked almost like a troll. If a troll died and then caught a case of full-body genital warts. He stopped at the edge of our table and crossed tank-cannon arms, resting his flabby biceps on a protruding gut the size of a large kettle, and regarded us suspiciously with rheumy, cataract-covered eyes.

“What ya want?” he growled, the sound of a burbling sinkhole.

“Loyalist?” Levi growled back, hunching forward and baring his teeth. Suddenly he looked like a rabid pit bull, ready to attack at the slightest provocation.

The Wart-Troll turned his head and spit a wad of ropy green phlegm onto the floor. “That’s for Asmodeus. For him and all of his. Now, order or go.”

“A pitcher of your finest,” Levi said solemnly, laying out a handful of strange brass coins with square holes in the center.

“And cigarettes,” I pitched in. “You got cigarettes, right?”

The Hellion grumbled inarticulately, scooped the coins off the table with one grubby oversized mitt, then shuffled off.

“What was that?” I asked, nodding toward the troll. “The loyalist thing, I mean.”

Levi waved away the question. “You’ll see soon enough.”

“Another thing, just out of curiosity,” I said, leaning in, resting my elbows on the table. “Why can I understand everyone? None of the signs around here are in English. None of these assholes speak English, but it all makes sense in my head. Is it something to do with …” I paused and leaned in a little farther, pitching my voice low. “Azazel?”

“What?” Levi offered me a sidelong glance. “Oh, the language. No. Just the nature of Gehenna. In the beginning,” he said offhandedly, eyes scanning the room, lingering on the door, “God separated the languages of man. Confused their understanding. But not here. In Hell, all languages become one by divine decree. Every soul is understood, regardless of their tongue.”

The troll waiter came back a moment later, a pitcher of something dark and sludgy in one hand, and a couple of glasses and a pack of Marlboro Reds in the other. How ’bout that shit? Reds in Hell. The place wasn’t all bad, I guess. Levi didn’t bother to pour us drinks, which was fine by me since I didn’t intend to sample the crap in the pitcher. It smelled like bad mushrooms and would almost certainly give me hepatitis. All strains of hepatitis. Plus, rabies.

Hell rabies.

I did, however, slip a cigarette from the pack, setting it between my lips as I summoned a minute amount of Vis and conjured a weak flame. Cigarette lit, I immediately dismissed my power. The tobacco was stale and dry, but beggars can’t be choosers, and boy did the nicotine taste good going down. “You said you came here specifically for me? Why?” I asked. “Someone hire you? You some kind of bounty hunter?”

He seesawed his head. “No.” He paused. “Not really. Kind of. The Resistance, they found me a couple of months ago while I was searching for leads on Hogg. They promised to help me kill him. But only if I could bust you out of here.”

That sure got my attention. “The Resistance? What’s the Resistance?”

Levi drummed his fingers on the table, tat-tat-tat. “That’s right, you wouldn’t know about that. Well, after you killed Ong and skipped town, things went downhill up there.” He pointed skyward. “The Guild of the Staff is broken and under new management—run by this fella they call the Savage Prophet. Another Seal Bearer like you. And they’ve been busy, the New Wave. That’s what they call themselves now. They murdered a bunch of Judges and Guild intel officers, imprisoned a bunch more in the Tullianum. Them and about half the members of the Elder Council.”

Well, shit. That was bad news. The Tullianum was a prison. No, worse than a prison.

It was a dank, dusty hole in the earth, situated in the heart of the sprawling red dunes of the Australian Outback, where they dropped a host of supernatural criminals and left them more or less for dead. The Tullianum was like the unholy love child of Mad Max’s Thunder Dome and a Game of Thrones episode: all rusted iron, spiked armor, creepy incest, and cannibal kings running amok. And a strange confluence of ley lines and telluric currents made it one of the few places on Earth where magi couldn’t touch the Vis.

“Since then, this Savage Prophet’s been making waves. Setting up alliances with other supernatural nations. The Fae Courts.” He paused, staring at me long and hard. “He’s also working with a woman. The Morrigan. Everyone says she’s the shot caller, and the Prophet’s the muscle.”

Icy cold washed through me. The Morrigan again. Of course it would come back to her.

“Anyway,” Levi said after a moment, “all that’s left is a little group of rebels. The Arch-Mage, Judge Drukiski, Ferraro, Greg Chandler, a couple of other folks, and a pair of Sasquatches—Chief Chankoowashtay and his daughter, Winona. And Lady Luck, of course. Can’t forget about her.”

“Wait, that’s it?” I asked, feeling a bit dumbstruck. “Everything else is gone?”

He nodded, face solemn. “Yep. They’re small now. Outnumbered. They recruited me about five months ago after they found me running down leads on Hogg. Once they figured out what I was, and what I could do, they found me a contact here in Hell and shipped me out to collect you.”

Holy shit.

I’d suspected things must’ve been pretty bad topside, but Levi had just dropped a bomb on me. The Guild of the Staff, broken? The Savage Prophet leading what was left and openly working with the Morrigan? The most powerful magi on the planet locked up in the Tullianum? Crap, that was bad. The worst. At least Ferraro and Darlene were safe and sound—though too bad about the Arch-Mage. A stint in the Tullianum probably would’ve done her ego some good. It also made my heart glad to know whoever was running that show had recruited Kong and Winona.

They were damned good people for being Sasquatches.

“That who we waiting for?” I asked, puffing at the cigarette, feeling numb and strangely detached as I mulled things over. “Your contact down here?”

“No.”

“No?” I squinted at him, then ashed my smoke with a flick of my fingers. “Well, then who are we waiting for?”

The door creaked open fast on the heels of my question, and a pack of Flesh Eaters strode in, black tongues lashing and whipping at the air.

“We’re waiting for them,” Levi replied, flexing his fingers, then cracking thick knuckles.

The bar-goers froze as the Flesh Eaters poured in. Just a few of the black-clad assholes at first, but more with every passing second. Bodies pressed inward. The number swelled—seven, eight, nine—before finally stopping at a nice, even ten, ’cause I’d sure hate it if things were ever easy. Finally, the door swung shut, blocking out the creeping darkness of the cramped alley beyond.

“Did you sell me out?” I snarled at Levi in a whisper, preparing to stand. To fight. To kill.

Levi’s hand clamped down over my forearm, pinning me in place. “Keep your head,” he said, offering me a tiny, reassuring nod. “We’ll work this out. Trust me.”

“We’re hunting fugitives,” said one of the Flesh Eaters, his voice like a file sliding over steel. “Two men. Enemies of His Majesty, Asmodeus.” The speaker was squat compared to the rest of his kin, his body covered in tight latex, his scalp flayed, turning the dome of his bald head into a fleshy red melon. The other Flesh Eaters spread out, slowly moving through the crowd, goggle-covered eyes scanning faces, noting every patron, every detail.

On instinct, I dropped my head, pretending to be invisible—just another downcast Hellion pining away in this back-alley dive.

“That so,” replied the bartending troll, a scowl turning his already disgusting face into a masterwork of horror. “And what makes you think they’re here?” he asked, cocking his head to the side, the sneer stretching his lips tight. “And even if they are,” he continued, “what makes you think your kind is welcome here, loyalist cocksucker?” He reached beneath the bar proper and pulled out a pitted battle-axe, a heavy ol’ son of a bitch glowing with swirls of cancerous jade light. He held the beefy weapon up, twisting it this way then that so it caught the ambient neon glow from the bar signs.

He nodded in satisfaction, then shuffled over to the door, blocking the exit with his tremendous bulk.

“We are welcome anywhere in Pandæmonium, cock-whore,” Melon-Head replied, eyeing the weapon with contempt. “I know you,” it said after a beat. “You’re Quintus Ambustus.” The Flesh Eater slipped forward, squaring up with the Hellion-Troll, who loomed over him. Despite the obvious size difference, Melon-Head didn’t seem daunted in the least. “Your treasonous name has been circulating our halls for some time. I’m sure the Grand Inquisitors could make room for you, Quintus.”

The rest of the bar-goers stood—wooden stools creaking, the scuff of chair legs over stone floating through the stillness. True, there were a metric ass-load of Flesh Eaters, but there were more bar patrons. Double, maybe triple their number, and most of ’em looked like hard-eyed badasses who’d be more than happy to smash out a few teeth or cleave off a few unnecessary limbs. A really friendly, good-natured crowd.

“This is a free establishment, friend,” replied the axe-wielding Quintus, fingers curling around the shaft of his weapon. “So, I’ll give you one chance to tuck your tails between your legs and go. If you refuse? Then …” He glanced at the weapon in his meaty mitts. “Then I get to chopping.”

“There,” one of the Flesh Eaters hissed as a claw-tipped finger darted out, fixing on me and Levi, mostly hidden in the back. “There,” it said again, tongue unfurling, salivating, its finger quivering in anticipation. The freak looked like a junkie jonesing for a fix, all shaky hands and overtight nerves.

“Give us what we seek, Quintus,” Melon-Head stated flatly, staring at us, “and we will go. We’ll leave you filth-fuckers to drink your piss and mutter your conspiracies. Or”—he paused, letting the tension mount—“we come back with an army and raze this free establishment to the ground. We’ll see that each of your customers ends up bound to a Catharine wheel or split on a Judas cradle. Maybe even in the colosseum. Whatever fate you receive, I’ll personally ensure the Dread Ravens pick the eyes from your head, Quintus, then I’ll throw your corpse to the Great Wyrms.”

The troll stood his ground, but his customers seemed to shrink back at the threat—this bunch was eager to talk, apparently, but not quite so eager to put their own asses on the line.

“I have another solution,” Levi said, his stool letting out a groan of relief as he stood.

SEVEN:

Blood Pit

Every eye in the joint turned on the golem, scrutinizing his humble appearance, his strange and out of place clothes, and his docile demeanor. I knew there was something off about the guy, but from a casual once-over, he certainly didn’t look like much of a threat. Quintus glowered at us, face darkening as he bared enormous yellow fangs. “You brought this ill luck into my establishment, outsider?” The wooden axe handle creaked under his crushing grip. “Maybe I should turn you over to these lick-spits and be done with it.”

Levi grimaced and spread his hands. “You could do that,” he acknowledged with a noncommittal nod. “Just cut your losses before things get out of hand. That would be understandable. Prudent.” He folded his arms, face implacable and hard to read.

“But what’s to stop this loyalist gestapo”—Levi imbued the word with so much hate and scorn it seemed to scorch the air—“from coming back here even if you hand us over? When have these murderous dogs”—he waved a hand at the assembled Flesh Eaters, who were now shuffling on anxious feet—“ever shown leniency? Mercy? Hand us over and Asmodeus will still have you hanging by your heels from the Flesh Palace rafters.”

The troll squinted, sizing Levi up, trying to figure out what angle he was working. I knew very little about the Inferno, but I’m pretty sure everyone was always working an angle. Always. After a time, the troll edged to the side and slid a heavy wooden beam across the door, barring the exit. “Got my attention, outsider. What’ve you got in mind?”

“Pax per sanguinem,” Levi replied coolly. Peace through blood. “These ten Flesh Eaters are the only ones that know we’re here. The only ones that know you’ve sheltered us. If they vanished here and now, then my friend and I could slip away, and Asmodeus will be none the wiser.”

“You want me and my folk to fight your battle for you, stranger?” Quintus asked, his voice dropping dangerously low, promising sudden and terrible violence if Levi answered incorrectly.

“Not at all,” Levi said, ambling over and clapping a hand on my shoulder. “My acquaintance and I brought you this trouble. We’ll fix it. Put us in the pit with the Flesh Eaters, and we’ll take care of them. All of them. You and yours can watch. Gamble. Drink. It’ll be free entertainment with plenty of blood to feed your hungry sands. If we win, we prove our hatred for the Loyalists, our fitness to live, and then we go on our way. If not?” His frowned deepened, then he shrugged, unconcerned. “Well, then you mop up these thugs after we’ve proven our weakness with spilt blood.”

“Haven’t had a proper battle in a fortnight,” the troll replied, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He considered the proposal for all of about two seconds, then eyed his bar-goers, dipping his head in consent. The Flesh Eaters let out a chorus of howls as the patrons converged on ’em like a pack of feral wolves bringing down prey, fists smashing into leather-clad bodies, hands grabbing at too-long limbs. The Flesh Eaters might have been powerful, but the bar-goers were numerous and determined.

“You’ll pay for this. All of you!” Melon-Head roared as a pair of men with blistered skin, both built like silverback gorillas, hoisted him into the air and carted him through the crowd to the pit.

I shed a false smile as I watched the spectacle. “Did you just commit us to a royal-rumble cage match against all ten of those assholes?” I asked Levi in a conspiratorial whisper.

He nodded, stoic as ever.

“I thought you said these guys were tough?”

“They are,” he replied, watching as the last Flesh Eater was carted off to the pit and tossed, unceremoniously, over the stone retaining wall.

“So why are we fighting ’em?”

“Because that’s the only way we walk out of here. We couldn’t do it on the street,” Levi said. “Too many subjects loyal to Asmodeus—either loyal or afraid, which amounts to the same thing in the end. If we’d tried to fight off the Flesh Eaters out there it would’ve brought an army down on our heads. Here, though? No loyalists here. No one to report us. And Blood Pits are warded, so you’ll be able to use your powers down in the sands without fear. It’ll be tough, but if we can survive, we’ll be in good shape. We’ll get to the safe house in no time. Meet our contact.”

The last Flesh Eater landed with a thump.

Quintus turned his rheumy gaze on us. “You gonna get in of your own accord, or am I gonna need to assist you along like these loyalist Dick-Eaters?” That comment coaxed a muted chuckle from the bar-goers.

I was about to protest, maybe try to make a break for it, but Levi’s fingers clamped down into the meat of my shoulder, and before I knew it, he was steering me toward the center of the room. “No running from this,” he whispered into my ear. “This lot is dangerous. Bad, bad men. The longer you survive in Hell, the more its infernal energies distort you. Corrupt you. Empower you. This is an old-timers’ bar, and there’s a reason even the Flesh Eaters give this lot a wide berth. Quintus, there”—he dipped his head at the troll—“has probably been here since before Caesar. And most of the others are as bad or worse. Better to fight the Flesh Eaters.”

The crowd of assorted nightmares—cloven hooves here, webbed hands there, horns in all shapes and sizes jutting into the air—parted for us like the Red Sea opening for Moses, and suddenly the waist-high retaining wall encircling the pit was before me.

Levi’s fingers eased up, and he patted me on the back, then he vaulted over the wall, dropping like a stone. Guy didn’t look like much, maybe a buck fifty soaking wet, but he landed like a Mack truck. For a heartbeat, I thought about abandoning the mustached creeper. Maybe I could blast my way past the troll and his pals, batter down the door, and make a break for freedom. I dismissed the notion almost as quickly as it’d come, though.

If these bar-going freaks were dead set against me, I wouldn’t leave alive.

No way in hell, pardon the pun.

So instead, I gave a disgruntled sigh and sat on the wall, letting my legs dangle over the far side. Whew, boy. I’d thought the drop was maybe ten feet, but from the thin ledge of stone, it looked a helluva lot farther down. Fifteen or twenty feet, maybe. Only having one eye wreaks havoc on depth perception. I steeled myself, preparing to jump, when some douchehole from the crowd made the decision for me by slamming an elbow into my back. My feet hit the ground a second later, a wave of shock running through my boots and up into my legs.

Luckily, I angled my fall, turning my momentum into a forward roll, which brought me upright in a blink.

Levi’s hand fell on my back, fingers clutching the fabric of my shirt and drawing me away from the open center of the pit.

I turned and slapped his meaty paw away as a wave of annoyance flashed through me. “Hey, grabby-hands McGee, I thought we talked about this. No more touchy-feely, alright? I don’t wanna say it again.”

“You’ll thank me later,” he replied, glancing toward the center of the sandy pit as though it might actually be a pool of red-hot magma. Strangely, the Flesh Eaters were also avoiding the center—each of them was pressed up against the far wall, staring at the sandy floor with intense scrutiny. Obviously, I was missing something. Missing it badly. I gave the ground a once-over. Other than a few questionable stains, it looked like your typical fighting pit to me. Not that I’ve seen a ton of fight pits—but the way I figure it, once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all.

But then, the chanting started. “Blood, blood, blood, blood!” Slow at first, almost tentative, then gaining momentum and intensity as the apparent fear and apprehension in the crowd melted away, forgotten in the face of entertainment. “Blood! Blood! Blood! Blood!” Louder and louder it came, crashing down on us like a tsunami of sound, amplified by the stone walls. “BLOOD, BLOOD, BLOOD, BLOOD!” Louder still, until the noise morphed into an unintelligible roar of gurgled voices, and the sand in the pit began to vibrate.

The noise above cut off as though sliced by a razor.

The floor beneath my feet, however, continued its frantic dance—roiling, bubbling up, then dropping away in the center, revealing a monstrous set of jaws, six feet wide, ringed with gleaming spikes and saw-edged teeth. Fleshy tentacles as thick as my wrist, the color of a vein-riddled earthworm, sprouted from the otherworldly throat. Each fleshy appendage was capped by an otherworldly snake head. The tongues, or whatever the hell they actually were, flapped and waved manically through the air before the creature in the floor ushered an ear-shattering roar like a bunker-buster exploding next to my head.

One of the Flesh Eaters was just a little too close to one of those swaying snake-tongues. The serpentine appendage lashed out like a cobra, its hooked jaws sinking into the Flesh Eater’s throat, clamping down like a vice, jerking him from his feet and into the yawning maw. The other tentacles converged on the unlucky bastard in turn, latching on to various body parts like overgrown leeches, before tearing away gobs of pale meat and dragging the son of a bitch down its monstrous throat.

Those tentacle tongues, slick with gore, continued to sway in the air while the mouth undulated, leaving us a rough ring of sand, six feet wide, around the edges of the pit. The Flesh Eaters squeaked and hissed, eyes fixed on the yawning jaws as the crowd above cheered in bloodlust.

Holy shit balls. This was Hell’s version of the friggin’ Sarlacc Pit. Perfect.

“Screw me sideways,” I muttered, feeling even more uncertain about this whole pit-fighting thing. “What is that?”

“Lesser Fiend,” Levi replied stoically, as though he faced down monstrous sand-wyrms on the daily. “Hell is filled with the damned, but even the damned can die—sort of. Lesser Fiends and the Greater Wyrms of the Deep Below eat souls, then burn ’em for all eternity. Hellions use the pits for sport and conflict resolution. Victory through bloodshed.”

“All hail the Pit Fiend,” boomed the troll from above. “It has been summoned and so shall it be fed. Let the losers adorn the Phlegethon. Let the betting commence!”

“Get ready,” Levi said, a feral smile forming on his lips. It was the first real smile I’d seen out of the man. Was this whack job actually enjoying this? “Time for a little fun,” Levi said as a gong crashed overhead.

Horrendous shrieks split the air, faintly muted by cheering from the crowd above, as a wave of Flesh Eaters came at us, tongues waggling, hands clawing the air. Levi, though, didn’t miss a beat. He barreled forward like a mudslide, an avalanche—no fear or hesitation marking his movements—and leaped high into the air, arching over the top of the Lesser Fiend. And as he flew, he changed. His small frame, covered in denim and flannel, melted away, replaced by gray flesh, which bubbled up and out like a muddy spring.

His Carhartt jacket gave way to a thick gut and a beer-keg chest with a golden, glowing brand—a crude sword with Hebrew script running along the blade—carved across his sternum. His arms elongated and swelled, turning into powerful things with hands like dinner plates and fingers like bratwursts.

His face—pale, balding, mustached, and bespectacled—morphed into an irregular, uneven dome with a sloping Cro-Magnon brow and the square jaw of a gorilla. In a few heartbeats, the mousy DMV worker was gone and only the ass-ugly love child of the Incredible Hulk and Clay Face remained.

The guy, or golem, I suppose, was uglier than a dried-out dog turd, but boy did he hit hard. Levi landed like a meteor and slammed into the front-line of Flesh Eaters like a tractor-trailer made out of clay, fat, and gristle. One ham-hock fist caught ol’ Melon-Head on the jaw and sent him spinning head over heels into the wall. His other hand blurred and changed into the familiar meat cleaver I’d seen from before. He sunk that bad boy right through another Flesh Eater’s shoulder, driving the blade down almost to the creature’s sternum.

Wow.

Suddenly, I was very glad I hadn’t tried to tangle with him back in the alleyway.

Still, even with his size and speed, the Flesh Eaters swarmed him with their superior numbers, throwing themselves around his legs or onto his broad back. Their fleshy tongues dug into his skin while assorted blades and hooks gouged out pieces of clay and splattered golden blood across the dull sand. Part of me wanted to just sit back and enjoy the shitshow, but it was high time I pulled my weight. I tore my gaze from the carnage and called up power as four of the Flesh Eaters broke away from the group and charged me—two circling left, another pair skirting the Lesser Fiend on the right.

EIGHT:

Shit-Kickery

The leather-fetish assholes were trying to flank me, but I had a few nasty tricks up my sleeve.

I opened myself to the Vis, feeling the trickle of magma-hot energy ebb into my veins, then pulled on the Nox, letting foul ice water splash over my soul. The opposing powers—sweet life and bitter death—swirled against each other; a high- and low-pressure system colliding and churning in a jumbled tornado of raw force. In a blink, I wreathed myself in cold purple flame, letting it spread and dance over my hands and arms until I glowed with an otherworldly light.

With a grin, I threw one hand out, calling up a gout of dirty yellow flame, which washed over the two Flesh Eaters charging me on the left. I watched in numb detachment as the conjured fire doused their bondage-clad bodies, lapping at pale skin and red muscle. In seconds, the two vanished beneath a wall of burning death … but then, much to my surprise, they burst through the red-and-gold blaze, trailing plumes of smoke into the air, but otherwise unfazed by the terrible heat. Which is when it occurred to me: we were in Hell.

This place was as hot as the sun’s asshole, so tossing around a fistful of fire probably wasn’t going to be the smartest play.

I changed tactics, dismissing the flames and calling up a javelin of raw force, reinforced with braids of air and oily Nox. The construct smashed into the pair like an industrial-sized lead pipe, and they went spinning into the air, bones snapping like gunfire. One went left, landing in a heap of twisted limbs, while the other fell just a hair too close to the Pit Fiend. A dancing snake-headed tentacle wrapped around a busted leg and pulled the creature into the massive gullet. My grin widened a touch. These assholes weren’t so tough after all. The pair of shitheads flanking me on the right were close now, but I was feeling cocky.

Confident for the first time in a long time.

I tossed my left hand out, summoning a shimmering blue defensive construct, perfect for stopping a hail of gunfire or pesky demonic bounty hunters dead in their tracks.

One skinless idiot ran full-bore into the shield and bounced off like a basketball hitting the rim. Denied. The other—and obviously the smarter of the two—leaped over the flickering half-dome, but I had something waiting for him. I flicked my right wrist out, summoning a churning ground fog, which rolled forward like the incoming tide. The Flesh Eater touched down, completely oblivious to the danger, and blundered headlong into the low-clinging mist, his goggle-covered eyes fixated on me with hungry fury. That was a big mistake—his last big mistake, in fact.

Silver tentacles, almost alive, slithered around the Flesh Eater’s arms, legs, and torso. With an Eat-a-Dick smile, I clenched my fist, exerting my will.

The cloud of pure, primal destruction eagerly responded.

The tentacles flexed and contracted, pulling away with a violent spasm of force. The Flesh Eater never stood a chance; a metallic squee tore at my ears as the gangly creature came apart at the seams, body pieces arcing through the air, accompanied by a spray of sludgy gore.

With another flick of my wrist, I dismissed the costly force construct, then took a quick scan of the pit: somehow, Levi had dislodged most of the Flesh Eaters—though one still clung to his back like a wild chimp. The MudMan was busy dispensing justice with one meat-cleaver limb and one that resembled a medieval mace on ’roids.

One of the two Flesh Eaters I’d dispatched earlier—a rusty pickax jutting from an amputated wrist—clambered back to its feet even though its neck was twisted at an unnatural angle. I looked right and found most of my force shield was simply gone. The Flesh Eater I’d bounced away was crouched before the flickering blue construct, its black tongue caressing the barrier, licking away chunks of raw power with every pass like someone working over a Tootsie Pop.

As it stood now, my defensive barrier was little more than a tattered patchwork of Nox: all of the Vis I’d imbued the shield with had vanished.

Eaten.

Even more disconcerting, the creature was bigger. Noticeably so. Its scrawny arms were fuller, its body less emaciated, the leather stretched even tighter against growing muscle. I dismissed the construct with a wave before the asshole could munch down any more of my power, and lashed out at the stupid Flesh Eater with a lance of raw Nox—

The creature grinned and thrust out a hand in a crude imitation of yours truly. A blue force shield—my blue force shield, dammit—exploded to life, absorbing the javelin of Nox and dispersing it with ease. The shield flickered and burned for a moment before fading, leaving the Flesh Eater staring at me with smug satisfaction.

Well shit.

A flash of movement on the left caught my eye.

I turned as a spear of angry flame sliced toward me, courtesy of ol’ Pickax Hand. Panicked, I threw myself into a dive, the flames shooting past me as I rolled a few feet to safety, though precariously close to the Pit Fiend. I narrowly avoided having my skin melted off, which was good, but before I could gain my feet, a battering ram of force sideswiped me like a dump truck. The blow blasted me into one of the pit’s walls, knocking the air from my lungs and whipping my head into the worn stone wall with a crack.

I just sat there in a heap, leaning drunkenly against the wall, head spinning, black creeping in around the edges while I pressed my palms against the side of my head. In the few brief seconds it took to get my bearings, the skinless asshole that’d cast my force shield was lunging at me, its clawed fingers outstretched and slashing at the air.

I ducked left as a claw-tipped hand shot past my face and left a divot in the wall where my head had been a moment before. I didn’t have much room to maneuver, but I didn’t need it. I unleashed a brutal lance of Nox directly into one of its exposed legs; deathly purple flame sheared through the limb like a buzz saw, sending everything below the knee flopping to the floor. The Flesh Eater fought to remain upright, arms waving to compensate for the missing leg, but it was a useless battle.

Especially when I smashed its working leg in with a front kick.

My heavy boot landed squarely at the kneecap, folding the leg back in on itself, and down went the Flesh Eater like a felled tree, shrieking as it groped at its spurting stump. With a nasty grimace, I pulled my pistol free and put a round into the Flesh Eater’s head at close range. The shot rang out, oddly muted by the Vis constructs worked into the weapon, and the Flesh Eater’s head disappeared in a spray of bone and fetid blood, leaving only a jagged wound behind.

The force of the shot sent the body precariously close to the Pit Fiend. A fleshy tongue struck like a cobra, grabbing the body and hauling it away even as purple flames spread across the Flesh Eater’s corpse.

Another one down, but I couldn’t celebrate yet—Pickax Hand was closing in fast.

I stowed my hand cannon and hastily scrambled back to my feet as that rusted spike carved through the air, inbound for my skull.

With a new supernatural quickness, I feinted right, letting the clumsy weapon whistle past me, and ducked inside its guard. I pistoned the shithead in the gut with my fist, then wrapped one hand around the Flesh Eater’s pickax arm and used a burst of cold-burning Nox to sever the limb at the bicep. The creature fell back a step, staring at the cauterized nub where its arm used to be. Its mechanical jaws hung open, tongue lolling out, as though the disgusting moron couldn’t quite understand how this had happened.

Before the unfortunate Hellion could get its bearings, however, I twirled the amputated arm and sunk the pickax into the Flesh Eater’s pale neck. Blood spurted as the monstrous goon toppled, groping at its ruined throat. It was a losing battle, though, and its movements grew slower, more lethargic, with every passing second.

“That’s right, ass-face,” I called in victory, “screw around with me, and I’ll beat you to death with your own—” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

A black tongue slipped around my throat and contracted like a boa constrictor. I gagged in surprise and shock, then clawed at the fleshy garrote choking the life from my body. In a flash, serpentine limbs snaked around my chest, pinning my arms to my sides in a bear hug of incredible strength. I thrashed and fought, throwing my body left and right, but the Flesh Eater hoisted me into the air without a problem, my feet dangling a foot above the gritty sand.

My lungs burned from the lack of sweet air, my heart thudded away madly in my chest, and my throat screamed out in agony as the hooked barbs decorating the Flesh Eater’s tongue drilled into my skin, lapping up blood. But the creature was siphoning off more than just blood—the ugly bastard was eating my power, my life force. I could feel Vis and Vim flow out of me like a leaky faucet, and there was nothing I could do. I continued to fight, drumming my heels against the Hellion’s shins, my fingers digging at the damned tongue, but the Flesh Eater ignored me, savoring my neck like a delicious rack of ribs.

Just as my brain began to switch off, the pressure suddenly vanished, my feet hit the deck, and the tongue was gone. I wheeled around, blinking bleary eyes, only to find Levi crushing the Flesh Eater’s head in a beefy, pizza-sized hand.

“Thanks,” I croaked, rubbing at my tender throat, wincing as my fingers ran over raised, bloody welts—wounds from the tiny suction cups dotting the Flesh Eater’s black tongue.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he grunted, drawing me back a step, away from the Pit Fiend, before pointing toward a Flesh Eater scampering from one body to the next. “We’re not in the clear.”

The lone surviving Flesh Eater tore away its lower metal jaw, revealing a loose flap of skin and a cavernous gullet ringed with undulating bristles. It slid the jaw plate onto a holster adorning its side, pulled the skin flap down, and hastily began shoving body pieces into its throat hole. An arm here, a leg there, part of a skull, most of a foot. Right down the hatch they went, like a python eating bunny rabbit after bunny rabbit. Except instead of adorable bunny rabbits, which would’ve been awful enough, these were the grisly remains of its buddies.

The Flesh Eater was rail thin, but the corpse pieces disappeared with frightening speed, and as they did, the Flesh Eater grew. Its arms bulged, its chest swelled, its legs elongated, and shards of gleaming bone sprouted from its back, shoulders, and arms like cancerous thorns. Within moments—seconds, really—all that remained was the single, monstrous Flesh Eater, easily fifteen feet tall, half as wide, and ten times as ugly.

I gave Levi a sidelong what-in-the-holy-hell-is-that glance as the bottom of my stomach dropped out.

“Flesh Eaters,” he replied, as though the name said everything that needed to be said. “I’ll distract it,” he stated matter-of-factly. “You take out its head—the eyes are especially vulnerable. We need to feed it to the Pit Fiend, that’s the only way we win.”

The colossal Flesh Eater threw its head back and let out a bellow that sounded like a mountain of glass shattering. Levi, the colossal gray shit-kicker, dipped fat fingers into a gnarly gash running across one arm, scooped out a handful of golden blood, then lobbed the shit at the Franken-Flesh-Eater. The gore splattered across the dusty ground, forming a golden halo in the dirt around the creature. The ginormous monster glanced down, unimpressed with Levi’s handiwork. Honestly, I was sort of unimpressed, too. But then Levi slammed a fist into the earth, unleashing a seismic quake that knocked me off my feet.

The Hulk-sized Flesh Eater had no such problem, but a host of obsidian spikes exploded from the pit’s floor, sprouting from where Levi’s golden blood had fallen. The gleaming spears of ebony rock blasted through the creature’s feet, legs, and groin, pinning it in place as the golem lumbered forward, exploiting the brief opening.

I watched, transfixed and strangely horrified, as the MudMan changed and jumped once more: bony ridges of swirling rose quartz sprouted from his gray skin like thick scales, or maybe plate-mail. His hands likewise morphed into giant sledgehammer heads of purple quartzite, dotted with shards of black obsidian.

He careened through the forest of obsidian quills littering the floor and laid into the uber Flesh Eater—at least twice his size—swinging his heavy fists with brutal efficiency. He worked the creature’s legs and torso, the only things he could reach, raining blow after brutal blow into flesh already broken and bleeding from the obsidian spears. The Flesh Eater responded in kind, though. Its giant bone-studded knuckles smashed into the golem, each impact accomplished by a thunderclap as bits of rosy rock and golden blood flew.

I had no clue how long Levi could withstand the bludgeoning, so I bolted right, sprinting along the pit’s wall, then slipped behind the monstrous Flesh Eater.

With a curse and a silent prayer, I scampered up the Flesh Eater’s back, using the bony nubs and rusted chains as hand and foot holds to hoist myself ever higher. The freak had to feel me clambering up his back, but apparently Levi was doing a damned-fine job of holding its attention. The tremendous body beneath me reeled from Levi’s devastating attacks, its legs swaying, its torso contorting, its arms pumping in ferocious attack. Before long, I crested the mountain of swaying meat and hooked one arm around a neck the size of a telephone pole.

I pressed my free palm into the side of its head and conjured a lance of concentrated Nox, unleashing the bolt of energy into its temple. The Flesh Eater was as big and beefy as a bull elephant, but the beam of deathly power didn’t give two shits about his size. Its skull fractured, skin sloughed away, and muscle simply vanished. The nasty bastard teetered—left, right, front, back—and I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. I was on the back of a fifteen-foot super freak who had to weigh in at a solid ton of meat and muscle. If he fell back, the force of the fall would crush me like a car compactor.

Frantically, I thrust one hand behind me and whipped up a construct of air and fire: an impromptu hand-held jet-pack. Flame exploded out, scorching the wall behind me like a rocket marring the launch pad. Thankfully, physics still applied in Hell; the force of the blast decided our trajectory, propelling us forward, toward the Pit Fiend. I stole a quick peek over the giant’s shoulder and watched the MudMan bolt right as I rode the falling giant toward the ground, clinging tightly for dear life.

We hit with a thud that rattled my teeth and reverberated in my bones, but the Flesh Eater absorbed the bulk of the impact and kept me from breaking anything important.

A thunderous cheer went up from the crowd, lots of “eat that loyalist cocksucker,” and “death to Asmodeus,” intermixed with a few calls for free beer. I just lay there, basking in the moment, letting my shot nerves and trembling hands settle as the cheer transformed into the familiar chant of “Blood, Blood, Blood.”

“Back!” Levi boomed, his landslide voice cutting through all the clamor as the Pit Fiend’s fleshy tentacles shot up around the Flesh Eater. In a wave of panic, I loosened my death grip around the Flesh Eater’s neck and rolled off the corpse, landing in the dirt next to the Pit Fiend. Then, quick as I could, I scrambled away, sliding to a halt, spinning around, and pressing my back against cool stone. The Flesh Eater’s body folded in half with a crunch, its back snapping under the tremendous pressure of the sinuous tentacle tongues.

It only took seconds for the colossal body to vanish down the grotesque wyrm’s throat, and then it was done. Gone. The pit floor reverted back to normal, and there was no evidence—aside from a few new blood smears and some golden goop—that anything had even happened.

NINE:

Crossroad Saloon

Levi, once more resembling a dumpy grocery-store manager, ushered me out of the Southside Blood Pit and into the unnaturally hot night. After we’d finished off the Flesh Eaters, Quintus had kindly fished us from the pit, given us a generous round of drinks on the house, which we’d politely declined, and seen us off after hooking me up with an additional pack of Reds. Apparently, murdering ten loyalist Flesh Eaters was worth a little goodwill in Hell.

Or at least, in this particular part of Hell.

Levi loitered by the wall, coldly surveying the winding alleyway in both directions, running his fingers along the stone, before finally nodding, satisfied by whatever he felt. “We’re in the clear,” he mumbled more to himself than me, before drawing a silver flask from a pocket. “Here,” he barked, unscrewing the lid with surprisingly nimble fingers, then pushing the little bottle toward me. “Drink this.”

I eyed the flask, thinking back to his hulking murder-machine form. “Where exactly do you keep that thing?” I asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I don’t remember seeing any pockets when you were all Hulked out back in the pit.”

He frowned, grimaced, then pointed to his belly. “I store things inside my gut,” he replied offhandedly, as though that were the most natural thing in the world. His flannel-clad stomach rippled and pulled back, revealing a gray divot big enough to hold a wallet, phone, or, in this case, a bottle of hooch—at least I hoped it was hooch. Preferably bourbon. Good bourbon, though that was probably asking too much.

“Yeah, that’s not normal,” I offered with a frown and a nod.

“It’s not a suggestion,” he replied sternly, thrusting the flask at me again. “You used a lot of Nox back there, and that wears down the seal.” He reached over and tugged up my jacket sleeve. The formerly glowing tribal tattoos decorating my right arm were dull and lifeless. “Makes you vulnerable over time. I don’t want my handiwork to go to waste.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, eyeing the swirling golden tattoos and Levi in turn. “Did you do this to me?” I lifted my arm and waggled it in his face. “You’re the asshole that carved me up without permission?”

He nodded, unruffled by my accusation. “Not sure if you realize this, but you have demons in you. More than one.” He gave me a flat, hard stare edging on hate. “The exorcism I performed on you, it didn’t get rid of those monsters hitching a ride in your soul. Just locked them up nice and tight so they can’t influence you. So they can’t speak to you or wrestle away control.

“And those sigils”—he jabbed a finger toward my arm—“are what’s keeping ’em in check. But don’t ever forget, they’re still in you. That means you can access their power, but the more Nox you draw, the more the ichor has to work to hold them back. So, if you want to stay in control, you’re gonna be drinking this stuff every couple of days. Maybe more.”

I eyed the flask askew. Reluctantly, I accepted and took a deep swig. The liquid was sludgy and tasted like spoiled milk and old pennies: bitter, rancid, and slightly metallic. “Gah,” I gagged, pulling the bottle away and running the back of my hand across my mouth. I glanced down and noticed a glistening golden smear marring my knuckles. “Oh God, please tell me this isn’t your blood?”

“Not blood,” he said curtly. “Ichor. But yes, it’s mine. Now drink it. All of it.”

“Ah, nope. No way. Me, I’m not exactly trusting by nature, so I want a full explanation before I start downing a pint of monster blood. I’m not sure if you’ve ever heard of vampires, but chugging blood is how you get vampires.”

Levi glowered at me and crossed his arms, one foot tapping in irritation, as though explaining basic facts was the most inconvenient task in the history of humanity. “Fine,” he conceded with an eyeroll. “I’ll explain while you drink.”

I lifted the bottle to my lips, pinched my nose, and took another swig.

“I was created to house a demonic godling,” Levi begrudgingly explained. “The big problem with demons is finding a host capable of holding their essence without it leaking all over the place. Generally, mortal bodies can’t handle the strain … The seepage of Nox kills most people. And conjured bodies are even less resilient—they need a constant supply of life force to operate on the Mortal Plane. But me?” He slapped his chest with one hand. “I’m custom built. The product of two thousand years’ worth of experimentation.”

He paused, gaze drifting for a moment as though trapped in some horrid memory, before snapping back to the present with a shake of his head. “My blood, my ichor,” he continued, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, “is a transmutable insulator. Allows me to shapeshift, but it’s actually intended to prevent demonic essence from leaking. Ichor works both ways, though. It can keep a demon perfectly preserved inside me, but it can also be used to keep demons out—or in your case, locked up. But you need a steady supply, and I’m the only one who can get you what you need, so no funny business.”

I grimaced and finished off the bottle, holding back the projectile vomit through sheer force of will, before offering him the empty flask.

“Now, if you’re satisfied, Chatty Cathy, let’s go. We’ve got people to meet.” He turned and set off at a good trot, no longer bothering to offer me even the pretense of conversation. Considering what kind of conversationalist he was, I didn’t mind a whole helluva lot. We followed the claustrophobic alley for another couple of minutes before exiting onto a winding street packed with more strange shops and more freaky denizens who didn’t offer us a second glance.

Here, it seemed, we were just another couple of Hellion Rubes, on our way from nowhere to nowhere.

After another twenty minutes of steady trekking, and what felt like a thousand turns and switchbacks later, Levi finally halted in front of a twisted building with an electric-blue neon sign: The Crossroads Saloon. Surprisingly, this sign was in genuine English, and even stranger, gritty blues licks—partially muted by the heavy door—drifted to my ears. The tinkle of piano keys. A riff of twangy guitar. The thump, thump, thump of a classic bass line. A dark rendition of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ “I Put a Spell on You.”

Levi pushed his way in without explanation, and I followed, intrigued. The music intensified and soon the savory smell of roasted meat and tangy barbeque sauce assaulted my nostrils, making my mouth water. I still had the god-awful metallic taste of Levi’s blood—ichor, I reminded myself—lining the inside of my mouth like a thin coat of lead paint. Needless to say, the thought of washing my mouth out with a fire hose of barbeque sauce was supremely appealing.

I’d been expecting something similar to the Blood Pit—shitty lighting, creaky wooden tables, monstrous Hellions nursing sludgy drinks—but was pleasantly surprised to find a place that could’ve come straight out of the French Quarter. Instead of sooty black stone, the walls were red brick. There were dark wood floors, clean though worn, a spattering of black leather booths, and circular pub tables. Framed records and old guitars adorned the walls, showcased with recessed red lighting, which gave the scene a hellish cast—fitting given our locale.

A rotund black woman with a droopy eye, a drab kerchief wrapped around her hair, and a pair of goat’s horns jutting from the sides of her head presided over a well-stocked bar. She almost looked familiar—like I’d seen her before but couldn’t quite place her. Even without the goat horns, which I assumed were hellish additions, I’d certainly never forget a face like that.

“MudMan,” she said with a nod to Levi, a spark of familiarity and fear lingering in her gaze.

“Rainey,” Levi replied with a dip of his head.

“And who dis fine lookin’ bag-a-bones you done dragged in?” she asked, her voice sultry and smoky, custom-built for a career in music. She cocked one eyebrow and gave me a quick once-over, her thick lips pressing into a tight line as she rubbed a cloudy glass with a dirty rag. “He look like trouble, dis one,” she finished, though a coy half smile graced her lips.

“Yancy Lazarus,” I said with a lopsided smile.

“Umm,” she replied knowingly. “So you da boy causin’ all the fuss. I heard about you, you know. A bluesman,” she said, eyes flashing over my hands. “Might fit in here. One day. Now you boys move along. Da queen, she ain’t much for waiting. But don’t you worry—I’ll be sure to send somethin’ down.” She shot me a wink, then shooed us on with a flick of her wrist.

“Holy shit, this place is alright,” I said to Levi with a sniff and a nod. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a bluesman.”

“I’m not,” the golem replied flatly. “I prefer contemporary Christian. Something with a positive message. Helps keep me centered. Grounded. The queen, though, seemed to think this place might put you at ease. Now come on.” He turned and headed deeper into the joint. We wound our way past several tables, avoiding the few other patrons present, and wandered through thick clouds of dancing gray smoke. Out of habit, I fished a cigarette from my pocket and lit up, taking a few deep puffs to settle my restless nerves.

We made our way to the far end of the saloon.

Off to the left was a narrow set of stairs, descending to a basement, but it was the raised stage dead ahead that caught my attention like a machine-gun-wielding velociraptor on a motorcycle.

Levi kept right on going toward the staircase, not even glancing at the three musicians on stage. But me? I stopped dead in my tracks, my legs numb and suddenly useless. A young man, deeply black and in his late twenties, crouched on a three-legged stool with a guitar balanced casually in his lap. He sported a black fedora, perched on his head at a rakish angle, a white button up accented by a pencil tie, and a pair of pin-striped slacks. A hand-rolled cigarette lolled from the corner of his mouth, a trail of smoke wafting lazily into the air.

There were only two known pictures in existence of the man sitting on that stool, but I recognized him in an instant. I’d seen his mug a thousand times, staring at me in that same cocksure way from the cover of every blues album that bore his name.

“Holy shit, you’re Robert Johnson,” I said, a cool numbness fluttering in my belly. “Like the Robert Johnson—King of the Delta Blues.”

“Yes’sir,” he replied, his grin stretching, his cigarette bobbing. “And this is my little slice of Paradise. The Crossroads.” He pulled the smoke from the corner of his mouth. “That’s Cow Cow on the piano,” he said, jerking his head toward a fat-cheeked man in a bowler hat. “And ol’ Dumplin’ on the bass.”

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

Arrayed on the stage, performing for a nearly empty bar of Hellions, were three of the most influential bluesmen to ever live, breathe, and play. In a flash of insight, I realized where I’d seen the woman tending bar—the one Levi had called Rainey. That had to be Ma Rainey. If Robert Johnson was the King of Delta Blues, Ma Rainey was the queen. The friggin’ Queen of Blues had just told me I might get to play here someday; suddenly the idea of cooling my heels in the Pit didn’t seem so bad …

Well, aside from the heat, the decay, the scent of rotten flesh, and the demons.

Usually, I was a cool operator—I’ve talked shit to demons, put my foot down on the throat of dusty Dominions and Powers of old, and kicked uppity godlings right in the friggin’ teeth—but suddenly I felt like a giddy, awestruck thirteen-year-old girl. I mean, the guys on stage weren’t monstrous demons or diabolic doucheholes, they were the Lords of Blues: my heroes. My idols. Suddenly, for maybe the first time ever, my brain short-circuited, and I couldn’t find any words. Nothing seemed appropriate.

Robert Johnson seemed to have some sort of preternatural insight into my starstruck condition. “Don’t sweat it, kid,” he said, shooting me a wink and a finger gun. “Everyone’s got a hero. Hell, maybe someday it’ll be you up on this stage.” Then, cool as a winter morning, he offered me a lopsided grin filled with the pointed teeth of a cannibal while his fingers flitted over the strings, and his twangy guitar riffs filled the air.

“Come on,” Levi said, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder and drawing me toward the staircase.

I let the golem drag me away, down the stairs, our footsteps echoing off of old brick as Robert Johnson’s husky voice chased me into darkness—“I Put a Spell on You” giving way to Johnson’s iconic “Crossroad Blues.” I could die happy now, ’cause nothing in my life would ever top that. Nothing.

The stairs dead-ended at a stone door, oddly out of place with the rest of the saloon. Everything upstairs had been all hardwood and red brick, but this door was gray and ancient. Lavish scenes of obscene sexuality—really weird shit involving men, women, and everything in between, including Lovecraftian tentacle monsters—were painstakingly depicted in the stone.

Carved boldly into the stone across the top was a phrase: Neither here nor there, but everything betwixt and between.

Levi paused, one hand pressed against the door, and glanced at me over a shoulder. “A word, before we go in,” he said. “You remember what happened at the Blood Pit?”

“Yeah,” I said with a colossal eyeroll. “Hard to forget, but as soon as I can get a bottle of Jack I’ll start working on it.”

“That’s your prerogative,” he replied with a noncommittal shrug. “The important thing to know is the woman behind this door is a thousand times more dangerous than an army of Flesh Eaters. She’s bad. Evil. And I know evil,” he said with a sniff. “There’s nothing I’d like more than to see her body pitched into the Phlegethon, but this isn’t a fight you can win. Not like you are now, anyway. So, hold your tongue and keep your head. Don’t lip off, or you’ll end in the gut of a Greater Pit Wyrm. Understand?”

“Got it,” I replied, wiping sweaty palms along grimy jeans.

He eyed me for another long beat, carefully assessing me. “Alright,” he said before issuing a disgruntled sigh. “Let’s go meet the Succubus Queen.”

TEN:

All Hail the Queen

I followed Levi into a lavish room covered with red and golds: Velvety crimson drapery hung from the walls in sheets. Persian rugs the color of a fresh nosebleed carpeted the floors while intricate granite columns—carved with intertwined nude bodies—supported an ornate vaulted ceiling. Suede couches, embroidered with golden hexagrams, lined the walls, while gaudy chandeliers overhead shed muted, flickering firelight. Along the right wall was a huge bar, decorated with ancient bronze statuettes—religious idols from a different time and place, depicting one horrific demon after another.

The place was kitschy and glitzy in all the wrong ways. Even Donald Trump would’ve blanched at the display—it almost hurt to look at.

There were also plenty of people scattered throughout the room—Flesh Eaters mostly, though instead of sporting black bondage, this lot wore red leather. Surprise, surprise. Most of the Flesh Eating freaks ignored us completely, lounging on couches, speaking in low murmurs around a spattering of dark-wood round tables covered in golden filigree. As we moved farther in, the room opened up and I spotted a performance stage off to the left. There were no musicians on that stage, though. Nope.

Instead, men and women—most human-looking—danced and twirled around a series of gleaming poles, flashing an inordinate amount of skin at ogling Flesh Eaters.

Levi patently ignored the dancers, marching toward a booth near the bar. The booth itself was one of those circular deals, all red leather, gold buttons, and dark wood, occupied by three women. On the left was a mousy beanpole of a gal with creamy skin and a pinched face. On the right sat a stocky dark-skinned woman with burnt-gold eyes, pointed ears with tufts of hair on the ends, and a perpetual scowl. I’d run in supernatural circles long enough, however, to know the woman we’d come to see was the one in the middle.

It wasn’t just her looks—it was in the way she sat, cocky and posed, and in the way the other two women treated her. Sitting close but not too close. Their eyes always deferentially averted yet simultaneously tracking her every movement. The way others in the room kept stealing glances at her, reading her mood.

With that said, her looks were a part of it, too.

She stared at me with fierce eyes burning with ghoulish red light, her ruby lips pulled up in a contemptuous sneer, revealing surprisingly even teeth. Her face was sculpted with the classic lines of a Greek statue and framed by a sheet of lustrous black hair, which cascaded past delicate shoulders covered in spurs of black bone. But she wasn’t human and didn’t pretend to be. The horns—cruel, crimson-tipped things which faded to dull gold—protruding from the sides of her head gave her away. That and the set of thin, leathery batwings draped around her shoulders like a cloak.

“MudMan,” she cooed at my new pal, Levi, the ghost of a smile gracing her flawless lips. “I’m ever so glad to see the exorcism was a success—a sentiment I can honestly say I never thought to express.”

Levi grunted and sniffed. “Your advice was …” He paused, frowned, and shifted from foot to foot as though even the idea of playing nice with a demon was intolerable. “Surprisingly helpful,” he finished, the words forced and uncomfortable. Even at a glance, I saw absolute murder etched into the lines of his dour face. He looked like a man exercising extreme self-control, but just barely. The woman, though, didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she didn’t care.

“And Yancy Lazarus in the flesh,” she purred, tapping at her bottom lip with a talon-tipped finger covered in gaudy rings. “Allow me to formally introduce myself. I’m the Succubus Queen Hecate, Goddess of Witchcraft, Dark Magicks, and Lady of the Crossroads.”

“You’re the Crossroad Demon,” I said, which made perfect sense considering the musicians playing upstairs—all three bluesmen had supposedly sold their souls to the Devil of the Crossroad in exchange for phenomenal musical prowess.

“Just so,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “Please, take a seat, won’t you?”

I eyed the booth and the mysterious silent women flanking the Succubus Queen on either side. Neither looked especially ghoulish, but these were Hellions—Hellions powerful or influential enough to relax with a serious power-player, which meant they were plenty dangerous.

“Think I’ll stand.”

“I insist.” She lifted a finger and twirled it around in a circle—almost before I could blink, a Flesh Eater was behind me with a heavy chair, almost a throne, covered in gold leaf and plastered with red velvet. The Flesh Eater deposited the chair at the table and glowered at me, revealing rows and rows of jagged piranha-like teeth. Even without speaking, the message was clear as good Kentucky-Shine: you will sit, one way or another. Now generally, that’s the kinda shit that ruffles my feathers—I hate being bullied or pushed around—but then I remembered Levi’s warning.

There were three times the number of Flesh Eaters we’d taken on in the Blood-Pit present, not to mention Hecate herself.

Reluctantly, I sat.

“Excellent,” she said, regarding me over steepled fingers. “And now, I’m sure you’re hungry. The Inferno has a way of doing that to us all, I’m afraid. But today, at least, you’ll eat like the honored guest you are.” She snapped her fingers.

Ma Rainey, the droopy-eyed black woman from the bar, scuttled into view a second later, bearing a serving tray loaded down with meaty ribs slathered in barbecue sauce and flanked by a slice of cornbread. Absolute heaven on a plate—the irony was not entirely lost on me. She set the meal on the table, added a pint of something dark and tasty for good measure, then shot me a sly wink before beelining for an unobtrusive servers’ door located behind the bar.

I eyed the food with supreme suspicion, then shot a quick glance at the Flesh Eaters milling about. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. Never been big into cannibalism myself.”

Hecate laughed, a deep-bellied thing, full and rich. “No need to worry about that, Mr. Lazarus. Not all Hellions enjoy the taste of man-flesh. This”—she swept a hand toward my plate—“comes from my private stock of Berkshire black pigs. Born, bred, and slaughtered right here in the Second Circle. A genuinely rare treat, available only to the wealthiest Hellions. You should count yourself twice blessed.” She idly ran a palm across the table, then nodded to the plate. “Please enjoy.”

“No food for my friend?” I asked, hooking a thumb at Levi, who stood a few paces away, his hands laced behind his back, jaw clenched tight.

Hecate eyed him for a moment, a feral smile splitting her otherwise lovely face. “I shouldn’t think the MudMan would accept anything I have to offer. Our relationship is tenuous at best. Besides, he doesn’t eat—or at least he doesn’t need to—so the food would be wasted anyway.”

I shrugged and turned back to the ribs—I was ravenously hungry, after all, so she didn’t need to twist my arm—and dug in with gusto. The meat damn near slid off the bone and melted in my mouth like warm butter, while the smoky, tangy barbecue sauce capered across my tongue like a marching band of flavored awesomeness. Then there was the cornbread … Oh, my God, the cornbread. Dense and mellow. Sweet but not too sweet. A crunchy crust that spoke of lard on cast iron. The perfect match for the savory pork. The beer, a dark lager, was bittersweet and tasted faintly of honey.

The queen gave me a few minutes to shovel food into my face, and I packed away bite after bite as though I hadn’t eaten in days or maybe weeks. Heck, for all I know, maybe I hadn’t.

Eventually, I leaned back in my seat, feeling irrationally good as I nibbled on a spare bit of cornbread, letting a few crumbs rain down onto my sweat-stained shirt and not giving two shits. With that done, I eyed my hostess and slowly licked smears of butter from the tips of my fingers—unsanitary, I know, but I reminded myself that I’d just chugged a flask full of golem blood less than an hour ago.

“Okay,” I said, before stifling a belch with a closed fist. “I’ve been doing this for long enough to know there’s no such thing as a free meal.” I gestured toward the stack of grease-smeared bones. “So, how’s about you tell me what you’re after?”

She pouted and ran a clawed finger along the surface of the table. “No foreplay. A shame—I’m very, very good at foreplay.” She took a deep breath, her breasts rising in a look-at-me way, then sighed. “But such is life in Hell, at times. Still, I can appreciate a man who is interested in business. For the past several months, I’ve been sheltering your disagreeable friend, there”—she dipped her head toward Levi—“helping him track you down while providing him with a bit of much-needed information about Hell, and demonic exorcism in particular.”

“And why would you do that?” I asked, scratching my chin. Demons weren’t helpful, not unless it benefited them.

“Self-preservation, naturally,” she replied, placing her hands primly in her lap. “Azazel is no friend to me—old grudges run deep, and Azazel was never one to forgive or forget. It’s simply not in his nature. The old war goat has been quite useful thus far, carving his way through Asmodeus’ court, but it’s only a matter of time before he sets his sights on me. He is not an enemy I want skulking around behind my back. Especially not with Buné’s power at his beck and call.”

“Stop,” I said, raising a hand. “Why, exactly, does Azazel have it out for you and Asmodeus in the first place? I know Azazel better than most, what with him kicking around the ol’ skull, and he seems ruthless but pragmatic. So, I’m guessing if he wants you dead, there’s probably a pretty good reason.”

“Old politics,” she replied, tilting her head to one side and waving the question away with her hand. “Too intricate for a mortal with such limited intellect to understand.”

“Gee, if I weren’t such a levelheaded guy,” I replied, voice flat and dry as a piece of overcooked toast, “I might be offended.”

She smirked at me and rolled her eyes, the message clear: you were meant to be offended, meat-puppet. “All you need to know is that a long, long, long time ago, my kin and I elected to check Azazel’s relentless ambition by trapping him in the Second Seal. A trifling thing, really, but he’s never quite gotten over it.”

“Yeah, I can’t possibly understand how something as small as eternal imprisonment might make someone bitter.”

It was her turn to stare at me, lips pursed into a thin, unamused line, her forehead furrowed in annoyance.

“The ways of your betters are not for you to understand, Mr. Lazarus. All you need to know about my relationship with Azazel is that I want him gone from Hell, which means I want you gone from Hell. Perhaps we don’t see eye to eye on all matters, but in this we have the same goal. Therefore, it’s only prudent we work together.”

“Okay, so let me see if I have this straight. You helped ol’ Goo-blood McGee”—I glanced at Levi—“to track me down for three months, all so you could give me a one-way ticket out of Hell? No strings attached?”

“Mostly,” she replied with a curt nod. “Though it was actually the MudMan who sought me out. It’s your Guild that sent him down here to find you, or rather what remains of the Guild. As to strings … as I’m sure you’re aware, there are always strings attached. I intend to see you gone”—she paused, weighing me through narrowed eyes—“but I would see you kill Asmodeus on the way out.”

“Whoa now,” I replied, shooting my hands into the air. “I’m gonna stop you right there. Me?” I cocked an eyebrow and thumped my chest. “I’m not a gun for hire—not anymore and definitely not for you. I don’t like being someone else’s goon, not even when the target is an asshole demon.”

“Understandable,” she said, tracing her nails over the tabletop in elaborate swirls. “But you’ll help me because, once again, it’s in our mutual interest. You see, getting into Hell is easy enough, but getting out is a tricky bit of business. Traversing the nine levels is manageable through the Purgatory Gates, but there’s only one way to get from Hell into Outworld. A giant nexus with but a single door. I’m sure you’ve seen it—the blinding beam of light situated at the heart of our quaint city.

“And here, then, is the complication: The nexus point for Pandæmonium lies at the center of the Flesh Palace, and only Asmodeus has the key to unlock the way. So, if you want to leave this place, you must infiltrate the Flesh Palace Arena, murder the king, and steal the talisman he wears about his neck. If you do that, I get a well-deserved promotion, and you get to go home. Win-win for everyone save Asmodeus.” She fell silent, her words lingering heavy in the air like a storm cloud ready and waiting to vomit lightning to the ground.

“Okay,” I finally said, sitting back in my seat, running my palms through stringy, sweat-stained hair. “Let’s say I agree to this—and I haven’t agreed yet—how exactly do I go about killing a demon, anyway? Might be I’m a little behind the learning curve, but I was under the impression that immortals can’t die. Hence the name.”

“Most true,” Hecate replied with a wicked half smile, “yet despite that, Azazel has managed to kill seventeen members of Asmodeus’ Court, all by using the power of the Fourth Seal, Death. If Azazel was exiled to the Second Seal because of his unchecked ambition, then Buné, the Fourth Horseman, was banished and sealed away because he was too dangerous to leave loose. Armed with his scythe, Buné has the ultimate power over life and death. The ability to utterly annihilate any soul—even an angelic or demonic one. And Azazel has exploited that loophole with devastating effectiveness.”

She snapped her fingers, and the pinched-face woman pulled a glossy picture from a dossier on the seat next to her. She set the picture out for all to see. The photo showcased a short hand-held weapon, not much bigger than a hatchet, with a handle made from yellowed bone and a wicked half-moon crescent for a blade etched with runes of power. The sickle was smaller than I’d been expecting, but it looked like a weapon fit for the Reaper all right.

“So,” I said, folding my arms across my impressive new chest, “all I have to do is stroll into the Flesh Palace, kill Asmodeus with Buné’s Death scythe there”—I waved a hand at the picture—“then hop onto the interdimensional elevator to Outworld?”

“Yes,” she replied, steepling her fingers once more, a crafty, cunning look flashing across her features. “There are a few complications to overcome—the first being, you need to find the scythe.” She tapped the photo with one long fingernail. “Unfortunately, you didn’t have it on you when the MudMan apprehended you, which means it’s no doubt squirreled away in whatever underground bunker Azazel’s been using as his operations base. And that operations base is the best-kept secret in Hell—every demon, Lost Soul, and Flesh Eater in Pandæmonium’s been searching high and low for it.”

“Well, why don’t I just ask him where it is?” I hedged. “I mean he’s locked up in my head, but I have ways to reach him.”

“No,” the MudMan intoned solemnly. “He’s far more dangerous than you can think. Perhaps you would survive the encounter, but the risk of losing yourself is too great—especially after the trouble we went through to get you in the first place. Needless to say, Azazel didn’t come willingly the first time, and he won’t be foolish enough to let his guard down a second time. Better to risk death than talk with that monster.”

“Sadly, the MudMan is right. You’ll just have to do this the old-fashion way—by running down leads.” She paused, gaze hazy and distant. “And as it happens, I have just such a lead. I strongly suspect you were working with an accomplice while possessed by Azazel. What he managed to accomplish would be impossible without one. And there’s only one demon I can think of that fits the bill: Tezrian, former goddess of war, and undisputed queen bee over the Roller Nation. Once upon a time, she was Azazel’s disciple, closest follower, and lover.”

“If anyone helped Azazel, it was her,” Hecate continued after a time. “She is quite ...” She faltered, lips slightly parted as she searched for the word. “Unstable. But in Hell, who isn’t a little unhinged, eh? If anyone will know where the scythe is, it will be her. Likely, she has the damned thing somewhere inside her fortress.

“Fortunately for you, finding her won’t be difficult. Surviving her is a different matter entirely, however. Still, between you and the MudMan, I have the utmost confidence in your success. And if you should fail?” She smiled, a cold, cutthroat grin. “Well, it’s no skin off my back, even if it means the skin off yours.” The words seemed to imply something, but what I couldn’t say.

My brow creased in worry as I listened. “You said there were a couple of complications—what else should I be worried about?”

She rolled her eyes and waved away my question as a triviality she couldn’t be bothered to explain. “One thing at a time, my greedy little rat. There will be time for all that if you survive dear Tez and get the scythe back. Until then, keep focused on the task at hand. Paper,” she said, glancing at the pinch-faced woman beside her. In a blink, the woman pulled out a slip of creamy white parchment, seemingly from thin air, and placed it on the table before Hecate, adjusting it just so, then giving it a little pat.

The Succubus Queen extended a single claw-tipped digit and scribbled an address onto the paper, a gentle curl of gray smoke wafting up as she wrote. She lifted the paper and blew on it, scattering a fine layer of sooty ash, then extended it toward Levi, who was suddenly at my side. “This, then, is where you will find Tez’s crew, the Cobalt Lily Rollers. Don’t let the name fool you. Tez rules over the entirety of the Roller Nation, and the Lilies are her personal enforcers. No one tussles with those girls—they’ll gut you, hang you from the rafters, and use your bodies as fleshy piñatas.”

Levi accepted the sheet of paper with a nod and a slight smile—almost as if he were legitimately looking forward to the prospect of tracking down Tezrian and her insane gang.

Come to think of it, he probably was.

“One additional word of warning,” Hecate said, sticking a slim finger into the air. “If dear, sweet, bloodthirsty Tez is working with Azazel, she’ll no doubt seek to capture you, Mr. Lazarus. And if she manages that, she’ll perform a reverse-exorcism to put Azazel back in the driver’s seat, as you mortals are wont to say.” She tapped her nose conspiratorially. “Such a fate would be most unpleasant for you, I think.” She offered me a toothy shark’s grin of a smile. “Now scurry along, children—Asmodeus isn’t going to kill himself. Unfortunately.”

ELEVEN:

The Cobalt Lily Rollers

It took Levi and me an hour to navigate the crowded and deadly streets of Pandæmonium, avoiding random packs of roving Flesh Eaters and the other unnatural denizens, all looking for an easy mark. Eventually, though, we made it to the address Hecate had so kindly provided: a sleek, towering spire with a set of black stone steps drilling down into the earth. The steps dead-ended at a crimson door presided over by a hulking sentry who looked like the lovechild of a rhino and a dump truck. The guy was all bulky muscles, beady eyes, blue pebbled skin, and fat fingers as big as plantains.

A shit-kicking brawler if I’d ever seen one.

A neon sign hung above the entry, depicting a lounging pinup girl with giant breasts sporting a pair of roller skates. Above the neon woman was the name of the joint: Hell on Wheels. A club. And a popping one too, judging by the line snaking away from the door, up the stairs, and off into the distance for another half block.

A firm, callused hand fell on my shoulder, stopping me before I descended the stairs. I turned, glancing back at Levi—the breath caught in my chest, despite the fact that I’d already seen his disguise. He looked like me. Not kinda like me, but identical in every detail, all the way from my missing eye and new bulging muscles, down to my dusty black boots. Levi’s shapeshifting ability wasn’t confined to clay-faced killing machine or mustached creeper. Nope, he could resemble just about anyone with a little time and effort—which meant he purposely chose to look like a middle-aged man who worked at Home Depot.

I could only begin to scratch the surface of what that said about him as a person.

Absently, I ran a hand over my weather-beaten face—a gentle reminder that for the time being, I wasn’t Yancy Lazarus. For now, I was just some washed-up old Hellion, bent and beaten by a hard, hard life in the gutters of Pandæmonium. The disguise, though not nearly as impressive as Levi’s, was still pretty amazing, mostly because I hadn’t done a damned thing to accomplish it. No Vis. No Nox. No constructs. Queen Hecate had kindly loaned me the services of a Flesh Tailor—a specialist who’d used all kinds of weird lotions and awful smelling concoctions to alter my appearance.

At least for a few hours.

“You ready for this?” Levi asked, his voice a perfect imitation of my own.

“It’s my plan,” I replied, shrugging free from his mitt. “The better question is can you pull off your end? I mean sure, you look like me, but even with my face and voice I find it hard to believe you’ll be able to capture my quick wit and roguish charm, muck-face.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he grunted tersely, shooting me a slick grin and resting one hand on his hip. “I’m a good actor. I’ve watched you. Studied you. I know the way you move. The way you talk. No one will see through the ruse. Just don’t get caught. We only have one chance to get this right.”

He wheeled around, weaving through the crowd of Hellions milling in front of the club, shouldering past those too slow to make way. I stayed a step behind him, following in his wake as we descended the steps and cut to the front of the line, earning an avalanche of disgruntled glowers and angry mutters. Those all died away the second Levi pulled a sleek ebony stone from his pocket.

The rock was the size of a silver dollar and inscribed with a glowing red rune—a strange labyrinthine wheel flanked by a pair of crescent moons. Hecate’s seal.

That little rock would bump us right to the front of any line and see us into any establishment loyal to the Rebel Succubus Queen. Tezrian wasn’t loyal to anyone—except maybe to Azazel, if the rumors were true—but she sure as shit had no love for Asmodeus. The meat-slab sentry’s beady black eyes widened a hair, and he quickly shuffled aside, yanking the door open, and averting his gaze as we slipped into the club.

With that stone, we were damn near royalty. At least in some circles.

Thunderous techno music—all sharp, electronic squeals and driving bass, accompanied by the drone of voices—slammed into my ears like a sledgehammer and reverberated inside my chest. Strobing lights in a multitude of hues jabbed at my eye, disorienting and painful. Hell on Wheels was as big as an industrial warehouse, with rusty, corrugated metal-sided walls and exposed metal beams running overhead, festooned with light strips. Huge cement struts were scattered throughout the room, covered in smoldering Hellion brands and demonic sigils pulsing with infernal light.

Bodies filled the floor, dancing, grinding, writhing in ecstasy.

A friggin’ rave.

I’ve been to a rave or two in my days—always for work, understand—and I wasn’t happy to find myself in another. I couldn’t stand the press of sweaty bodies, groping hands, or reek of stale beer and bad BO, and even worse? The music sucked more than a black hole.

At the far end of the room, elevated on a raised platform, was the DJ. He wore a pin-striped suit, a gray fraying noose as a necktie, and a raven-headed mask. At least I hoped it was a mask. It was absolutely horrifying either way. But even as bizarre as the DJ was, and he was weird to the max with a capital W, he couldn’t even hold a candle to the gals occupying a hollowed-out pit in the center of the club. It reminded me vaguely of the fighting ring in the Southside Blood Pit, but there was no sand and no Lovecraftian Cthulhu fiend.

Instead, this was a skating rink, sunken into the floor so all the spectators could get an eyeful of the action. Seeing through the crowd was tricky, but an overhead Jumbotron broadcast everything in high-def clarity.

The rink was an oval of smooth gray concrete spray-painted with swirls of illegible graffiti, flaming skulls, topless cartoon pinup girls, and, of course, roller skates. So many roller skates: flaming roller skates, winged roller skates, bladed roller skates. And in the rink, women were zipping, zooming, and zagging around at breakneck speeds, slamming into one another with bone-breaking force. Levi shot me one more hard look, then hooked left, shoving his way through the crowd, opening up a small pocket around him as he angled for the roller girls.

I cut right, shuffling my feet along like an old man with arthritis in the knees, keeping my head down so as not to cause any untimely trouble. My job wasn’t to pick a fight; it was to be a fly on the wall and the next best thing to invisible. I skittered along the edge of the dancers covered in colorful faux furs and strings of rainbow beads, but little else. Most of the club-goers had the hazy-eyed look of addicts rolling deep and lost to the world. I inched forward, slipping past a pair of all but naked Hellion women with twisting neon glyphs carved into their flesh, shining like glow sticks in the dark.

After fighting my way against the crowd like a salmon battling against the current, I emerged into a new crowd of hard-faced men and women surrounding the rink itself, their gazes glued on the burly women jockeying for position on the track below.

I stared too. I didn’t want to, not really, but damned if I could help myself.

Like so many other things in the Inferno, I’d never seen anything like this.

The women below were bigger than most men—two or three hundred pounds of lean muscle, sinew, and bright tattoos—and cobbled together like Frankenstein monsters. Many had limbs which clearly came from different bodies, all crudely stitched into place with black catgut sutures. Patchwork girls, one and all. They were decked out in striped knee-high socks, skimpy midriffs, and shoulder pads studded with wicked spikes and gleaming razor blades.

I’m not a huge roller derby fan, but even at a glance I could tell those spikes weren’t regulation, and neither were the weapons they clutched in white-knuckled grips: gnarled wooden clubs, lengths of rusty steel chain, fat lead sewer pipes, an assortment of unwieldy monkey wrenches. One even had a machete.

Two teams streaked around the track, but the Cobalt Lily Rollers were easy enough to pick out. Their toxic-green tops, marked with blue, blood-drenched flowers were as good as road signs. There were only five Cobalt Lily Rollers on the track, though more watched on from the sidelines, and each woman had a number on her back, positioned beneath a name. But not normal, sensible names like Judy or Samantha. Not even close.

#16 Mama Murderwheels. #8 Rapunchel. #13 Lady Bones Sally. #2 The Deep South Riot. #7 Machoman Candy Savage.

And their opponents, the Badass Betties—wearing bright pink wifebeaters—had names just as varied and just as weird.

I watched in mute fascination as a blue-skinned Betty, sporting fishnets and a spike-studded helmet with a gold star plastered on the side, shot forward from the rear of the pack. She moved like wildfire, this lady, weaving her way past the other skaters, dodging wild elbows and pipes whistling through the air. A monkey wrench shot out low, but she narrowly diverted the crippling strike with a round steel buckler strapped to one forearm. And all the while, she crept forward, driving toward some unseen goal.

She very nearly broke free from the pack when one of the Lilies—an M1A1 tank of a woman with a thin Mohawk and a doughy face—swerved, lashing out with a massive sledgehammer. The Betty veered right, but half a beat too slow. In a blink the hammer landed, sideswiping the Betty across the jaw. The weapon landed like a rockslide; the Betty’s jaw cracked, and teeth and blue blood sprayed out as the woman went down in a tangle of limbs and skates. The crowd, pressing in against the retaining wall around the rink, shrieked their approval, fists pumping, while handfuls of coins switched hands.

“Ouch,” boomed a ringside announcer with a deep baritone voice and a shock of wavy black hair. “That’s gotta hurt. I’ll bet Tragedy Ann is gonna be feeling that for a few days to come. And since she’s lead Jammer, that’ll end this Jam …” He paused, voice fading as the crowd let out a dejected mutter.

“And signal the beginning of the bonus Buzz Saw Round!” he finished with a roar. The crowd’s mutters turned into a thundercrack of cheers and hoots. “All points are doubled!” the announcer declared. As he spoke, thin splits opened on the floor, and swirling buzz saw blades emerged—spinning discs of shrieking metal two or three feet in diameter.

Sweet, holy mother of God.

More money changed hands as ravers and gamblers watched the women below go into berserker mode. They kept skating, sure, but mostly, they just attacked each other:

A beautiful Lily with burnt red skin and emerald eyes caved in the head of a winged Betty with a bat wrapped in barbed wire. Another Betty swept low and kneecapped a Lily with a wrench, snapping her shin and sending the woman to the ground in a spray of blood and a howl of agony. Damn. Brutal as fishing with hand grenades. And it wasn’t but a handful of seconds before someone tumbled into one of the saw blades. A husky Betty, named Robin Blocksley, lost her footing, courtesy of Mama Murderwheels and a length of rusty chain.

Down poor Robin went like a felled tree, belly flopping onto a blade, which chewed through her guts like a hungry lion, painting the floor with a slick halo of crimson gore. I turned away, raising a fist to my mouth, fighting back a wave of vomit threatening to crawl up my esophagus. I’ve been around the block a time or two and seen some pretty horrific shit—my buddy, Martin, blown to pieces on a 105 round in Nam, Ailia impaled on the Morrigan’s scythe blade—but nothing could prepare you for something like this. There was no way to normalize it.

Except, the Hellions all around me didn’t seem to care in the least.

Shit, they reveled in bloodshed and butchery as if this was the best friggin’ thing since beer and ice cream—which, FYI, is the ambrosia of the gods and anyone who tells you different is a dirty liar. The whole display was a not-so-subtle reminder that the denizens of Hell had left their humanity behind a long, long time ago.

Reluctantly, I turned back to the grisly scene, not wanting to attract any unnecessary notice, just in time to see a hunched-backed man—his skin gone, revealing the red muscle beneath—drag the butchered woman over to the sidelines. Her wound was one hundred percent deadly. One giant, jagged gash, showing off a gaping cavity and glints of rib bone. No one anywhere could ever survive that shit, yet badass Robin Blocksley merely gritted her teeth, eyes narrowed to slits as she scooped her guts back into her stomach. Meanwhile, the skinless hunchback knelt beside her and pulled out a thick curved needle threaded with suture string.

The doc went to work.

Sewing her back up all willy-nilly like this was just another day at the office. He worked quickly, his hands deft and practiced. In less than thirty seconds, he finished the impromptu surgery, slapped some dirt-caked bandages on over the top for good measure, and helped the woman back to her feet. She wobbled on her skates for a moment, one hand clutching at her gut, but a rough shove from the skinless Doc sent her back into the heat of the deadly fray.

I shuddered, disgusted to my core.

The battle continued in earnest for another few minutes, but it was a commotion outside the rink that drew my eye.

Levi shoved his way through the throng of people, making his way to the edge of the crowd, placed his hands along the top of the retaining wall, and stared thoughtfully down at the manic action below. His moment of contemplation was brief, however, and in a heartbeat he vaulted over the wall, landing like a meteor on the floor, the spray-painted concrete buckling from his weight. Most of the Derby girls were on the opposite side of the rink, but one player, Machoman Candy Savage from the Lilies, zipped around the corner, only to smash face-first into Levi.

TWELVE:

Follow the Leader

The Derby girl hit like a wrecking ball of muscle, spikes, and skates, and if it had actually been me down there, I would’ve been a bloody smear of meat paste spread across the concrete. Levi, however, absorbed the blow like the boulder he was, bouncing her away as if she were a toddler careening into a brick wall. It was embarrassing. Her arms flapped and flailed as she tumbled backward, landing on a roaring saw blade, which sliced cleanly through one of her thighs, just above the knee. Levi looked on placidly and unruffled as fetid blood splashed across the floor and splattered his chest and face.

If anything, I’d say he looked mildly self-satisfied. Weirdo.

He turned away from her, though, crossing his arms as the rest of the Derby girls, Lilies and Betties alike, crawled to a halt. They glared at Levi with silent snarls and raised weapons. I’d faced more than my fair share of insane, murderous psycho-monsters, but at that moment, I was whispering a silent prayer of thanks it was Levi down there and not me. Mama Murderwheels—a hefty dark-skinned woman with pigtails and bone spurs running all over her skin like rose thorns—rolled forward, one hand planted on a curvy hip, the other clenched around a pitted length of chain.

“You must be the dumbest sumbitch in Pandæmonium,” she said, her words thick with Southern twang. She canted her head to one side and eyed Levi up and down, real slow, cataloging him for later dissection. “Ain’t nobody walk into our joint and touch one of our girls. Nobody.” That last was a barely a whisper, but it sent chills sprinting along my spine and down my arms despite the heat.

Levi shrugged his shoulders, a cocky, lopsided grin on his face—my face—arms crossed in cocksure defiance. I’m not scared of you or anybody, that look said.

“I ain’t just nobody, lady. I’m Yancy friggin’ Lazarus, vessel of Azazel the Purros, the Horseman of War,” he replied in my voice, smugness radiating through the words. Begrudgingly, I had to admit that was damn close to what I would’ve said in his place. “I’m also the most wanted sumbitch in Hell,” he continued after a smug pause, “and I need to have a word with your boss, Tez.”

For the first time, I saw a chink in the Derby girls’ badass armor—worry flashed across their scarred faces as recognition dawned in their eyes. All except ol’ Mama Murderwheels, that was.

She crossed her arms, unmoved by Levi’s revelation, leaned over to one side, and hocked a fat wad of bloody phlegm to the floor. “Listen here, you candy-ass squib. I don’t bow and scrape for that ball-gurgler Asmodeus. I don’t do it for the Mighty Succubus Queen Hecate. I don’t even do it for Tezrian—a woman who already owns me heart and soul. So, I sure as shit on a sidewalk ain’t gonna do it for you, sugga. But if you wanna see the Big Bad Boss Lady …” She trailed off, a cruel smile spreading across her face. “Well, me and the gals will be happy to oblige you.”

She lifted her fingers to plump lips, letting loose a shrill whistle.

All the Derby Girls moved as one, charging forward, ignoring whatever fear they might’ve felt deep down, descending on Levi like a biblical plague of locust. The MudMan broke right and launched himself at a Betty, smashing her teeth in with a powerhouse hook. She tumbled back, clutching at her ruined face, but Levi was already moving on, clocking a Lily so hard in the belly she vomited blood.

These Derby girls were made of steel, grit, and hellfire, though, and if oversized saw blades wouldn’t stop ’em, what did they care about a sucker punch to the face?

They sacked Levi, pipes and clubs flashing out, beating him down as they pressed in, driving him to the ground like a hog on the slaughter room floor. Levi vanished beneath the flood of bodies, buried in a dog-pile of roller skates and fishnets. Every fiber in my body told me to attack now, to unleash torrents of blazing flame, gouts of gale-force wind, or javelins of deadly Nox. But I didn’t. Instead, I hunched in on myself, schooling my face to neutrality as I lingered. Waited. Before long, the flood of bodies let up, and the Derby girls crawled back to their feet.

A pair of Lilies hoisted Levi into the air. They’d bound his hands and legs with thick steel chains and looped a pair of black leggings around his eyes: a makeshift blindfold.

Then, with practiced ease like they’d done this a hundred times before, they draped his frame over the shoulders of #8, Rapunchel—a blocky woman, who was clearly part troll, part grizzly, all nightmare Amazon. Despite looking like me, I knew Levi had to weigh in at seven or eight hundred pounds, but ol’ Rapunchel didn’t even seem to notice. Heck, she handled his weight like he was a bag full of dry leaves. I edged right, slowly slipping and weaving through the dancers and gamblers, but never taking my eyes off the Derby girls for long.

They moved over to a metal platform near the rink wall, clambering on board, their skates clinking on the steel. Once everyone was on board, the platform lurched upward; it was a rusty elevator, propelled by squealing motors, clanking gears, and groaning metal. When the elevator reached the top of the rink, the girls slipped over the retaining wall with ease, skating off toward a set of rusty iron doors set into the far wall by the MC’s elevated platform. It looked like a service entrance, but when they pushed their way through, I caught a glimpse of a sloping, poorly lit concrete tunnel.

Bingo.

I kept my head low and maneuvered through the crowd.

By the time I got to the crude iron doors, the Derby girls were already gone. I half expected to find a bouncer guarding the way, but no. In a way, that made sense. If half of what Hecate had said was true about this Tezrian, no one with the will to live would go anywhere within fifty miles of her—not by choice, anyway. I posted up against the wall, pressing my shoulder blades against the too-warm concrete as I fished a cigarette from the pack in my pocket. I couldn’t take too long, but neither did I want to jump the gun and blow my cover.

I lit the smoke with the merest trickle of Vis, absently puffing as I surveyed the crowd.

Despite the craziness that had just transpired, everyone had already moved on.

The MC played new music—awful screechy, emo garbage that sounded like a cat in a blender—the gamblers around the rink dispersed back into the crowd, and the ravers continued to dance and flail, as oblivious as ever. Huh. Apparently, Derby Girl beatdowns and kidnappings were so common they went completely unnoticed. That was more than a little unsettling and didn’t bear thinking on too much. Not if I wanted to keep my nerve.

Finally satisfied that no one was covertly watching the entryway, I bent over, snubbed my cigarette on the pitted floor, and slipped through the heavy iron doors and into the tunnel beyond.

The walls were rough concrete, the ceiling overhead was lined with metal piping, and the floor beneath was all cold gray stone as smooth as glass. Perfect for skating. Neon-green chem lights hung from the piping at irregular intervals, shedding weak pools of ghostly illumination, which did all of jack shit to dispel the darkness pressing in around me. Which, in this case, was probably a good thing since I could already feel my face starting to revert as the Flesh Tailor’s spells and potions wore off. We’d made it, though just barely.

I inched over to the right wall and pressed my fingers against the stone as I held my breath and listened. Even though I couldn’t see much, the tunnel’s acoustics were amazing. It was easy to hear the click-clack of skates and the jumbled mutter of voices echoing down the passageway. I’d have be careful, though, because there’s this funny tidbit about acoustics: if I could hear them, they’d be able to hear me too.

They had a pretty good head start on me, but that was okay since I didn’t need line of sight to track Levi. I reached into my pocket and touched a moist piece of clay, oddly spongy, about the size of a golf ball. It quivered in my palm, urging me forward, into the black and toward the nattering voices. A bona fide piece of the MudMan, filled with ichor, like a stomach-churning jelly donut. And it wasn’t just any ol’ lump of clay, it was alive and attached to Levi, drawing me toward him like a magnet.

“Easy there, Flubber,” I whispered under my breath, breaking into a shuffle-footed jog, my feet ghosting over the concrete. “We’ll get there, don’t sweat it.” The industrial tunnel continued straight on for another couple of hundred feet, the floor gently sloping down. There were service doors every fifty feet or so with “Authorized Personnel” signs plastered on the surface, but I never saw another soul, and I could still hear the Derby girls up ahead. They were slowly pulling farther and farther away, even though I was moving at a pretty good clip. That’s the miracle of the wheel for you.

Eventually, the tunnel ended, or rather, it morphed into something else.

The industrial shaft dead-ended at a wall of cinder blocks and concrete. Or at least that’s what had been there once.

Now, there was a gaping hole the size of a subway train, connecting to a passage carving its way through dark natural stone, similar in makeup to the strange termite spires littering the city skyline. I paused at the opening, running my fingers hesitantly along the edge of the concrete wall. I half expected there to be rough, jagged edges, like maybe someone had demoed it with a sledgehammer, but it was all as smooth as pristine porcelain. Glassy and slick.

I grunted, unsure what could make a fissure like that, and headed in, following the faint sound of skates on stone.

The tunnel sloped sharply downward, and the floor was just as slick and treacherous as the glassy walls; before long, I was damn near sitting, sliding slowly down on my ass. Eventually, the drop leveled out as I came to a natural cavern with a labyrinth of interconnected tunnels snaking away into the stone. Some climbed, a few dropped, and still more twisted out of sight, disappearing into the earth. Above each tunnel was a fat rune, gouged into the stone and glowing with soft green light, courtesy of bioluminescent foxfire growing in the grooves.

Bright, brilliant markers, pointing the way for those in the know.

Except, I wasn’t in the know. A twinge of panic swelled inside my chest—tight, hot, and painful. I’m not claustrophobic or anything, but the thought of getting trapped in a stone maze in the bowels of Hell gave me pause.

I pulled the lump of too-warm clay from my pocket—so friggin’ gross—then slipped over to a passage on the left, holding the golem’s flesh out like a peace offering. But no, the ball wiggled minutely in my palm, guiding my hand right. The wriggling muck led me to a downward sloping passage on the far side of the chamber, marked by a runic wheel with a series of curved spokes. The Arevakhach, an ancient symbol for eternity. Either that or a bitchin’ roller skate wheel.

Given the circumstances, I honestly wasn’t sure which was the truth.

Once more I followed, ignoring the butterflies dogfighting in my gut. The passage quickly hooked left, curving into a tight corkscrew drilling down, down, down for a hundred feet before connecting with a tunnel the size of a super highway, ten lanes wide, which showed definite signs of habitation.

Wall-mounted torches, burning with ghoulish green fire, and intricately carved stone archways lined the way. And then there were the rooms. A giant cavern on the left was full of flowers. A whole garden of ’em. Now, that might not sound all that ominous on the surface, but these bastard flowers were the size of trees, and they swayed and danced with subtle life even though there was no breeze. I moved on, pausing at the edge of an archway, then stealing a quick peek into a connecting room on the right.

Foxfire fungi overhead splashed weak light over everything. The floor was smooth, the walls scarred with giant honeycomb hexagons like in a beehive. A host of yellow eyes stared out from each of those hexagon holes, connected to maggot-white insect heads with flailing antenna and tearing mandibles. Monstrous larvae, waiting to hatch. Maybe the giant black buildings above really were some sort of termite mound, and maybe these things were the builders.

I shuddered at the thought, since giant bugs top the list of things I hate the most in the world, followed by root canals and prostate exams.

The worst part, though, were the bodies, tightly cocooned with silver gossamer silk and stacked up like cordwood along the right wall, waiting to be consumed when the larvae emerged, hungry and ready to feed. And whoever those poor souls were … Well, they weren’t dead. The cocoons squirmed and writhed as muffled, barely there cries for help trickled out. Part of me insisted on doing something, anything. Setting them free, maybe. That or dousing the whole room in wave after wave of fire until nothing but slag and melted rock remained.

Instead, I steeled myself and moved on. This was Hell, I reminded myself, and I couldn’t save everyone from the torments in this place. Shit, I’d be lucky to save myself.

THIRTEEN:

Lost City

The distant sounds of talking and click-clacking skates had died a while back, but the lump of flesh ushered me onward. I must’ve walked for another ten or fifteen minutes, down in the dark with the earth pressing in all around me, before finally creeping to a halt at the edge of yet another tunnel. In front of me was a humongous set of ancient stairs, meticulously carved from huge chunks of pale white sandstone, descending into a giant bowl the size of an asteroid crater.

In its center was a city.

An ancient one, framed in by the rough cavern walls shooting up and up and up, so high I couldn’t even begin to see the ceiling. A strange shard of jagged rock, the size of a school bus, floated overhead—defying all the known laws of physics as it burned with brilliant yellow-red light. This place had its very own sun. The city itself was laid out in a disorganized, haphazard sprawl of asphalt roads and blocky two-story buildings cobbled together from white sandstone, blood-red clay, and bits of repurposed trash: old canvas tarps, trash can lids, wooden pallets, rusty car doors, and wooden struts.

Interspersed among the buildings were graceful arches, glittering gold domes, and tall spires, capped with pointed minarets, all of it old-world and vaguely Turkish. But for all its rustic charm, there were also power lines littering the air—casting the streets in shadow—neon signs, burning with gaudy brilliance, and splashes of graffiti art depicting legions of naked women and flaming skulls. A handful of rusted-out cars and motorcycles puttered along next to sidewalks covered with corrugated metal awnings, propped up on spits of rebar.

And the residents were anything but ancient.

Roller Derby girls. Hundreds of ’em.

Even from my distant vantage, the colorful tattoos and crazy hairdos marked them out like bonfires on a dark night. Apparently, the Roller Nation wasn’t just a catchy name. There was literally an entire nation, even if it was a small one, of these crazy women.

Perfect.

I crouched down, pressing my back against the smooth tunnel wall, chewing absently on my bottom lip as I scanned the city. I didn’t spot any sign of Levi or the Cobalt Lily Rollers, but it was easy to figure out where they were headed even without the lump of clay. In the center of the city was a massive multilevel stone ziggurat. All blocky corners, sharp edges, steep stairs, zigzagging ramparts, and gold-topped turrets. Surprisingly, colorful trees and lush gardens surrounded the base of the temple and covered the upper levels: beautiful greenery in an otherwise dry and desolate urban wilderness.

A building as big as any suburbia McMansion sat at the tippy-top of the ziggurat like a crown jewel crafted from obsidian stone and glittering, sculpted glass. That glass caught the orange light from overhead and refracted it in a glimmering myriad of hues, casting strange rainbow light into the air. My sleuthing sense said that was where I’d find Levi and Tezrian, the lesser goddess of war. I mean, the place was practically screaming Here I am, here I am, here I am through a bullhorn.

Reluctantly, I stood and crept down the stairs and into the city sprawl.

Though the ziggurat in the center of the city was only a mile from the tunnel entryway, it took me over an hour to get there. The streets weren’t jam-packed with denizens, but since I wasn’t a roller-skating Amazonian, blending in was tougher than old boot leather. So, I stuck to the back alleys and side streets, creeping from one pool of inky shadow to another, moving behind turned backs and distracted motorists. Every step was tense and anxiety-inducing. Sorta like walking on eggshells—assuming those eggshells belonged to an angry Mama T. rex who would maul me if I misstepped.

But with a little skill and more than a little luck, I made it to the edge of the ziggurat without summoning a legion of guards or setting off every alarm in the whole damn city.

Unfortunately, that was where my luck ran out. The ball of Golem Flubber confirmed my hunch that Levi was somewhere in the temple, but there was no good way up. The walls of the lower portion of the ziggurat were fifty feet of smooth, vertical sandstone. Staircases ran straight as an arrow up the front and back, and a series of ramps zigzagged from top to bottom, but they were well-guarded. Extremely so.

A small squad of Derby girls, six deep, loitered at the top and bottom of each staircase, and groups of roving sentries glided around the perimeter of the temple. One such pair passed by my position every few minutes. I didn’t recognize any of those gals from the club, but they all looked as fierce as machine-gun-wielding wolverines. Instead of lengths of chain or lead pipes, these ladies carried rusty machetes, old-timey cavalry swords, and newfangled armaments like beefy chrome-plated 45s and sawed-off shotties.

Since being all stealthy and sneaky was the plan, going in through the front door simply wasn’t an option. Not unless I was willing to rouse the wrath of the Roller Nation. Which gave me one option: I was going to have to try and scale the wall. Climb the side of the temple and hope I didn’t slip and tumble to my certain death. That or get spotted by the guards, which would be a death sentence all its own.

I waited for one of the roving sentries—a woman built entirely from gristle and old scar tissue—to zip past, then padded through the greenery and right up to the base of the ziggurat, thanking God-Almighty Above for the cover and concealment. I paused beneath a towering palm tree, its green fronds weighed down by bushels of golden dates, and carefully regarded the lower wall. The sandstone blocks were well-fitted, with hardly a crack or toehold to be found. Even for an experienced climber, it would be a helluva go, and I’m not an experienced climber by any stretch of the imagination.

With my power only a thought away, though, nothing was impossible.

I closed my eyes, breathing deeply, holding it for a three count, then exhaling through my nose as I centered myself, cleared my mind, and opened myself to a trickle of both Vis and Nox. I wrangled the two opposing forces through sheer determination, drawing them in, bending them to my will as I thought about what was needed. Even if I could manage to scale the wall, I’d be completely visible to every single Derby girl on the east side of the city. It would only take one person looking in the wrong direction at the wrong time to raise the alarm, and then they’d just pick me off with a rifle.

I needed a veil.

I conjured hair-fine strands of air and wove them together with thick cables of raw will, a dash of fire, and lacy threads of Nox to reinforce the working. I envisioned what I wanted in my mind, and seconds later a man-sized shield appeared in the air behind me, a nearly perfect replica of the formidable sandstone blocks before me.

Sure, if someone were staring at me dead on, they’d see a blur against the temple wall, but those were odds I was willing to live with—and hopefully I would live. With that done, I inched up to the wall and drew on deep and steady thrums of earthen force, letting it fill me up with strength and renewed stamina as I reached out to the sandstone’s essence. A portion of the wall, no larger than my fist, shimmered and melted as a spike of stone, a foot long and an inch in diameter, jutted out.

A perfect handhold.

I strained upward with my right hand, calling out another spit of rock, hoisting myself up higher, coaxing out rungs of earth beneath my boots. I scurried up that way—left hand, right hand, left foot, right foot—muscles straining, sweat breaking out across my brow and running into my eye as more and more spikes appeared. And fortunately for me, all my fancy new muscles made the job much more manageable.

Once upon a time, climbing out of bed in the morning was a recipe for a heart attack, but this felt like second nature. Not for the first time, I wondered what shenanigans Azazel had been using my body for … Thinking about all of the disgusting shit I’d seen so far, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted answers. The faint sound of roller skates from below jarred the morbid thoughts free. I inched to a stop, held my breath, and glanced down—directly below me was the scar-tissue Derby girl.

And then, because life sucks, she stopped. Perfect.

The illusion covered my back well enough, but it didn’t encircle me. If she looked straight up, there was no way she wouldn’t see me. I waited, willing my body to calm. What the hell is she doing down there? She fished a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, then slipped a smoke free and slid it between her teeth as she braced her back against the wall. A flare of light followed. Seriously. She was taking a friggin’ smoke break? Here, beneath me. Figures. Time to haul ass—as quietly as possible, of course. I bit my bottom lip, pressed my eye shut, and continued moving up the wall, stealing a peek down every few seconds.

I crested the lower wall a handful of seconds later, pulled myself over the lip, and bolted into the thick vegetation—more squat palm trees, low hanging vines, and a riot of colorful flowers. I kept my head down while my heart thudded like a jackhammer chewing into concrete.

I dropped to a knee by a leafy shrub covered in blood-red flowers and dime-sized berries, scanning the perimeter for more guards while listening for an alarm to blare. I gave it a solid minute, but didn’t see any. Reaching the next level of the ziggurat would require another fifty-foot climb, but thankfully I wouldn’t need to go that route. There was a set of double doors on this side of the temple, which were blessedly unguarded. I couldn’t be sure this lower portion of the ziggurat would connect with the upper level, but I was willing to bet dollars to donuts on it.

Not that I had dollars or donuts, but you get the idea.

Heading in would have risks, of course, but the top level of the ziggurat was damn near bursting with Derby girls. From a practical standpoint, this was the best option.

I dismissed the sandstone illusion hugging my back, gained my feet, and crept over to the entryway, pulling back on the brass handle. I half expected to find it locked, so I grunted in surprise as the door swung out. Of course it’s unlocked, I told myself. Only a complete and utter moron would want to break into this place. Even more surprising than the unlocked door was the whoosh of refreshingly cool air which followed. Though the temple looked like something plucked straight out of Ben Hur, it had sweet, glorious central air. Small miracles.

I shuddered in giddy relief as I headed in, and the door eased shut behind me.

Flickering torches illuminated stone walls covered with sharp, angular text and random scenes of medieval butchery: Monsters decapitating men and women. Disemboweling ’em. Drawing and quartering ’em. Flaying ’em alive.

You know, the usual.

The décor wasn’t much of a shock, really. In my experience, crusty, dusty ancient things have a tough time adjusting to the times. You’d think millennia would make them wiser, more empathetic, or at the very least adaptable, but no. I’ve seen Fae godlings with a couple of thousand years under their belt who act like capricious little teenage shitheads. For some reason, time seems to make ancient Powers more of what they are—it just sorta cements their identity into place.

I padded farther in, the lump of Golem Jell-O going crazy in my pocket. Yep, definitely on the right track. After fifty feet, I hooked right, unwaveringly following my Levi magnet, and headed into another tunnel with a host of rooms branching off. Many of the rooms were sealed off with plain-Jane wooden doors, but a few were open, offering me a glimpse of what looked like barracks rooms. Each room was the size of a small studio flat with four bunk beds—a pair on each side of the room—a couple of dressers, and a steel toilet against the far wall.

Not big into privacy, these gals.

I moved on, feeling surprisingly optimistic. I didn’t want to count my chickens before they’d hatched, but this had easily been the smoothest supernatural B and E I’d ever committed.

These Derby girls may have been hell on wheels in a brawl, but they were surprisingly lax in their security. I headed up a wide set of stone stairs at the end of the hall, which led to the next level. With a self-satisfied grin, I rounded a dogleg only to run face-first into a blue-haired sentry, sans skates but sporting a nasty tactical shottie—a Benelli with a folding stock and a broomstick sprouting from the pump—draped across her chest. She staggered back from the collision, her heavily powdered eyes flaring wide, mouth dropping open in shock.

FOURTEEN:

Helping Hand

That moment of hesitation was her one mistake—a small opening I could exploit. And exploit it, I did. I bolted forward, slamming a fist into her jaw before she could sound the alarm. Her head snapped left as she reeled from the blow, but she was one tough cookie and somehow kept her feet. She was a Derby girl, I reminded myself. She steadied herself, spat out a mouthful of blood along with a single tooth, then rounded on me with hate and fury painted across her face. She should’ve cried out for help or blasted me into orbit with the shottie, but clearly, my sucker punch had pissed her off something fierce.

That was all right, though, because in my experience, pissed-off enemies make stupid decisions. And taking advantage of stupid decisions is my bread and butter.

She snarled at me, blood coating her front teeth and dripping down her chin, then launched a mean left jab. I ducked beneath the shot and slipped right, whipping out my back leg, slamming the edge of my shin into one fishnet-clad thigh. She winced but didn’t back down, and before I could recover from the kick, she lashed out with a right hook, catching me in the ribs with a blow that felt like a friggin’ sledgehammer. She followed it up with a knee to my groin; white-hot agony lanced up from the boys, and I doubled over involuntarily, wheezing for air.

Holy shit that hurt. Worse than a getting mule-kicked in the teeth, and I’ve actually been mule-kicked in the teeth. Must’ve been losing a step in my old age.

With a groan, I straightened, hobbling back a step or two as she threw another jab my way. Using the Vis pumping through me, I drew on the bedrock strength below me, blurring the sharp edges of the gut-wrenching pain between my legs, and darted inside her guard. I grabbed her incoming wrist in one hand and twisted my body around, hooking my other arm around her waist, dragging her off her feet and across my back.

A classic judo throw called O-goshi.

She resisted, and for a heartbeat I thought we’d both just tumble down the stairwell, but then her feet left the ground, and she was flying. Arms pinwheeling, legs kicking wildly, before crashing face-first into unforgiving stone at the base of the steps.

Her neck twisted, blood splattered across the ground, and her body went instantly limp—one arm folded beneath her, the other cocked out at an unnatural angle. These Derby girls might have been tough as junkyard dogs, but clearly, they weren’t invincible. I winced, hustled down the stairs, and crouched down to check her pulse. Her skin was slick and oddly clammy, but I felt the faint thrum of a heartbeat beneath my fingertips despite the fact that her neck was broken. But then, this was Hell, and I’d seen one of these gals get a leg lopped off by a giant bandsaw without too much fuss.

Probably, a broken spine wasn’t much more than a minor inconvenience in this neck of the woods.

She was out cold, though. I took one more quick look around, ensuring our scuffle hadn’t roused any unwanted attention. No doors flew open. No guards came wheeling out with guns raised. No cries to “Stop” rang in the air. I took the opportunity to slip the shottie free from the Derby girl’s noodle-limp body and looped the sling over my head before making my way back up the stairs. This time, I moved a bit more cautiously around the blind corner.

I maneuvered my way through another three floors, heading ever upward, guided by the wriggling golem clay in my pocket. More than once, I spotted Derby girls ambling through the corridors or in and out of the barracks-style rooms, but with some quick illusion work and a generous dollop of glamor—these are not the Droids you’re looking for—I managed to avoid any other fistfights. A big win, though one that wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, someone would find the unconscious body in the stairwell and then …

Well, then a mountain-sized pile of demonic horse shit would collide with a volcano-sized mega-fan, and the shitocalypse would ensue. And I was just praying to God I’d be far enough away to avoid the fallout. That, or I needed to invest in a quality umbrella.

Another stairwell, this one a straight shot devoid of switchbacks, let out into what I guessed was the lowest level of the mansion. There was a huge storage pantry on the left, near to bursting with food, and a utility closet off to the right. Straight ahead lay an industrial-sized kitchen with white ceramic floor tiles, spacious stainless-steel countertops, and a host of state-of-the-art cooking appliances—bulky refrigerators, beefy ovens, and several stoves. Unfortunately, the kitchen was alive with the hustle and bustle of activity: servants chopping vegetables, slicing meat, cleaning pots and pans, or slaving away over the meal of the day.

There were twenty of them or so, but they weren’t Derby girls.

They were men—all men—fitted with clunky black wrought-iron collars burning with ember-red Hellion script. They were also skinless and naked as the day they were born. Each one of the unfortunate souls in that room had been flayed from the top of the head down to the soles of their feet, ropy muscle glistening in the firelight from the stove tops. Many were also missing body parts. Eyes, fingers, toes, sometimes whole limbs. I’d never seen a more dejected, defeated, and utterly miserable-looking group of people in my entire life.

Every movement seemed like agony, their muscles cracking and bleeding as they worked. A wave of bile rose from my gut. I dropped to my knees and vomited barbecue and pork bits into the corner as quietly as I could manage, hoping I didn’t draw any attention.

I wiped vomit from my lips and brought my gaze back up to the wretched scene.

Suddenly, I was angry. Furious. This was Hell, and many of the people here probably deserved their fate, but no one deserved that. There wasn’t a person in the world—not even Pa Beauvoir, who scooped my fucking eye out—that deserved to be butchered like that and forced into slavery. Death was one thing, but the kind of torture in front of me was something else entirely. I knew from personal experience.

See, Pa Beauvoir hadn’t just taken my eye. Oh no, he’d carved me up first—flaying bits and pieces of my arm as he attempted to turn me into a human zombie, a slave like these poor schmucks—and I’d never experienced anything so awful. Not in all my long, strange years.

Part of me insisted I march in, guns blazing, and put all the sorry bastards out of their misery. Another part said I should leave them to their fate and find another way around before they could alert the Derby girls. In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to do either. Instead, I stood, raised my hands into the air, and walked forward, slowly, carefully, deliberately. I couldn’t leave these poor saps here, not even if it cost me in the long run. It was an idiotic, stupid decision, but I needed to be able to live with myself come morning.

Maybe I’d made a deal with a demon, but there had to be a line somewhere.

Besides, no one’s ever accused me of being smart.

I stepped from the hallway into a pool of harsh white illumination, courtesy of the industrial halogen lighting overhead, squinting against the glare. The skinned slaves stopped—first a few, then more as they noticed me. Kitchen blades fell still, pans went untended, and food smoldered on the burners as they turned their dejected gazes on me. Recognition and fear flashed in those eyes, and I knew without a doubt these people had seen me before. Or at least the version of me controlled by Azazel.

Was it possible Azazel had been holed up with the Roller Nation this whole time? Hiding out with Tez and the Derby girls?

For a long beat, everyone stood frozen, terrible, uncertain tension building in the air. What would I do? Would I attack them? Hurt them? Maybe set them on fire, then feed them to a pack of rabid hellhounds? Should they fight back?

I honestly wasn’t sure how this would play out.

For a flash, I was convinced they’d scream or even bum rush me with kitchen cutlery. But then they dropped their eyes and shuffled away, many visibly quivering, a few wrapping their arms tight across their chests. These people, these slaves, were scared of me. Terrified. The wave of nausea reared its head again, this time accompanied by a burst of self-loathing and profound shame. Azazel had been running around in my skin for the past six months, and though I knew he’d killed a bunch of demon shitheels, he’d probably done a metric ass-ton of other awful things, too.

The guy was a phenomenally nasty bastard, after all. The king of dickhead demons.

That anger returned in force, burning up those other feelings like furnace flames. I snarled and stomped forward, the sound of my footfalls heavy on the tiles, until I stood in front of one of the servants. A man with sea-green eyes who was missing his left arm, just above the elbow. The slave slouched in on himself as though he could will himself invisible with enough effort. I cupped his chin and lifted his face. The feel of slick, wet muscle against my fingers was revolting, but I steeled myself and schooled my face, pretending it didn’t bother me.

The slave flinched, reluctant to meet my eye.

“Whatever you think,” I said, voice low and somber, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

I slipped my hand down to the collar snapped tight around his throat.

The metal was fiery hot to the touch; not enough to leave blisters, but it had to be agony against tender, raw muscle. The collar looked to be a single piece of metal with no lock, no hinges, and no way to open it, but that was all an illusion of sorts. Strands of earthen power, fiery Vis, and cancerous Nox thrummed beneath the metal, powering the torturous device. And it was torturous. The collar tapped into the wearer’s mind, compelling them to perfect obedience and subservience while simultaneously inflicting terrible pain.

Worse still, I sensed subtle workings that reminded me of artifacts the Guild of the Staff regularly used: Vis Dampeners. There were specialty sigils built in to prevent magi from tapping into the cosmic forces churning below the visible world. One of those collars might well prevent even the most stalwart mage from so much as lighting a candle with the Vis. I’d spent some time without my power not so long ago—cursed by an ancient poison, courtesy of an upstart named Randy Shelton and an undead Lich named Koschei—and I still had nightmares. Was it possible some of these Skinless men were magi?

I didn’t know, but it seemed possible.

The construct fueling the collar was both ancient and powerful, but relatively straightforward.

Building one of those collars would’ve taken years of practice and a mage far more studied than me, but opening it was as easy as taking a tire iron to a plate glass window. I drew on the Vis and crammed a thin weave of raw force into the delicate pattern of energy. The construct in the collar fizzled and groaned; the ember script guttered and died as a fissure appeared in the metal—a hair-thin opening—along with a hidden hinge along the back. The collar popped free with a groan and landed on the floor with a thud.

The slave’s eyes widened in shock bordering on wonder. His jittery, skinless fingers rose, probing at his neck and the raw area of flesh where the collar had been a second before.

I grinned and nodded my head. “Yep. That’s right. I’m not here to hurt you. Not any of you—”

Before I could get the next word out, the slaves surged forward almost as one, groping at their collars, hope burning bright, hot, and hungry in their faces. Optimistic for the first time in a long, long, long time. I needed info, and I needed to move quickly—who knew where Levi was or what horrors Tezrian was inflicting on him—but I couldn’t leave these people to suffer. I was a bad man, maybe, but not bad enough to do that. So, I went to work, moving from body to body, leaving a trail of collars on the tiled floor in my wake.

The whole process took only a minute or two.

When I finally finished, the slaves turned expectant, thankful eyes on me. Waiting for me to tell them what I needed. What terrible price I would ask—and those stares told me they sure as shit expected to pay something.

This was Hell, and in Hell there were no free meals.

“Look, guys,” I said, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, “all I want is a little info, okay? Seriously. I’m looking for the lady running this joint. Tezrian. Either her or a weapon. A scythe. Might be one of you guys has seen something like that during your rounds?” I hedged, scanning their faces. “I’m just looking for someone to point me in the right direction, then I’ll be on my way, and you can be on yours. No muss, no fuss.” They glanced at each other, still unspeaking before a man in the back nodded and shouldered his way past the others.

He was beanpole slim, and like me, he was missing an eye.

“Alright,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “What can you tell me?”

He frowned and shook his head before opening his mouth, revealing a gaping maw absent of teeth and devoid of a tongue. Even more disgusting awfulness to pile onto this dumpster fire. He turned to the group, hands flashing through a lightning fast series of signs, then turned, grabbed my bicep, and drew me back down the hallway toward the utility room across from the pantry. I shot a glance at the rest of the Skinless crew over one shoulder. They were scouring the kitchen, grabbing knives, meat cleavers, anything sharp, pointy, and good for killing.

Getting ready to make a break for freedom no doubt.

That’s what I would’ve done in their shoes.

I dismissed them and turned back to my guide as he dragged me unceremoniously inside the cramped room. A sturdy shelving unit ran along the left wall, loaded down with cleaning supplies—spray bottles, rags, bleach, mops, and brooms. Apparently, even in the Inferno there was still housework to get done. An eternity of scrubbing toilets and mopping floors sounded pretty hellish to me. Against the right wall was a massive metal door, fitted snugly into the wall. A walk-in freezer. Skinless popped the latch and ushered me into a metal box, the sides frosted over with a layer of white rime.

Shelves of perishable goods lined both walls while thick slabs of meat, fat ol’ pigs, dangled from meat hooks along the center of the room. At the very back was a trio of giant fans, buzzing with electric life, blasting out a constant stream of frigid air. Beneath the fans, set into the wall, was a square ventilation shaft with a grate over the top, sucking some of the chilly air out and recirculating it. The grille looked tightly bolted in place, but ol’ Skinless wedged his finger into the metal slats and gave the whole thing a wiggle, prying it free with a soft scrape.

The inside of the duct was a helluva lot bigger than I’d imagined it would be, but I supposed cooling a place like this would require an impressively large HVAC system and a vast network of ducts. The freezer obviously played some role. The lip of the vent shaft was six feet from the floor. But Skinless—you know what, let’s call him Jim because Skinless feels too impersonal—hopped up with ease, latching on with his fingers then hauling his body into the shaft like he’d done the damned thing a thousand times before.

His feet disappeared a moment later as he scampered deeper into the vent work, moving as silent as a kitten on carpet.

FIFTEEN:

Jackpot

I followed good ol’ Jim, hooking my fingers over the edge and using my fancy new muscles to pull myself into a shaft, three feet by three feet. It was a tight, uncomfortable squeeze, but there was just enough room for me to prop my arms beneath me and wriggle forward. I craned my head up, catching sight of Jim’s skinless feet ahead, and began to slowly, tediously worm my way after him. After fifteen feet, I faltered. The horizontal shaft dead-ended, connecting to a vertical shaft running both up and down.

Jim clung to the far wall, perched on a set of crude rebar ladder rungs, which looked like grafted-in additions. I gulped and peered over the edge—below was one long drop into darkness, and twenty feet down whirled a steel fan big enough to chop suey the shit outta me if I fell. Good to know. Jim shrugged, there’s no other way, pal, then jabbed one finger skyward and began to climb. I didn’t have any choice but to follow. The shaft ascended for ten feet before connecting at a central junction with more ducts jetting out like bike spokes. Jim didn’t hesitate for a second; he bounded from the ladder rungs into a tunnel on the left and disappeared.

Once more, I followed.

It continued like that for a good ten minutes.

We navigated vertical shafts, bypassed grates removed long ago, and scampered over vast gulfs via jerry-rigged rope bridges. Every inch of these ducts must’ve been mapped out—used for getting around, or maybe spying on their Derby girl masters. Eventually, Jim led me to a ceiling vent that peeked into an unoccupied room, somewhere in the upper portion of the mansion. I glanced through the metal slats, letting a wave of cool air wash over my back, and the breath caught in my throat.

The room below was a sprawling affair with plush carpet, dark wood wall paneling, and mahogany furniture—all old, finely made, and smelling of lemon oil and leather. A padded leather chaise sat against one wall, while a hulking desk occupied another. An antique globe rested between a pair of burnt leather club chairs. This place was my dream office, and as far as I knew, it only existed inside my head. It was a special place where I went to think and commune with my inner man.

And by “inner man,” I mean Cassius, the shit-talking water-elemental who lives inside my head, permanently bound to my subconscious mind by the Vis.

Except, here the room was, as real as the nose on my face. My head swam, blackness crept in on the edges of my vision, and for a moment I felt light-headed. There was no longer any doubt in my mind that Azazel had been here—he’d made this place, my place, real. It was eerie. Surreal. Like walking over your own grave. Hell, I could almost see myself tooling around down there, bare feet shuffling over the carpet, one hand tracing over the spine of an ancient book while the other held a shot of good bourbon. A voice floated up in the back of my mind, raising the hairs on the nape of my neck to rigid attention.

“You belong to me, disciple.”

The words were harsh, deep, and primal like the rumble of an earthquake. Azazel. They were no more than a muffled whisper, likely a figment of my imagination more than anything else, but they still shook me. He’s locked away, I reminded myself. Still, Levi’s words of warning bubbled up in the back of my brain: Don’t ever forget, they’re still in you. That means you can access their power, but the more Nox you draw, the more the ichor has to work to hold them back. I glanced down at the golden tattoos riddling my arm. They were dull—ugly and brown like drying mud.

Just how much power had I used, and how much was too much?

There was jack shit I could do about any of that at the moment, however, so instead I turned my attention back to the room. I nodded at Jim, who immediately went to work, loosening screws with nimble fingers before propping the grate up against the side of the duct. I inched up to the edge and dropped my legs through, feeling painfully exposed as I dangled there. This vent shaft opening was a wee bit narrower than the opening in the freezer, and it took some seriously awkward acrobatics to get my shoulders through. Finally, however, I dropped down, landing on the carpet with a soft thump, which still felt ungodly loud in the otherwise quiet room.

I half expected Skinless Jim to follow me down, but the man popped his head out for only a brief second, offering me a thumbs-up before disappearing out of sight. I cupped a hand around my mouth. “Hey, hold on,” I hissed, a flicker of panic filling me. “How the crap am I supposed to find my way out?” My question hung in the air, unanswered.

The asshole was gone. Vanished.

Shit. Well, I was still better off than I’d been half an hour ago, and with the chunk of Levi in my pocket, I’d find my way.

I turned slowly, scanning the room.

Although this place was certainly Cassius’ office, Azazel had added a few touches of his own. A dark wood bookcase ran behind the desk, loaded to the gills with ancient manuscripts and grimoires, no doubt filled with profane, demonic knowhow. Either that or hellish cooking recipes. Additionally, the wall-mounted flat screen was nowhere to be seen, replaced instead with a glass-fronted curio cabinet showcasing various relics. There were iron figurines, covered in golden, Hebrew script. A bronze-bladed, rune-etched dagger—clearly ceremonial. A black-coated mirror in a worn, gold-edged frame.

On the other side of the room, near the club chairs, were sets of shelves filled with weapons. Old weapons like medieval poleaxes, Roman gladiuses, and hulking warhammers, plus a spattering of new ones, too. A host of pistols dotted one shelf—Berettas, Glocks, Colts—some big and flashy, others compact and practical.

Another shelf housed a MAC10, an AK, and a sawed-off shottie, which looked a helluva lot like the one slung around my body. Some of the other goodies left me salivating like a starving puppy: flashbangs, frag grenades, a trio of Claymore mines, and a sprawl of gleaming cutlery. Everything from the classic K-Bar to curved Kukri.

Jackpot.

Apparently, Demon-me had the same taste in weapons as regular me.

Unfortunately, the scythe was noticeably absent from the mini-armory.

Still, I wasn’t about to ignore a perfectly good opportunity to load up before moving on.

There was a black tactical flak jacket with a drop pouch on a nearby rack, just waiting for some industrious, forward thinker like myself to come along and load it up with all the tools necessary to raid a demon stronghold. I took my regular holster off, strapped the vest on, and promptly went to town like a kid in a candy shop. My shoulder rig went over the top of the vest like a dream, and I slipped a flashbang and a frag grenade into a pair of pouches on the front.

I picked out a sleek black Beretta M-9 and stashed it in the belt at the back of my pants.

The tactical shottie, I held.

Once I felt sufficiently loaded up and ready to rock and roll, I headed over to the curio cabinet housing all of Azazel’s weird collectibles. Most of the stuff was your standard mysterious demon fare, but one particular item on the bottom shelf caught my eye.

There was a withered hand, the flesh dry and cracked, with candlewicks protruding from the ends of each finger. An honest-to-God Hand of Glory. A cursed, demonic artifact, made from the hand of a thief, hanged until dead. The trinkets were like urban legends: everyone knew a guy, who knew a guy, who knew another guy who’d seen one. Or maybe owned one.

But it was always bullshit, as urban legends so often are.

The closest I’d ever come to a Hand of Glory was a shitty tourist shop over at the Brokers of Iskdarla Shopping Emporium, Hub-side. The emporium was like the bastard child of the world’s biggest garage sale and a sprawling third-world outdoor market, and you could find just about anything there. Just about. The Hand I saw was a cheap knockoff for suckers with more money than common sense. Real Hands of Glory were powerful dark artifacts, empowered by the souls of the dead and damned. No self-respecting mage would truck with that kinda hoodoo.

Legend said the candles would only shed light for the person holding the Hand, and there were even rumors that it could open any door or any lock.

It wasn’t what I’d come looking for, but I couldn’t pass it by—no one would ever believe me otherwise. Besides, I was in Hell, and if I couldn’t find a way to use an artifact that could unlock any door, I was doing something wrong. Gingerly, I picked it up as though it were a live rattler and unceremoniously shoved it into the drop pouch at my hip. Then, I wiped my palm on my jeans, trying to scrub away the oily residue—touching the Hand felt like running my skin under a stream of rancid sewage.

Next, I ransacked the rest of the room, checking and double-checking every nook, crevice, and hidey-hole Azazel might’ve used as a secret stash. I looked under chair cushions, flipped tables, and pulled all the books from the shelves. But my searching turned up nada, which was more than a little concerning. Where would that asshole have put it, if not here?

I highly doubted the scythe would be in the desk, but there might be other clues. I mean, a desk like that looked custom-built for stashing incriminating evidence. I beelined for the wooden behemoth and pulled open the top drawer. As expected, no giant, demon-killing weapon, but a black book looked nearly as promising. I plopped down on the edge of the office chair, a fancy leather number, and leafed through the papers, scanning the details. Once more, I felt a giddy excitement bubble up in my gut. Jackpot número dos.

The book was a treasure trove of valuable info. Blueprints. Maps. Guard rosters.

No doubt, this was the culmination of all the details Azazel had turned up while eliminating the other demons of Asmodeus’ court.

With a grin, I tucked the book into the drop pouch next to the Hand of Glory—

The soft rasp of metal on metal drew my attention in a flash. I shot to my feet, the chair squeaking in protest, bringing the shottie up and to the ready, the sights trained on the entryway. But it wasn’t some Derby girl making the rounds. Instead, ol’ Skinless Jim’s face popped back into view, his forehead furrowed, his lipless mouth puckered into a grimace. Holy shit was it good to see him again. Jim shot a hand out and waved me up, the gesture clear even if he couldn’t speak. Time to move, I’ve got something to show you.

I grunted a reply, lowering the gun, then hoofed it over to the vent.

It took a bit of doing to get back into the air ducts, but eventually, I was inside, low-crawling after Jim, sweating up a storm the whole time. Moving through the shaft before had been uncomfortable, but now—with the added body armor and extra hardware—it was downright miserable. Almost impossible. Still, I soldiered on. We took a left, then an immediate right, followed by a switchback before creeping to a stop at another ceiling vent, nearly identical to the one letting into Azazel’s spacious office.

I scooted forward, repositioning myself to get a glimpse of the room below.

From my limited vantage, I could only see one wall, but it looked far closer to a medieval torture chamber than a good place to kick up your feet, drink some whiskey, and plot the downfall of a demon king. The wall was old gray stone, peppered with specks of crusty brown and sporting black wrought-iron torches, burning with lurid red fire that fluttered and danced in the breeze coming from the vent. Two steel-topped tables lined the wall.

One table was positively littered with torture equipment. Iron manacles, pliers, meat hooks, scalpels, hacksaws, pruning shears, and heavy-duty nails.

And the other table? The other table displayed body parts—hands, feet, loops of gray intestine.

I lay frozen, body rigid, hands trembling, lungs struggling for air as I stared at those god-awful tools, gleaming with bloody red light. For an instant, I was back in Haiti, strapped to a metal gurney, paralyzed by zombie powder, but awake and aware. For a moment, Pa Beauvoir loomed over me, his deranged, grinning face filling up my vision as he dropped a rubber-handled melon baller toward my face. No, no, no. I pressed my eye shut tight, breathing in slowly—in through the nose, out through the mouth—as I pushed the awful memories away.

I couldn’t afford to be distracted by this. Not here. Not now. Too much was on the line.

Even if I couldn’t see him, I knew Levi was down there—the lump of clay in my pocket was wiggling like mad—and the big ugly bastard needed me.

SIXTEEN:

Unholy Exorcism

I shook my head, focused, and edged forward another few inches so I could get a better look at the room below.

I almost passed out again when I did—the place was a friggin’ horror show. The floor was all gleaming stainless steel, sloping slightly toward a circular drain in the center. Perfect for easy cleanup after a bloody, gore-drenched torture session. Just spray the damn place down with a hose, no muss, no fuss. Levi was pinned down next to the drain; heavy black manacles, covered in wicked barbs and glowing with cancerous green runes, secured his feet, wrists, and neck. I’d never seen anything like those bindings, but I had a gut suspicion they probably dampened a mage’s power.

They were torture tools designed to keep my kind from drawing on Vis or Nox.

That was only the beginning of the shitshow, though.

A crude binding circle decorated the floor around Levi, slathered on in thick red paint or, more likely, blood. Jagged angular script, which wriggled and writhed in the flickering firelight as though it were a living thing, sandwiched the binding circle on both sides. I couldn’t read the markings, but a few of the symbols stood out from ancient grimoires I’d studied a handful of times—mostly texts on demonic summoning and ritual exorcism. Around the circle, pinned out like the points of an inverted pentagram, were bodies. Notice that I didn’t say corpses.

Five Skinless slaves, metal collars encircling their throats, were nailed to the floor—giant spikes driven through their hands and feet in obvious, gory homage to the crucifixion. One moaned and thrashed, a few others whimpered softly, while the last simply lay there, gazing vacantly at the ceiling overhead. Five Derby girls—all members of the Cobalt Lily Rollers—stood watch over the slaves, staring down at them with crossed arms, ugly grimaces of disgust and superiority on their faces.

Once again that flicker of rage in my chest went from a dull burn to a bonfire. This was the sickest, most profane bullshit I’d ever seen, and the lady running this Horrorfest was gonna pay in a big, big way.

A heavy steel door creaked open a second later.

A woman strutted in, and I knew without a doubt this was Tezrian.

She was smaller than I’d expected, maybe five-five, without an ounce of fat on her and with skin as creamy and flawless as a pearl. Her face was sharp and angular, her ears pointed and studded with earrings from top to bottom, her mane of raven-black hair floating around her head like a dancing flame. Instead of fishnets, thigh-highs, and roller skates, she wore black plate mail covered in spikes, golden rivets, and dried blood—crusted on and forgotten. Her wings, huge things covered in glossy blue-black raven feathers, protruded from her back, naming her as the demon she was.

She was armed, the pommel of a long sword poking up from her back and the hilt of a strangely curved dagger, not much bigger than a hatchet, in one hand. I eyed the weapon, wondering if maybe that could be the scythe we’d come looking for, but thought it unlikely.

“So good to have you back,” she said, her boots ringing on the floor as she walked. “I know what you must think of Azazel. I know why you’re so desperate to be free of his control, but you’re wrong about him. You should feel honored to be his vessel. You’re an insignificant earthworm.” She eyed Levi up and down, a contemptuous sneer on her face. “A bug, wiggling around in mud and shit, your life short and dumb and meaningless.”

She paused, one black talon-tipped finger tracing over the edge of her bottom lip, then shook her head in disbelief. “You’re barely a sentient dirt speck. And then, when you finally had a chance to leave behind your insignificant squalor—to become something of value—what do you do?” She let the question hang limply in the air, before wheeling around, her eyes bright coals of hate. “What do you do?!” she screamed, spittle flying, lips pulled back, revealing pointed teeth.

That’s when I knew this lady wasn’t working with a full set of hardware. She was batshit crazy, insane from the tip of her ebony hair to the soles of her heavy boots.

She straightened, face suddenly smooth and placid. “Why, you fight and kick and scream, eager to root around in the mud again,” she said, absently inspecting her nails. “You should be honored to serve as the vessel of Azazel. He marshaled the armies of Hell in the Great War. He commanded legions upon legions of the winged-damned and stormed the Gates of High Heaven, contending against Mikha’el until God cast him down. He’s the single greatest warrior of Hell and trusted advisor to the Lord of the Morning. He is the most vicious, pragmatic murderer the world has ever seen.”

She sounded proud of the achievement instead of revolted.

“And you”—her lips pulled back in a rictus of fury and hate—“you shitstain, you maggot, you worthless meat-sack, would try to contain him?” She paused, throwing her head back as she cackled, one hand clutching at her armored belly. “No, no, no, no,” she finished when her mad laughter subsided. “I don’t think so, mortal. I’ll flay your soul and put things to right. Then Azazel will finish the work he started. He’ll murder Asmodeus, that conniving, back-stabbing, petty, jealous little fuck. He’ll strip his soul bare, burn it to a cinder, and reshape Pandæmonium.

“But first, we need to set him free.” She stepped forward, her hips swaying as she walked around the outside of the circle, casually stepping over the nailed down slaves as though they were dead cockroaches beneath her notice. “Prepare yourselves, ladies,” she said, eyeing each of the Derby girls in turn: Mama Murderwheels. Rapunchel. Lady Bones Sally. The Deep South Riot. Machoman Candy Savage. Her inner circle. Each nodded, drawing bronze daggers, near identical to the ceremonial blade I’d seen in Azazel’s office, from leather sheaths.

They began to chant. A slow, discordant thing that set my teeth on edge.

Tezrian joined a moment later, her voice deeper and as raspy as gravel crunching underfoot.

Slowly the demon wound her way around the circle, her curved blade whipping through a complex series of rehearsed motions, like a martial artist performing a kata, while awful words in some ancient tongue spilled from her mouth, buzzing in my ears like a swarm of angry bees. So far, I’d been able to understand every word spoken in Hell, but I couldn’t understand this. It was a jumble of nonsense gibberish, which somehow conjured nightmare images inside my head.

Glimpses of clawed hands and giant, terrible jaws.

Of broken bones and torn flesh.

Of humongous bodies covered in great chitinous plates slithering through burbling lakes of sulfurous magma.

Round and round Tezrian went. The hand motions coming faster and faster, the blade soon blurring through the air. Her chant built in intensity like a manic prayer coming to a crescendo as energy coalesced, rippling through the ethereal plane. Through the vent, I could see the dark energy gathering like a gray storm cloud moments before a lightning strike.

The energy swirled, roiled, and pulsed in time to Tezrian’s incantation.

Shit, shit, shit. What the hell should I do here?

We still hadn’t found the scythe, and that was the only damned reason we were here—without getting the prize, this whole thing was a friggin’ bust. But if it wasn’t in Azazel’s office, then the next most likely place was with Tezrian herself. And even if she didn’t have it on her, maybe I could beat an answer out of her, though I sure as shit didn’t want to pick a fight against a war goddess and a room full of Derby girls. Not with Skinless Jim as my only backup.

Hell, I would’ve rather jumped into a piranha tank buck-ass naked and slathered in blood. At this point, though, I didn’t have many options left. Shit. I glanced down again and saw Levi looking straight up at me, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes squinted, his forehead creased. There was no way he could see me through the vent, but if the chunk of clay in my pocket could guide me to him, it was a safe bet he could probably feel it too.

On my mark, he mouthed to me, a mere twitch of the lips, his fingers flexing as the muscles in his forearms rippled unnaturally.

Shit, shit, shit, I thought again, repeating the phrase like a mantra to center myself. This was it, the moment of truth. Time to shit or get off the pot.

I shooed Skinless Jim away with one hand, before double-checking my shottie. Check. With a grunt and a shimmy, I awkwardly fished out a flashbang from the grenade pouch on my vest. Good to go. Next, I opened myself to a trickle of sweet, delicious, life-giving Vis before calling out to Nox, letting corrupt power wash over me like an oil slick. Drawing on the deathly energy left me as nervous as a piggy in a bacon factory, terrified that Tez would sense my presence. With all that other juju floating around in the air, however, I was hoping no one would notice the subtle addition.

Carefully, I pried up the vent grate and placed it over to one side, muttering a silent prayer under my breath that no one would look up. With that done, I prepared the weaves for a down and dirty force construct, holding them half-formed in my mind, before turning my attention back to the ceremony unfolding below.

Tezrian made another pass around the binding circle, her voice taking on a new rhythm. The words came faster now, filling the air like the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire as her blade bobbed and weaved through the air, hooking and slashing in elegant patterns, leaving faint purple afterimages in its wake.

She stepped over the red line on the floor, towering over Levi like an angry priestess before the sacrificial altar. Her eyes widened, and her lips pulled back in fervor as she uttered an incomprehensible word of power and lashed out with her dagger. She dropped to a knee, driving the curved tip of the weapon into Levi’s gut, sinking it all the way to the hilt. The Derby girls edging the circle followed suit, plunging their bronzed blades into the sides of the five crucified slaves. A flash of brilliant emerald power filled the air as the reverse-exorcism, meant to set Azazel loose, landed like an artillery round.

After a long beat, the emerald light faded and died. The ritual knife protruded from Levi’s belly like a cancerous growth, and Tezrian stood over him with her arms crossed and a smug look plastered across her angular features. She looked as pleased as a cokehead backstroking through a swimming pool of blow, but that smugness slipped from her face in a flash as she surveyed Levi, who lay unchanged in the center of the circle. His face and body were still a perfect mirror of my own.

It was impossible to say what she’d been expecting, but this obviously wasn’t it.

Her brow furrowed and her hands dropped to her hips, the grin morphing into an angry frown. “What is this?” she hissed after a moment, the words as chilly as an arctic blizzard. “What. Is. This?” she asked again, squatting down on her haunches, extending one finger to poke at Levi, who lay unmoving in the circle. The second her finger touched down, pressing into the meat of his shoulder, Levi burbled and rippled. Fat, ropy strands of gray clay strained upward from Levi’s gut, wrapping around the blade jutting up and drawing it down like quicksand.

Tezrian fell back onto her ass in mute shock, scrambling away, her armor clanging on the steel floor. In an instant, a blink, the weapon was gone, vanished into Levi’s body. His fingers flexed, his muscles bulged, and his clothing melted away as gray flesh surged outward like a rockslide. The black shackles, covered in thorns, might’ve been the bee's knees at stopping magi, but Levi was no mage. The metal clasps groaned and screeched, fighting to contain his massive wrists.

They quickly gave way, buckling under the strain, bursting open with a renewed squeal. Levi lurched to his feet, spinning toward Tez, while the demon goddess and the Derby girls looked on completely dumbfounded. Sorta hard to blame them. I’d already seen Levi do his little shapeshifting trick, and it was still jarring. My doppelganger vanished, and all that remained was Levi the murder-machine. His lips pulled back from blunt teeth like uneven tombstones.

“Only problem is,” Levi said, his voice the churning rasp of a cement mixer, “I’m not Yancy Lazarus.” As he spoke, he glanced up at me.

Time for the big reveal.

I pulled the pin, depressed the spoon, hooked my arm into the room, and tossed the flashbang in with a flick of my wrist. Every eye shot toward the vent and my dangling limb—big mistake, right there. I pressed my eye closed tight as a brilliant burst of light and a jangle of awful noise filled the room. Flashbangs weren’t lethal, so Levi would be okay, but they put out a metric ass-ton of light and sound, disorienting anyone unfortunate enough to be looking when they popped. Just enough time for a smart, savvy, shotgun-wielding badass to get the drop on a room full of deadly enemies.

SEVENTEEN:

Ambush

I gave it a quick three-count, waiting for the ringing to dissipate, then pulled myself forward, dropping through the vent as gracefully as braindead chipmunk. Further, I landed like a geriatric gymnast, my left ankle twisting painfully beneath me, dull pain radiating up my leg. Heroics at its finest, ladies and gentlemen. I managed not to break my neck, though, so I was counting it as a win. I pushed the pain in my ankle away, ignoring it as hot-blooded fear and white-knuckled adrenaline surged through me in a wave.

I raised the shottie to the ready, tucking it tight into my shoulder pocket, and took a quick sweep of the room.

Levi was barreling toward Rapunchel—the biggest, blockiest, trolliest Derby girl—like a runaway semi, his fat legs churning, his arms outstretched, one hand already transformed into a thick-bladed meat cleaver, the other a spiked mace. The rest of the Derby girls were staggering around like a gaggle of shit-faced college freshmen during rush week, rubbing at their eyes or groping at the stone walls to steady themselves. Even Tez was down on one knee, her eyes squinted, a furious scowl splitting her face. Yep, that’s right, even uber-tough, supernatural shit-kickers are susceptible to modern human badassery.

Just one of the reasons humans are ruling the earth even though most people aren’t tough enough or bright enough to fight their way out of a wet paper bag with a compass and a chainsaw. That and humans multiply like bunnies compared to most Outworld critters.

Strength in numbers, baby.

With that said, I knew a shotgun slug wasn’t gonna do much damage to Tez—she was a demonic godling—so the best play was to take out the cannon fodder first.

I swiveled, turning my sights on the nearest Derby girl, Lady Bones Sally. She was a slight Latina woman with pigtails and armored shoulder pads made from cobbled together bits of bone and rusty lengths of razor wire. Without a thought, I dropped the barrel and squeezed the trigger; the gun bucked against my shoulder and belched out fire and hot lead. Her left knee exploded in a shower of gory bits and putrid brown flesh, and down she went like Humpty toppling from his perch.

She howled, hands flying toward her leg, and for a second I hesitated.

She was a woman, which shouldn’t have mattered, but did.

I don’t like killing women, or even hurting them—not if I can help it. Then I glanced at the Skinless slaves writhing on the ground, hands and feet nailed to the floor, bronze daggers poking up from their sides. Yeah, screw ’em all sideways. I stood, chambered another round with a quick pump, and took off her other leg at the thigh. It wouldn’t kill her, but she’d have a helluva time fighting or following us with those kinds of wounds. I pumped the shottie again and spun, aiming at Deep South Riot, who’d managed to draw a chromed-out 1911.

I pulled the trigger again, blasting the heavy pistol from her grip and taking everything below the wrist with it. For a moment, she stared dumbly at the stump, confusion and anger waltzing across her face in turns, but then I placed a round in her throat and put an end to that bullshit. She pitched over with a gurgle, her remaining hand grasping at the ragged hole in her neck, fingers pressed down tight, as though that might do something. Again, I didn’t think I could kill these ladies, but that would put her out of commission for a hot minute.

I pumped in a new shell, the old one cartwheeling away from the chamber, and hooked left, searching for Mama Murderwheels or Machoman Candy Savage. I needed them gone ASAP so that I could focus my metaphysical efforts on Tez without fear of interruption. Rapunchel was on the floor, now, nearly cleaved in two—a ragged slice ran from collarbone to pelvis. Levi had taken care of her nice and neat, but he was in a bad way, too. Several fingers on his left hand were gone, revealing a jagged hole that leaked golden ichor while a series of ugly bullet holes peppered his chest.

He was fighting his way toward Machoman Candy Savage, but the Derby girl was doing a damned good job of keeping him at bay. She used her skates and superior speed to outmaneuver the slow-moving hulk while lighting him up with a boxy black MAC10.

This time, I didn’t even bother to fire the shottie.

With a wave of one hand and a thought, I unleashed the half-formed force construct, swatting her off her feet and slamming her into the wall with bone-breaking force. She’d be easy pickings for Levi now—thinking about that left me a little queasy. A beat later, a javelin of Nox broadsided me like a dump truck doing fifty, hammering into my ribs, pushing the air from my lungs, sweeping me into the air, and blasting the shottie from my hands.

I sailed sideways, twisting awkwardly, head spinning in confusion—what in the Hell just happened?—as I fought to turn my graceless fall into a nifty roll.

Now, let me go on the record here and say that falling sucks more than a Hoover vacuum. Period.

Seriously, over eight hundred thousand people wind up in the hospital each year because of slipping on ice—I shit you not, it’s the second leading cause of nonfatal injury in America. And from personal experience, let me further say getting blasted fifteen feet through the air is worse than slipping on ice by an order of magnitude that’s almost impossible to calculate. With that on the table, there’s a right way to fall and a wrong way. I fall a lot, sort of a professional hazard, so I know the ins and outs like the back of my hand.

This time, though, I just couldn’t get my rebellious body to cooperate. Twist and turn as I might, I just knew I was gonna eat shit hard.

Sure enough, I landed face-first on the steel floor, my lip busting open, my left rotator cuff shrieking in angry protest, my knees clanging and bouncing as I slid into one of the metal tables lining the wall. Naturally, my head collided with the table leg, which dumped a host of surgical operating tools right down on top of me. Still, I counted my lucky stars it hadn’t been the table of body parts. Getting a few minor nicks from razor-sharp scalpels and serrated saw blades wasn’t a walk in the park, but it sure beat having a bunch of amputated limbs raining down on my head.

I groaned, winced, then gritted my teeth as I rolled and gained my feet.

Levi was off to my left, beating the holy living crap out of Machoman Candy Savage with—I shit you not—someone else’s arm. Yep, the hulking gray monster was using a deeply tanned limb to bat away a wicked machete while he slowly circled his victim, backing her into a corner. Still no sign of Mama Murderwheels, which was disconcerting, but I had eyes on Tez. She was fifteen feet away, death and mayhem burning in her eyes as she muttered under her breath, her hands flicking through a complex series of conjuration patterns.

That kinda shit wasn’t necessary to work with the Vis, but Tez was old-school, from back when magic was steeped in ritual. It was distinctly possible she didn’t know how to sling power without all the trappings and silly hand waving.

A minor advantage in my favor, though she was still a friggin’ demon.

She spat out a demonic word of power, which reverberated in my chest like a bomb blast. Simultaneously, she thrust both hands forward, conjuring a flood of orange fire as thick as a telephone pole and laced with flickering strands of dirty purple. Yay. A powerful attack, capable of turning your average Rube into a pile of charred meat. Thankfully, I wasn’t just some Rube. I was Yancy Lazarus: mage, bluesman, Marine, and I had a demon of my very own riding shotgun in my noggin. Shit, I had two.

I snarled, and Nox—twisted, cold, profane—came to me unbidden, surging around me in a whirling cloud of violet.

I thrust one hand out, palm up, fingers splayed, channeling that power into a battering ram of blinding arctic light. A bubble of cold formed around me, the Nox sucking the heat from the air, as my construct zipped toward Tez like a lightning bolt. The opposing beams smashed together with a thunderclap that rattled the walls; fire and ice twirled and danced, pressing against one another for supremacy. A sheet of steam leaked away, filling the room with a wispy white cloud that made it damned near impossible to see. I paid it no mind though, pumping more energy into my frozen death-beam while Tez did the same.

I tuned out everything around me—the screams of injured Derby girls, Levi’s throaty growls, Tez’s quiet chanting—focusing entirely on the beam of ice and deadly Nox. Despite the pocket of cold swirling around me, perspiration broke out along my forehead and leaked down my face. I refused to so much as blink while I threw my will, my determination to survive, against the demon’s awful power. I wasn’t going to lose this fight, dammit. I wasn’t going to let her strap me down, break my mind, and set Azazel free.

She’d have to kill me first.

The tenuous balance between the warring constructs shifted a heartbeat later, and suddenly my beam lurched closer to Tez as her Hellfire javelin guttered, diminished by the intense cold of my working. As though to illustrate my impending victory, the steam froze, instantly turning to powdery snow, which coated the metal floor with white. Snow in Hell. Oh, the irony.

Tez screamed, throwing her fury and might into her attack—one last-ditch effort to bring me to heel. The world shook as an explosion rocked the room, and blinding light bled out, accompanied by a wave of blistering heat that smacked into me like a giant pillow, searing my eyebrows and leaving my skin red, raw, and tender.

I blinked in a futile attempt to clear away the purple afterimage burned across my vision while lashing out with a barrage of frozen spikes. A dozen dagger-sharp spits of gleaming ice streaked toward the last place I’d seen Tez. A blind shot in the dark, true, but better than just standing around, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for someone to eviscerate me. Hell, maybe I’d get lucky and pin her ass to the wall, which would be poetic justice considering what she’d done to the Skinless slaves. Sadly, though, no shriek of agony or rage followed.

Just the clatter of ice smashing uselessly against stone.

By the time I could see again, Tez was damn near on me, a manic grin on her face and her great sword—blazing with purple flame—in her hands. Tezrian was a warrior, I reminded myself, so she was probably far more comfortable duking things out up close and personal than she was in slinging raw power. Azazel was unique in that regard. He wasn’t just a warrior, he was the Lord of Dark Magicks. Only a handful of demons who could go toe to toe with him when it came to arcane power.

I frantically backpedaled as her weapon whistled through the air like an incoming scud missile.

“Gladium Potestatis,” I screamed, conjuring up my Vis-wrought sword with a whisper of will and a trickle of arcane power.

A thin single-edged azure blade about three feet in length exploded into existence, radiating cool power as it appeared in my outstretched hand. It wasn’t a real sword, just a construct of air, no different from any of the other workings I could conjure, but it was plenty sharp enough to slice and dice with the best of ’em. I dropped back another step, my hip scraping against the edge of the steel table as I swung my blade up into a hasty overhand block, uke-nagashi.

Violet sparks flew in a shower as my sloppy counter caught the incoming blow, shedding the attack like water rolling from an umbrella. “You wanna dance,” I grunted, whipping the sword around in a wicked arc, canting the blade to one side and driving it toward her exposed ribs. “Then let’s dance.” Contrary to what movies would have you believe, sword fights are usually quick, brutal, and nasty. Nine times out of ten, they end in less than a handful of moves. I needed to make my move, and I needed to make it quick.

But Tez was fast. Too fast. Impossibly fast.

She sidestepped the diagonal slash, dipping the tip of her sword down and swatting away my strike with the flat of her blade. Her sword was big, a real monster known as a Zweihänder, and functioned more like a poleaxe from the Middle Ages than a traditional sword. She shouldn’t have been able to maneuver like that, but she wielded her oversized two-hander as if it were a featherweight rapier. She shifted her weight and darted in, driving the pommel into my chest, then rocketing her knee straight into my gut.

I doubled over, painfully exposed, and caught an elbow across my face for the trouble.

The blow sent me stumbling, stars dancing across my vision as blood dripped from my mouth. If she’d wanted to, she could’ve ended me with that last attack. Instead of an elbow, it could’ve just as easily been the edge of her sword. It dawned on me that she wasn’t trying to kill me—that wouldn’t serve her purposes. It wouldn’t free Azazel; as far as I understood, if I kicked the bucket, the Seal would pass on to my nearest kin. The absolute shittiest inheritance on the planet.

So more likely, she just wanted to beat me into submission. And that?

That I might be able to use against her.

“You’ll pay for what you did to my girls,” she intoned solemnly, gliding forward. “I’ll have some fun with you before we set things right.” She shot in again, her sword zigzagging and twirling as she flowed from move to move. The attacks rained down in an unceasing curtain. Slash, twist, thrust, parry, pivot. Rinse. Wash. Repeat. I narrowly dodged and blocked each blow—she was obviously head and shoulders better than me with a blade—before finally spotting the opening I’d been waiting for. She shifted her body just so, and I made my move.

I dropped my sword to waist level, elbows bent, blade tilted to the right side of my body, the set up for yoko-giri-—a nasty bastard of an attack, meant to carve through an opponent’s guts. To disembowel ’em in a blink. I feinted left, ducking another elbow, then bolted right, whipping my blade out in a horizontal arc of flashing azure light. Against anyone else, this was a smart play, but against someone like Tez, it was damn near suicidal. As expected, the edge of her blade diverted my slash with a shriek and a shower of violet sparks.

Suddenly, she was inside my guard.

She took advantage of the opening, her weapon slashing at my exposed head. I flinched, bracing for the impact and praying I was right.

The flat of the blade slammed into the side of my head like a fastball. The world jittered at the edges and my legs threatened to give way beneath me, but through sheer force of will, I stayed upright. I wasn’t in any position to hit her with my sword, but that had never been the plan. Now she was open on her right side, and I was less than a foot away. Drunkenly, I shuffled forward, dismissing the conjured sword and thrusting my left hand into her side. I pressed my palm against her blood-caked black armor and unleashed a gout of Nox-laced flame.

In an instant, the beam carved straight through her center, cauterizing a basketball-sized hole in her stomach.

She staggered back, her sword clattering to the floor as she probed at the edges of the wound with talon-tipped fingers.

No way was she done for, but it was a helluva opening and high time to beat feet. I turned on my heel, searching the room for Levi.

He was near the torture chamber door, ripping his meat-cleaver hand from Machoman Candy Savage’s brutalized torso, and at this point, she was just a torso. “Let’s move it,” I hollered at him, waving madly toward the exit.

He nodded, but as he did, his eyes went wide in alarm. “Heads up!” he roared, one hand straining uselessly toward me as the air to my right shimmered.

A veil fell away in a flash, revealing Mama Murderwheels with a black Beretta nearly identical to the one stashed in the back of my trousers. “I don’t think so, sugga,” she said, pressing the barrel of the gun into the meat of my left thigh then pulling the trigger. The gun barked in her hand, and agony filled me up as though someone had just jabbed a friggin’ cherry-red fire iron into my leg. She hadn’t hesitated, and she hadn’t wasted time monologuing like a moron, which was something I could respect on a professional level.

On a purely personal level, however, I wanted to drop kick her ass into a vat of acid.

Instead, I toppled, landing near one of the Skinless nailed sacrilegiously to the floor like a frog waiting to be dissected.

EIGHTEEN:

Escape and Evade

I lay there, moaning and groaning near the Skinless slave, my leg bleeding freely, one hand pinned beneath me, the other laying limply at my side. Everything hurt. My head pounded, on the verge of splitting open like an overripe melon. My ankle, injured from my tumble into the room, throbbed with dull fire. Several ribs felt bruised at the least, maybe broken, and made every lungful of air an experiment in pain management. And my left leg—holy shit did getting shot hurt like a son of a bitch.

I pressed my eye shut and took a long shuddering breath, trying to calm my nerves.

When I finally opened my eye, Tez loomed above me, smug satisfaction on her face, her hands placed on her hips. Mama Murderwheels stood nearby, her Beretta trained on my head. I couldn’t see Levi, but I knew he had to be nearby. What could he do though? One wrong move and Mama Murderwheels could plant one in my skull. I didn’t think she would do it, but she could, and that was all that mattered.

“You’re clever for a sack of blood and bones,” Tez said, glowering down at me, then glancing to the hole in her gut. “But not clever enough, you slimy little shit. Murderwheels,” she said, looking away, her voice a whip crack of command. “I want that thing”—she nodded toward Levi—“chained up and taken to the deep dungeon and prepped for examination. And then get a Flesh Tailor up here, ASAP.

“If the rest of the crew isn’t patched up and back on their feet in an hour,” she continued, “it’s your ass. Once that’s done, I want someone to scour the servants’ quarters. Our prodigal son here”—she reached down and patted me affectionately on the cheek—“used the vents to get in. I want to know where else he’s been, what he’s done, and who helped him do it. Someone knows something, and I want them.”

I turned my head away, feeling defeated to the core, not wanting to look at the war goddess for another second. Which is when I saw the Skinless lying next to me—the poor bastard looked about as shitty as I felt. His arms and legs quivered, and his breathing was harsh and labored thanks to the knife poking from his ribs like a hitchhiker’s curved thumb. It was the collar snapped tight around his throat that caught my attention, though. In an instant, inspiration hit me like a sock full of quarters.

Maybe there was still a way out of this colossal shitpickle, and the Skinless slave was my ticket.

Well, the fancy hardware clamped around his neck, but potato, potahto, and all that jazz.

With a groan, I wriggled my body, fishing the Beretta from the waist of my pants. Carefully, I popped the safety and maneuvered the pistol so no one would be able to see it until I was ready to move. With my other hand, I groped around until my palm landed on the ceremonial dagger protruding from the Skinless slave’s side. The thing was lodged deep, just below the floating rib, but it came away with a tug.

As Tez jawed with Mama Murderwheels—already certain of her victory—I reversed my grip on the handle, then lashed out with every ounce of strength I had left in me.

I slammed the blade down through the top of Tez’s boot, driving through thick black leather into the yielding flesh below. Next, I rolled, bringing up the Beretta in a single fluid movement, firing six shots in quick succession into Mama Murderwheels’ neck and face. The gun bucked in my hand as Murderwheels fell back, her pistol dropping, blood spurting out in a crimson arc. I tossed the Berretta aside as Levi lumbered into action with a guttural roar, his feet pounding like a war drum as he smashed into the last remaining Derby girl.

Some small, petty part of me wanted to watch the hurtin’ Levi was gonna lay on her. She had an aircraft carrier worth of comeuppance coming her way for shooting me, but Tez still needed to be dealt with. So, despite my desire for gory vengeance, I turned back to the slave, and fumbled at the collar around his neck, funneling in a trickle of power. The metal fizzled and clicked open beneath my fingers. The Skinless, now awake, alert, and aware of what I was doing, craned his head upward with a grimace of pain, fighting against the nails holding him down.

The collar came free with a soft click.

Tez was a handful of feet away, down on one knee, her hands scrambling to pull the ceremonial dagger free from her foot. The blade was lodged in there good and proper, though—what can I say, I know how to shank someone—and she was so absorbed with the knife she didn’t even see me move. Ignoring the pain rampaging through my body like Godzilla in Tokyo, I lunged toward the demon, grabbing ahold of her flowing black hair and yanking her toward me. Hatred flashed across her stone-cold face, but before she knew what was happening, I slapped the collar around her neck, reactivating it with a thin trickle of energy.

The ember script flared to life, responding to my power, and Tez gasped, her fingers clawing at the band in a mixture of horror and utter disbelief. Her eyes, wide with pale violet irises, said everything. How? How did this happen? How is this possible? How can I fix this?

I offered her a malicious grin, then spit a fat wad of blood right into her face. The red phlegm was more insult than anything else, but it caught her off guard.

She blinked frantically, one hand darting toward her face, which is when I pivoted, brought my good leg up, and mule-kicked her in the chest. Down she went, flat onto her back.

I flipped onto my belly and fought my way upright. It was tough going, I won’t lie, and my left leg was about as useful as a toothpick to a toothless hobo. But I gained my feet all the same and promptly hobbled over to the downed godling, looming over her on unsteady feet, my skin pale, sweat rolling down my face in sheets. “Tell me where the scythe is!” I screamed at her, the throbbing pain in my leg fueling a white-hot rage. “Where the fuck is it?!”

She gagged and gasped, all bug-eyed as she fought against the influence of the compulsion collar around her throat. “I don’t want to ask again,” I said, my voice a low, cold, guttural threat as I pulled my hand cannon and pressed the muzzle against her forehead. At last she seemed to deflate, but instead of answering my question, she simply started laughing. A harsh, grating noise like an ice pick being jabbed repeatedly into a block of stone.

“You really are a bug. An ignorant worm,” she coughed out, the script on the collar flaring brighter and brighter until the black metal seemed nearly red with heat. “I don’t have it, and it’s not here. Azazel would never entrust something so precious. Not to me. Not to anyone. You’ll never find it, not without his help. You’ve come all this way for nothing.” She laughed again even as plumes of black smoke drifted up from her neck accompanied by the stink of burning meat.

“Lazarus,” Levi bellowed from behind me. I glanced at him over my shoulder, nearly pitching over in the process. Mama Murderwheels was down for the count and in about fifteen different pieces, and ol’ Muddy had one bloody hand pressed up against the wall. “There are more of ’em coming,” he said, his brown eyes distant. “We need to go. Now.”

“But the scythe!” I shouted, my face screwed up in absolute fury. After all this? After everything we’d done? It had to be here. Had to be. Maybe she was lying—though with the collar strapped around her throat that seemed doubtful.

Levi dropped his hand and hustled over, kicking an amputated arm out of his way without a thought. “We can talk about this later,” he replied, far too calmly, “but if we have any shot of leaving this city, we need to go now. We’ll regroup. Figure it out. Come up with a new plan. But this is not the hill we should die on.” He paused, surveying the wound decorating my leg. “Now hold still.” Before I could offer a reply, he jabbed one hand into his gut, pulled out a glob of gooey gray clay speckled with gold, and slapped the shit right onto the gunshot wound.

It hurt like a sucker punch to the throat.

I wheezed as the clay moved with a life of its own, flattening and spreading, quickly covering the bullet hole, then wrapping around my thigh, pulling tight to staunch the blood flow. “That oughta keep you from bleeding out,” Levi remarked, the way a neighbor might about the weather.

The guy was a world-class, unsympathetic asshole.

Then, before I could give him a piece of my mind, he bent over and scooped me off my feet like a disgruntled bride, cradling me in his arms.

“The Hell are you doing?” I protested weakly.

He sniffed and glanced down at me, face flat and unmoved. “Someone shot you in the leg.” He shrugged. “This is the only way you won’t slow us down.”

I frowned, stowed my pistol, and folded my arms across my chest, unamused.

This wasn’t great for my heroic, badass, gunslinger image, but there was a certain pragmatic sense I could appreciate. I stole one last hate-filled look at Tez as Levi shambled into motion, heading from the room.

Shit. We’d really screwed the pooch on this one.

We found ourselves in a hallway with black-marble floors running off to the left and right. Levi lingered for a minute, his hideous underbite turning down in a frown, clearly unsure which way to go. Finally, he shrugged again—screw it, that gesture said—and headed right, his clomping footfalls echoing off of dark walls studded with gaudy wall-mounted lamps filigreed in silver.

We passed several empty rooms and a number of nooks and crannies proudly displaying priceless pieces of artwork or ancient ceremonial trinkets on marble pedestals. Despite her association with the tattoo-sporting, fishnet-clad Roller Nation, this was the palace of a goddess—one who was worshiped and revered by lesser beings. The sound of skates on tile jarred me from my thoughts, and I glanced over Levi’s sloping, lopsided shoulders. A small army of scowling Derby girls, members of the Badass Betties unless I missed my guess entirely, were racing toward us.

A corkscrew stairwell lay dead ahead.

Levi picked up his pace, but still the Derby girls gained on us. Levi was a lot of things—disgusting, ugly, rude, brutal, odd as a three-dollar bill—but fast didn’t seem to be on the impressive list. He plodded down the stairwell, turning, turning, turning, the racket of skates growing louder every passing second. “Go faster,” I hollered into his ear, gaze fixed on the curving stairwell behind us as I prepared the weaves for a lance of flame.

“This is fast,” he replied, rounding a corner and emerging into a sitting room littered with plush couches, club chairs, and a variety of end tables and bookcases. There was a pair of French doors off to the right, and a hallway off to the left, which connected to a massive foyer and hopefully the exit. A second later, though, the French doors rattled in their frame as someone battered against them from the other side. To make matters worse, that was the exact instant the Derby girls from upstairs emerged from the stairwell, brandishing machetes and chainsaws.

Seriously. Chainsaws.

No guns, though, which was a lucky break. Word to the wise: if you ever find yourself celebrating a pack of bloodthirsty monsters armed with chainsaws, that’s a sure sign things have gone horribly, terribly wrong somewhere.

The doors rattled again as though to emphasize our plight.

“Set me down,” I yelled at Levi, my tone harsh and commanding.

He obeyed without protest, dropping me gently near the room’s far wall so I could brace myself.

“Good,” I said. “Go check the hallway—see if you can find a way outta here. I’ll buy us some time.”

Once more, Levi bobbed his head and lumbered off toward the foyer as I tweaked the half-formed weaves of my flame javelin, reshaping them. I threw both hands forward, unleashing an invisible wave of raw force and pure will. Couches, chairs, and end tables cartwheeled into the air as though they’d been swatted by a gigantic hand, crashing into the Derby girls. Women in too-tight shirts and plaid skirts went down en masse, shrieking and screaming as ankles rolled and kneecaps snapped. One lady—her head shaved, her face like an old saddlebag—was unfortunate enough to fall directly into the roaring blade of her chainsaw.

Very messy.

I didn’t have time to celebrate, because a second later the French doors exploded outward with a spray of wooden shrapnel. I braced myself for the absolute shitstorm to come, my hands out and at the ready, arcane power coursing and throbbing just beneath my fingers.

Except it wasn’t a new army of Derby girls that poured through.

Nope, it was a flood of Skinless, led by none other than one-eyed Jim, my tour guide and new best friend. The glistening red slaves were all free of their collars, and each held a weapon—just kitchen knives, meat cleavers, or the odd wooden table leg, but weapons all the same. They sent up a wordless, inarticulate roar as they charged the downed Derby girls. In a flash, knives found tender flesh. Meat cleavers hacked through bone. Broken table legs smacked into skulls with the sickening crack of a baseball player hitting one out of the park.

The carnage lasted seconds, but felt like hours. Finally, I had to look away; watching the Skinless work out their justifiable rage was like looking at a human meat grinder in action.

God, this place was gonna leave some serious psychological and emotional scars.

Another primal, guttural cheer went up as the Skinless finished their bloody work. Levi’s hand fell on my shoulder, drawing my eye away from their primal victory dance. I paused, stifling a laugh with one hand. There was nothing funny about the gory scene behind me, of course, but Levi? Well, the giant gray goofy bastard was wearing neon-pink roller skates covered in flaming skulls. Size sixteen, at least. He glanced at me, then down at the skates.

“Seriously?” I quirked an eyebrow.

“I’m not fast,” he muttered, “and we need to move fast. These’ll help.”

Then, despite the horrid circumstances and the walking nightmares all around me, I threw my head back and laughed. Laughed so hard, my stomach hurt. Laughed, and laughed, and laughed, because sometimes that’s the only thing you can do.

After a time, my mad cackling subsided, and I wiped a tear away from my eye.

“You sure those things will hold you?” I asked, nodding to the wheels.

“Some of these Derby girls weigh as much as I do,” he replied tersely, bending and flexing his knees in demonstration. The display only made me want to laugh more.

“And you can skate?” I suppressed a grin as I fought to stay professional.

He nodded. “I’m competent. The church has an ice-skating event every year to raise money for the homeless. I never miss it.”

That did it. I doubled over again, just yakking it up like this was the end of the world and I didn’t give a shit anymore. I could just envision Levi, disguised as a balding, potbellied man, trudging along on a pair of rented skates next to a gray-haired church lady in a hand-knitted shawl. Nothing made sense anymore.

“You done?” he asked, folding flabby tree trunk arms across his mammoth barrel chest as my giggles subsided.

“Yeah,” I said with a nod and a smile, “though man, what I wouldn’t give for a camera.”

“Good,” he said, ignoring the last part of my statement. “I found the exit, but we’re gonna have a heck of a time getting out. I took out the sentry standing watch inside”—he gestured toward the skates—“but there are two dozen or more posted up out front. We’ll have to find a way to get past them.”

I nodded, the heaviness of the situation settling over me again. “But assuming we can, then what? How do we get outta here? There’s a whole friggin’ city of Derby girls out there.”

“Yeah,” he said with a nod, “but there are also all kinds of passages connecting to this crater.” He made it sound both self-explanatory and self-evident. “Stone calls to stone, and rock calls to rock—I can read those passages. We just need to move quickly, get clear of the city, and into those tunnels. We’ll lose any hangers-on there, and I’ll get us back to the surface, no problem. You’ll be my gunner.” He delivered his whole speech dead-panned and straight-faced.

This was just another day in paradise as far as he was concerned.

“Got it,” I replied absentmindedly, rubbing at my chin as I thought. “But first things first. Breaking out.” I shot a look at Skinless Jim and his posse. The one-eyed rebel grinned—supremely disturbing since he didn’t have lips or teeth—and nodded, one hand shooting into the air, flashing through an elaborate system of signals.

NINETEEN:

Ultimate Derby

Levi and I busted through the front doors, surrounded by a tidal wave of glistening red bodies wielding a wide assortment of weapons. Levi was wearing skates, and me? Well, I was strapped to Levi’s chest in a five-point harness of gray mud. Just dangling there, facing outward like a toddler in one of those newfangled baby holsters. Embarrassing as all get out, but it was surprisingly comfortable and great for my wounded leg. Plus, it gave me a clear line of fire, so a win I guess?

The Derby girls outside seemed oblivious to the battle going on inside the mansion, but one look at us sent ’em into a flurry of motion.

A few immediately rushed toward a nearby guard tower—arms swinging, legs pumping—which wasn’t a good sign. They were probably going for reinforcements. But reinforcements would be a problem for Future Me. Present Me already had more than enough bullshit to worry about. Like the two dozen remaining Hellion Amazons wielding automatic rifles and gleaming spears. Gunfire broke out, bullets whizzing and whining by as the sentries lit us up like a Fourth of July fireworks display.

Normally, I’d whip up a hasty friction shield, but there were just so many bullets, and a deflection shield was no beuno—not with all the friendly Skinless swarming around us. Yeah, it would protect me and Levi the Murder-Machine, but ricocheted rounds would prove dangerous to my new buddies. Friendly fire is bad all around. Instead, I wove a delicate sphere of air, interlaced with columns of raw spirit and braided through with strands of magnetic force. A tricky bit of work, but one with a helluva cool payoff.

A shimmering dome of semitranslucent quicksilver exploded to life around Levi and me.

The incoming rounds plowed into the construct, emitting silver flashes as they hit. Instead of punching through the barrier or careening off into my new buddies, however, the bullets simply stopped as their forward momentum was redirected by magnetic force. Suddenly, I had a slew of copper slugs orbiting me like a bunch of freeloading planets, twirling round and round. I’d picked this trick up from this batshit crazy mage named Arjun a while back, and though it took a shitload of energy to hold in place, I was getting better with it all the time.

With a screw-you grin, I flicked out my left hand.

The circling bullets zipped free like asteroids careening toward Earth, tearing through the front-line Derby girls. The rounds lifted a few women from their feet and dropped others outright. The Skinless used the mass chaos as cover, darting forward during the brief lapse in gunfire, leaping onto the remaining Hellion warriors with ferocious glee. Meat cleavers slashed down, knives jabbed deep, hastily made wooden clubs bludgeoned exposed limbs, and meaty red hands pried automatic weapons free.

In moments, the tide turned, and our little army of rebels stood victorious over the Derby girls, who lay wounded on the ground. The Skinless weirdos stood a bit straighter, joyous lipless smirks stretching across their faces, eyes peering over the grand sweep of the Roller Nation city with new hope and a generous dollop of defiance. Our victory was short-lived, though, because only a handful of seconds later, a series of bells clanged frantically from several different lookout towers, their billowing, clarion call reverberating in my teeth and bones.

Intruders, those bells shrieked. Time to bring the thunder. Time to nuke the earth and scorch the land.

For a long beat, we all just stood there, staring down on the city as Roller Nation denizens poured out of doors and into the streets like a swarm of angry wasps ready to defend the hive. I whistled under my breath. Holy shit, there were a lot of ’em.

“You sure we can get outta here?” I asked Levi over one shoulder, trying to mask the uncertainty in my voice. Breaking into this place had been bad enough, but busting out with every eye looking for us was something else entirely.

“Stone calls to stone,” he muttered in reply. “I can do it. Past time we were moving, though,” he finished, his voice flat with just a whisper of worry buried beneath his words. “The quicker we get gone, the better.” Then he shifted, his body bubbling, rippling, as his head, legs, and arms popped and inverted. In the span of a heartbeat, I went from his front to his back, my legs dangling down over his flabby clay ass. I’d never get used to Levi’s wonkiness. Never. I stole one more look at Skinless Jim, who now had a compact matte-black M4 with a collapsible buttstock in his hands.

My favorite gun.

He regarded me solemnly, head tilted to one side, then tossed the gun to me with a nod. Good luck, he mouthed. And thanks.

“Glad to help, pal,” I replied.

I don’t know what Skinless Jim did to wind up in Hell, but dammit, he was alright in my book. I cleared my throat—feeling a bit choked up—and canted the gun to one side for a brass check, before finally offering him a return nod. Then, because I hate goodbyes and for some reason I was strangely attached to ol’ Jim, I turned my head and said, “Let’s get this show on the road. I’ve got shit to do.”

Levi wheeled about without a word and lurched forward, his colossal legs swishing back and forth as we made for the edge of the temple and toward the ramp. I said a silent prayer under my breath for Jim and his crew; they had a hard road ahead, and I sincerely hoped they didn’t end up back in slave collars, serving Tez and her nightmare gang.

All thoughts of Jim vanished as Levi plunged over the edge of the ziggurat and onto the steeply sloped ramp that zigzagged to the bottom. My stomach promptly crawled up into my throat, unpacked its bags, and loudly declared it was moving in for good.

My heart thudded like a jackhammer, and my lungs struggled for air. I’ve never been much of a roller-coaster guy, and this was like the most terrifying roller-coaster on the planet, made even worse by the knowledge that one wrong move from Levi could turn us both into street pizza. I shuddered as we picked up more and more speed—positive we were gonna eat shit and die—but then we were at the bottom of the temple, cruising down a wide boulevard flanked by lush greenery and into the city proper.

The vegetation vanished, replaced by blocky mud-walled homes covered in garish graffiti and augmented with steel siding, foggy windows, and rusted spits of rebar.

I could still hear the bells clanging brazenly in the air, but there were new sounds, too. The thunderous clamor of wheels on stone and the burble of a thousand voices all raised in alarm and anger. We were in the thick of things, now. Levi hunched forward without warning and let out a guttural roar. My head snapped back as our momentum abruptly slowed, and a thick-bodied Derby girl with knotted dreads sailed past me, half of her face caved in.

I raised the M4 to my shoulder and put a quick round into her neck.

“Got more incoming,” Levi bellowed as his bulky body resumed its rhythmic flow. I had to admit, the guy was a surprisingly graceful skater, and though he wasn’t fast, once he got moving he was a friggin’ powerhouse. A runaway semi, nearly impossible to stop.

He roared again, his body twisting as he lashed out with enormous fists that now resembled blocky quartz sledgehammer heads studded with bits of black obsidian glass. More Derby girls flipped and fell under the onslaught of his attacks, like pins scattered by a merciless bowling ball. We blasted through a four-way intersection presided over by a host of wires and a broken stoplight. Though I couldn’t see what lay ahead, an angry honey badger of fear clawed at my guts as I saw the horde of Derby girls bolting toward us from the left and right.

There must’ve been a hundred of ’em, easy.

Levi just kept right on truckin’, though, straight as an arrow.

The mob of roller-skating psychos burst onto the street behind us, faces fixed in determination as they tore ass across the smooth pavement, eating up the distance with scary speed, swords swinging, chains twirling, daggers in hand and ready to shed blood. A grunt and lurching-sway followed as another pair of Derby girls went down courtesy of Levi’s fists—one glassy-eyed with a broken neck, the other with one leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Apparently, a handful of sentries weren’t gonna stop Levi outright, but they were slowing him down, and that was almost as bad.

Eventually, the pack would catch up, and though we might be able to fend off ten or even twenty, a hundred would bury us alive.

I pulled the lone frag grenade from the pouch on my vest, yanked the pin free, depressed the spoon, and tossed the explosive into a passing alley brimming with oncoming killers. The first few women in the pack seemed to realize how much shit they were in as the grenade rolled up against a mud wall. But the momentum of the women behind them, combined with the narrow space, prevented them from stopping, backpedaling, or even changing course. After a four-count, a tremendous whomp shook the street as fire, shrapnel, and chunks of stone erupted from the mouth of the alley.

A good start, but probably not good enough.

I raised the M4 and prepared to engage. Deep breaths, I reminded myself, willing away a tremor running through my hands. One, two, in, out. Calm the mind. Shut away the fear, the worry. What will be, will be. I only had twenty-odd rounds and no extra mags, so I needed to make each shot count. Kill shots were damn near useless here since no one could die. What I needed was distance and distraction. In this game, knees, legs, and ankles were the best targets, since wounds like that would take the girls out of the race as effectively as a kill shot.

I wrapped my finger around the trigger—inhale, exhale—and squeezed a trio of times. Pop-pop-pop. The barrel lifted a hair as the muzzle belched fire, and the acrid, slightly sulfuric scent of gunpowder filled my nostrils. It was a sweet scent compared to all the rancid shit in Hell.

Blood sprayed, bone crunched, and two nearby speedsters dropped, their knees giving out. I was already moving on, though, picking new targets as the rifle reset naturally with my breath. Next came a trio of women on the right, wielding an assortment of handguns. They weren’t firing yet—pro tip, shooting while on the move is hard, shooting at a moving target while roller skating is even harder—but it was only a matter of time.

Inhale. Exhale. Pop-pop-pop. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast. The familiar words ran through my head like a religious mantra.

I pulled one shot—the round went wide, smacking into a nearby building with a puff of dust—but the other two tore through legs and knees. All three went down in the resulting chaos; good work, but only a drop in the bucket. I couldn’t think about that, though. I needed to be present and in the moment, my mind clear and one with the rifle in my hands. With cold, mechanical efficiency I blasted a hefty Latina woman in Chernobyl-green spandex right in the groin.

Ouch.

She went down like a load of bricks, screaming as she clutched at her crotch, goopy black blood streaming down the inside of her thigh. She wasn’t an exceptionally fast skater, but there was a sizeable group of women directly behind her, and most of them went down too, caught in a tangle of waving limbs—a thing of beauty. But more woman surged forward to take their place while others converged on us from connecting side streets. I ran with the bulls in Spain once—this was way back in the day, mind you, when I’d been a younger, stupider man—and this reminded me a lot of that.

Except these bulls were wicked smart, hated men, and would gladly skin me alive.

I continued to work the crowd, but I was nearly out of bullets, and I knew it was only a matter of time before a swarm of Derby girls got ahead of us, and then? Then we were screwed to the max. That was Levi’s problem, though—he was driving this bus. I just needed to keep my head down, stay focused, and trust the ass-ugly bastard to get us out of here like he said he would. My job was to work the guns and lay down whatever suppressive fire I could muster. Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. I pulled the trigger again, expecting to feel the familiar recoil and hear the whip-crack pop.

Instead, I heard a barely audible click.

Of course the M4 ran dry just as a new wave of Derby girls closed in.

The gun was worthless now—dead weight as far as I was concerned—so I hurled it right into the face of the closest skater, a rail-thin woman covered in brilliant tattoos. She stumbled, faltered, and toppled, taking another woman with her in a very satisfying twofer. Time for the big guns. I swept one hand out, calling up a gout of flame, and promptly sandblasted an encroaching posse of skaters wielding lead pipes and baseball bats. They went up like dryer lint, but it still wasn’t enough. There were so many of ’em, and no matter how many I crippled, more piled on.

This was a war of attrition, and eventually, their superior numbers would grind us to dust.

“Just hang in there a little longer,” Levi bellowed, his voice carrying over the din of battle. “We’re almost there.”

I braced myself and whipped up a hasty force construct—

Before I could unleash the thing, Levi hooked right, ushering us into an incredibly narrow alleyway between a pair of mud-sided buildings fortified with concrete cinder blocks, old car tires, and rusty chicken wire. A few gals managed to make the hairpin turn, but in these cramped confines, taking ’em out was as easy as swatting a fly. Instead of flame, I reached into the earth, connecting with the cinder blocks and old tires running along the base of the buildings to the left and right.

For someone like me, anything could become a weapon with a little effort.

I pumped raw Vis, pure will, and strands of molten fire into the concrete and rubber. The cinder blocks exploded out like Claymore mines under the intense heat and terrible pressure.

Chunks of stone, muddy debris, and flaming rubber smashed into calves and knees, hobbling anyone unfortunate enough to be in a ten-foot radius. And better yet, the mud-walled buildings let out a creaking groan as they leaned drunkenly inward, their foundations abruptly compromised. The buildings teetered that way for a few seconds, before finally crashing down with a thunderous boom that shook the ground beneath us and jettisoned a tremendous brown cloud of gritty debris into the air.

The swirling dust lashed at my face, crawled up into my nostrils, and made it damn near impossible to breathe.

A real pain in the ass—but one that gave me one helluva good idea. I wasn’t sure how Levi’s abilities worked, but they didn’t seem to be tied to physical sight. But the Derby girls? If they couldn’t find us, we might actually have a shot at getting outta this city in one piece. And though I couldn’t kill every Derby girl in the city, I might be able to hide us from ’em for a little while. Moving that much earth, that much air, might also kill me in my current condition, but I’m a gambler at heart, and this was the best possible play.

For the first time since waking up in Hell, I opened myself full-tilt to both Vis and Nox, and screw the consequences. With my mental barriers down, energy from two separate, endless wells of power—the forces of creation and destruction—flooded in unfiltered and unchecked, raging through me like a pride of rabid, ’roided-out lions. Melt-your-face-off magma swelled, threatening to consume me. But then, on the brink of burnout, that tsunami of lava hit a sheet of arctic ice, a glacier of death so vast and wide and deep not even the Vis could sear through it.

Those two forces, each powerful enough to pulverize a fleet of tanks to fine dust, waltzed inside my chest, pushing and pulling against one another. It was an unstoppable force battering futilely against an immovable object. Yin colliding and working against yang, the two churning and turning in an endless circle. There was a strange peace lingering in the center of those two forces like the eye of some uber-tornado. Death and destruction surrounded me on every side and one wrong step, one misplaced thought, could end me.

But, as long as I stayed in that eye, I’d be okay.

I clung to the center, clearing my head of every other thought as I pressed my eye shut and lifted my face skyward. Yeah, I could do this.

Maybe.

Probably.

Possibly.

I focused on the rock particles dancing and swirling like giant plumes of cigarette smoke, then pushed mammoth strands of earthen Vis and sickly Nox into the air, binding the dual forces together as I shaped the enormous working. Slowly, the stagnant brown dust moved high overhead, distorting and stretching like the tentacles of a Kaiju-sized kraken groping the entire city.

Awesome.

Sweat broke out across my forehead, my arms and legs quivered under the strain of holding the construct in place, and a wave of nausea racked my body, but I kept pushing. A headache came next—a slow throb pulsing in my temples as the world reeled around me and stars danced in my vision. Something wet and metallic dripped past my lip and onto my tongue. A nosebleed. Still, I held on. Pushed against the wall. I glanced down and noticed streaks of oily purple pulsing just beneath the surface of my skin like blood vessels as my fingers turned black.

A bad sign, that. A sign that I was straining the tenuous bonds of Azazel’s prison.

But … this bastard construct was almost done. Getting the damned thing going was the hard part—it was like coaxing a force of nature into action—but once things got moving, they’d stay moving for a good long while. So, I ignored the pain. The throbbing headache. The pulsing lines that told me I was drawing far too much Nox.

And then, when I felt certain I couldn’t hold the construct in place for another second, everything clicked into place. The dust storm roared to life, and the whole world went brown. Hot, howling winds ripped through the narrow alley, slapping dirt and gravel against my face and plastering my blood-drenched jeans against my legs. But it wasn’t just here, I knew, it was everywhere. Satisfied, and on the verge of passing out, I pushed the power away and closed myself to both Vis and Nox.

“You do that?” Levi grunted, peering uncertainly into the blinding brownout.

“Yep,” I croaked, shivering maniacally, not wanting to say more and risk passing out altogether.

“Pretty good,” he conceded begrudgingly before resuming his trek.

TWENTY:

Powerhouse

With the massive dust cloud lingering in the air, dialing down the visibility to next to nothing, Levi managed to guide us through a twisting labyrinth of alleys and backstreets. He paused now and then, tracing his fingers along a muddy wall or on the stony ground. Listening. Feeling. We never saw another Derby girl, which was a damned impressive feat, considering the sheer magnitude of the search taking place all around the city. I can’t be sure, but I think Jim and his Skinless army probably played a role as well.

More than once I heard the manic burst of machine gun fire in the distance, returned in kind by the meaty booms of grenades.

Since the Skinless were the only other dissidents in Roller Nation, they had to be the cause of the commotion—either that or the Derby girls were having themselves a little coup d’état.

Eventually, Levi led us between a pair of squat mud houses near the edge of the city and to a narrow crack in the stony cavern wall. The MudMan had to put me down and transform into his diminutive, mustached alter ego to shimmy through the opening. My wounded leg hurt so bad, I could barely put an ounce of weight on the thing, but through grit and determination, I followed, fighting off the god-awful, eye-watering agony invading my body like a Biblical plague of locust. The crevice was tight, tight, tight, and had I been just a tad heftier, I’m not sure I would’ve managed the thing.

Jagged bits of rock scraped at my arms, pulled at my clothes, and jabbed uncomfortably into my gut as I inched my way along, trying to stomp down the claustrophobic fear eating me up inside. Ever since Beauvoir hit me with zombie powder and packed me up nice and tight in a friggin’ coffin, tight spaces seemed to be an issue. But just as I was starting to panic and hyperventilate, the walls opened up and dumped me into a rough tunnel, illuminated by patchy colonies of bioluminescent foxfire clinging to the ceiling and walls.

Suddenly, I could breathe again, and even though the air was hot and tasted faintly of sulfur, I gulped down a couple of huge lungfuls. Unfortunately, without the stone walls to help support my weight, my bad leg gave out, and I tumbled onto my ass. Gritty sand puffed into the air, swirling around me as I groaned and leaned back on my hands. I pressed my eye shut, drawing minutely on the Vis, wrapping my mind in earthen power and willing the screaming pain in my leg to go away. After a handful of long, agonizing seconds, the trick worked and the pain faded into the background.

I cracked my eye open at the sound of heavy feet shuffling over stone.

Levi was standing in front of the crevice, back in his ass-ugly golem form, one hand pressed almost tenderly against the wall. I glanced up and noticed his hand was in bad shape. Three of his fingers were missing, the holes covered by rough brown scabs, and copious amounts of golden ichor trailed down his forearm. The rest of him wasn’t in much better shape, either. His other hand was intact, but quarter-sized holes—gunshot wounds if I had to guess—peppered his body. Plus, there were several large divots in his legs and arms, almost like someone had taken an ice-cream scoop to him.

I watched on silently as he muttered under his breath, eyes pressed shut tight, and smeared golden blood along the surface of the rock face. Painting the edges. Then, astoundingly, the floor shook beneath me, gravel dancing, fist-sized chunks of stone breaking off and bouncing down as the crevice groaned, moaned, rumbled, and slowly slid shut like a door that had carelessly been left open. My jaw must’ve hit the floor. I’d seen Levi do some crazy shit so far—that whole shape-changing thing was groovy as hell, and the demon-blocking blood barrier wasn’t too shabby—but this?

This was some serious, next level shit. On the surface, the act looked small, but Levi must’ve moved ten tons of rock. Moving that much earth so effortlessly was as impressive as a jet-skiing gorilla with a Mohawk. I knew maybe a handful of magi who could pull off something like that, and as far as I could tell, this guy didn’t use the Vis. Heck, as far as I knew, he couldn’t even touch the stuff. Even more impressive than all that jazz combined? He didn’t kill us horribly in the process.

One wrong move could’ve brought a whole mountain right down on our heads like a falling meteor.

Satisfied with his handiwork, the MudMan lowered his hands, brushed his palms together, and ponderously turned, his movements slow and lethargic.

“I think it’s time we had a more detailed chat,” I said, eye narrowed in suspicion, flicking between him and the freshly sealed wall. “I don’t know a lot about golems, but that?” I nodded toward the wall. “That ain’t normal, man. We need to talk about it. You know that, right?”

He hesitated, canted his head to one side, then nodded, his massive, flabby body deflating in resignation. “Yeah. I suppose that conversation was unavoidable.” He turned his gaze on me, really looking at me, worry etched deep into the lines of his face. Whatever he’d been hiding, he was afraid to tell me, which sent shivers sprinting along my spine. What secret could be that terrible? That powerful?

He was silent for a long beat, carefully surveying my wounds with a furrowed brow and a frown that pulled down the corners of his lips. The worry in his face faded after a moment, replaced by something that might almost have been concern. Concern for me, if you can believe it. I mean it was hard to tell, what with his pronounced underbite, his sloping monkey forehead, and his beady brown eyes, but I’m pretty sure it was concern.

Fifty percent sure.

He sighed, then, and shook his head. “Yeah, we’ll talk,” he muttered, glancing back toward the crevice. “But priorities first. We need to get some distance, and you …” He fixated on my leg as though he could see through the gray clay bandage ringing my thigh. “You need medical attention.” He shambled over, scooping me up off the floor and cradling me in his fat arms again. Embarrassing, but oddly comforting, too. “Just play along for a little while, alright?” he grumbled, more statement than question. “Once I get us situated, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“Yeah, alright,” I replied, folding my arms across my chest. “But no holding out on me. I ask a question, you give me an answer. No games. No diversions. Just straight-up truth. You good with that?”

He grunted, shrugged, and nodded as he pushed himself into motion, coasting along the dusty tunnel floor on his stolen roller stakes. The whole situation was friggin’ ridiculous. Nothing I could do about it, though, so I curled up and settled in for the ride. The next thing I knew, Levi was setting me down in a natural alcove gouged into the side of the tunnel.

Don’t judge me, but apparently, I’d fallen asleep. Not my proudest moment, maybe, but it is what it is, okay? And if you ever find yourself in Hell, fighting your way past a war goddess, then battling an army of insane Derby girls, I won’t judge you if you catch a little extra shut-eye.

Levi propped me up against the wall, then crouched down, his fat lips pressed into a tight line as he regarded me. “You’re in worse shape than I thought.” He touched the impromptu bandage. “Brace yourself, this might hurt.” The bandage quivered, wriggled, and unfurled, tugging gently at the wound.

A bright flare of terrible pain followed—like having a tooth pulled without anesthesia—and the clay fell away with a pop. Several fragments of tarnished metal clung to the makeshift bandage like magnets stuck to a fridge door. That stuff had somehow, miraculously, pulled out the bullet fragments lodged in my leg.

Damn. Still, even with that, the wound looked as heinous as month-old curry left out in the sun. Red-brown blood stained the skin, and the edges of the wound were puffy, red, and inflamed. It looked infected, and since we were in Hell—the land of all things vile and gross—I couldn’t envision a scenario where it wouldn’t be brimming with germs.

“Not good,” Levi said, rubbing thoughtfully at his blocky chin. “The bullet didn’t go through, though. Guess that’s a small answered prayer.” He frowned, then fished the familiar silver flask from his side, fat fingers unscrewing the lid with practiced ease. “This is gonna hurt even worse,” he said, taking one beefy finger and jamming it directly into the wound like a giant Q-tip.

I screamed in protest and lashed out without thinking, clocking the bastard right in the jaw. The hit didn’t even rock Levi back on his heels, and it almost certainly hurt my hand worse than his face. But, the pain radiating from my knuckles and up through my wrist helped distract me from what he was doing to my leg.

“Just clearing the channel and opening the wound,” he explained, wiggling his digit. “That’ll help the ichor do its work.” He pulled his finger out and tipped the drinking flask onto its side, feeding a steady stream of golden blood into the wound, then soaking the flesh around the injury, massaging it in like lotion. Surprisingly, the ichor brought almost immediate relief, spreading warm tendrils of numbing comfort into the torn flesh and surrounding area. I watched, completely fascinated, as a network of thread-thin golden strands knit the tissue back together.

If the trick with the wall was impressive, this was borderline miraculous.

Healing people was hard, hard work. Imagine pushing a busted-down Chevy on bald tires up the side of a mountain. Now imagine that mountain was Mount Everest in the middle of a blizzard. Okay, you’re in the ballpark. And really, that makes sense when you think about it. The human body isn’t some Honda you can get a tune-up on—it’s a real mystery, a bona fide miracle.

“Yep, we definitely need to have that talk,” I grumbled under my breath, staring as the wound closed completely, leaving behind a deep red scar.

“Priorities,” he said again, handing me the flask, then standing. “Best if you drink the rest of that. It’ll help with infection and recharge your wards.” He paused, eyes distant, finger drumming on his fat belly. Thump-thump-thump. “You probably need to eat, too. That’ll help with the healing.” The last seemed more for him than me. “There are some critters nearby, so I’m gonna go scrounge up a meal. You should be okay. No Derby girls for five miles, at least, but if you see anything”—he bent over and tapped the handle of my monster-killing pistol—“use this. Just this. No magic, understand?”

I dipped my chin in acknowledgment, sprawled my legs out with a grimace, and readjusted my back against the wall—there was a damned spit of rock poking me right in the kidney.

He turned and wheeled away without another word, heading down a smaller connecting passageway, quickly swallowed by the darkness. I sat there against the wall for a while, my eye closed, grabbing what rest I could while keeping myself from true sleep. How darkly ironic would it be to escape Tez and her murderous crew, only to be disemboweled and eaten by some mindless creepy-crawly slinking by while I dozed?

I’d never live that shit down, and I was just positive Levi would blab about it to anyone who would listen.

He was totally that kinda guy.

TWENTY-ONE:

Shootin’ the Shit

I’m not sure how much time passed as I lay there, leaning drunkenly against the wall, dancing a merry ol’ jig on the line between awake and asleep. It felt like a while. The whole time, I couldn’t help but think about what an utter crapfest this mission had turned into. True, Levi and I had escaped from the Roller Nation, and yes, we’d tracked down some leads, but we were still no closer to getting the damned scythe. That was the whole point of this excursion, and we’d come back empty-handed.

Depression and anger warred inside my chest.

Eventually, I heard the faint sound of skates on stone, which drew me from my dark, half-coherent thoughts. My eye popped open in the span of a heartbeat, and my pistol was up and ready, trained on the approaching noise. I let out a ragged sigh of relief as Levi’s bulky frame wheeled into view from the connecting tunnel, illuminated by spectral green light from the foxfire overhead. I uncocked the hammer, stowed my weapon, and absently rubbed the sleep from my eye.

The great gray shit-kicker had a bundle of sticks tucked up underneath one arm, and something raccoon sized draped lifelessly over one shoulder.

Although the lifeless thing was raccoon sized, it wasn’t a chittering trash bandit. Ahh, no. Levi’s catch was covered snout to tail with scaly black chitin and sported a host of claw-tipped, double-jointed legs, giant bat ears protruding from either side of its head, and a single milky eye. I held up a fist to my mouth and stifled the urge to projectile vomit all over myself as he dropped the abomination about three feet from where I sat.

It landed with a wet splat, and even at that distance the scent of putrid meat and old shit hit me like a sucker punch.

“Oh my God,” I said, edging away from the freaky critter before the corpse could leak on me. “What is that?” I asked, hooking a thumb toward the monster.

“Dinner,” he replied completely straight-faced, not even a hint of a joke in his voice.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna nope all the nopes that ever noped,” I replied, scooting farther away.

Levi tilted his head to the side and offered me an unamused eyeroll. “It’s fine. They’re called potkan. I found a nest about fifteen minutes from here. They’re mostly harmless. Mostly. And edible.” He squatted down a few feet away and carefully arranged the dry sticks under his arm into a neat teepee, ready to burn. “You’re in bad shape. Food will help set you right. So, eat this or die a slow painful death. Your choice. Assuming you don’t want to die, though, I’ll need a little help with the fire.” He waved vaguely toward the pile of sticks, ready and waiting for a flame. “Just a little, though. Don’t overdo it.”

I eyed the disgusting offspring of a common raccoon and a Lovecraftian horror from the outer abyss, then opened myself to a trickle of Vis and conjured a guttering fire. Turned out I didn’t want to die. The sticks were drier than a popcorn’s fart and went up in an instant. Levi settled down nearby, crossing his legs Indian-style, then picked up the mangy potkan, holding its gross body over the flames with his bare hands. Orange tongues washed over the black-plated creature and lapped at Levi’s blocky fingers.

The golem grimaced, but left his hands to the flames, seemingly content with the situation.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” I asked curiously, eyeing the dancing blaze.

“Yes,” he replied. “But this helps me with the guilt. Self-castigation is good for atonement.” He didn’t elaborate.

“What are you feeling guilty for?” I pressed. “So far you seem like a pretty straight shooter to me. Boring. Ugly. Awful. A terrible conversationalist. But a straight shooter.” I offered him a finger gun and a wink. “Certainly nothing so bad you need to set yourself on fire.”

“It’s for the killing,” he said offhandedly, staring into the flames as his clay flesh turned pale white, and small fissures appeared in his skin. “I like it,” he said after a pause. “To kill. It makes me happy. Complete. But it’s wrong.” He shook his head, his hands fixed unwaveringly over the flames. “All the things down here deserve it, but that’s not the point. It’s about me. About my heart. In my heart, I’m a murderer, and I hate that.” He faltered, glancing down to the cavern floor. “I try to stop, but I can’t do it. The AA helps a little. But only a little. Pastor Dave would be mortified if he saw me now.”

He fell silent, the crackling of the fire and the sizzling of the meat the only sounds to be heard.

After a time, he withdrew his hands, the disgusting creature now charred black and dripping oily grease as a cloud of steam wafted up. Despite its utterly gross appearance, it smelled amazing. A reminder of how hungry I was. He flexed powerful fingers, breaking the creature’s armored shell with a crack that reminded me of lobster tail. Carefully, he stuck fat digits into the ragged cracks in the tough exoskeleton and pulled free a chunk of white meat, savory and somehow sweet in my nostrils.

I eyed it suspiciously but begrudgingly accepted the offering, tearing off a bite despite the heat. I expected chicken, but the flavor was closer to crawfish, which came as a pleasant surprise.

Levi scooted over to the wall adjacent to me and began examining the punctures and lacerations littering his torso, then turned his attention to his badly mutilated right hand, still missing several bratwurst-sized fingers.

“So, what do you want to know?” he asked while casually smashing off a chunk of rock from the wall. He set the small boulder on the ground and carefully pulverized it into a large pile of loose scree. With that done, he set about systematically packing his gold-soaked wounds with dirt and chunks of broken rock. Just cramming everything in until it formed an ugly brown clot against his gray skin.

“Where to even start,” I said, eyeing him askew as he shoved his mutilated hand into the remaining pile of rubble and corkscrewed his stumpy nubs into the stone. “I guess, let’s start with what in the hell are you doing? Do you have any idea how unsanitary that is?”

He looked up, face flat while he continued to mercilessly grind his hand into the rock dust. “I’m healing. Sometimes with wounds like this, it’s just best to start over. Break the old scabs open so that things can heal right and proper.”

“Yeah, but why don’t you just shapeshift new fingers? You tellin’ me you can turn your hand into a meat cleaver, but you can’t regrow a couple of fingers?”

“It’s complicated,” he offered curtly. “This is my true form.” He gestured at his lumpy, misshapen body with his other hand. “I can alter what’s there, but regrowing parts or healing wounds is tricky work. I need new material to convert.” He picked up a clump of dirt and shoved it into a bullet wound on his leg, which he’d missed during the first pass. “My ichor, it saturates the earth and turns it into clay. Makes it a part of me with enough time. That’s how I heal. How I make new parts.”

I took another bite of the exotic meat, letting hot juice sluice down my chin and not caring. “Your ichor seems to do just about everything. You can heal people with it. Contain demons.” I paused, glancing back at the cavern entrance. “Even move mountains. So, what’s the deal, huh? I’ve been around the block a time or two, and I’ve never seen anything like that. Your blood seems like borderline magic. Real magic—not the stuff I do.” I took another mouthful of charred meat, feeling a little better with every bite.

For a time, he didn’t respond.

He just stared at the fire then at his blocky hands in turn, as though considering whether or not to stick ’em back in the flames. “The ichor is magic, I think,” he finally said. “It makes me what I am. Animates my body. Allows me to shapeshift. All of it. But the real secret is what makes the ichor.”

He sat up nice and straight, squared his shoulders, and angled his body toward me. Then, he reached up and tapped at his meaty sternum; the clay covering his breastbone wriggled in response, pulling back to reveal a deep cavity. Where his heart should’ve been was an irregular ruby the size of a curled fist, covered in swirling golden lines and pulsing with seedy crimson light.

My mouth fell open, and a tremble ran through my hands. No way. Impossible.

“That’s a friggin’ Philosopher Stone,” I said in a harsh whisper, jabbing at the glowing rock with one shaking finger. “You have a Philosopher Stone lodged in your gooey chest hole. I don’t even understand what’s happening right now.”

His face contorted into a brooding grimace as he nodded and tapped his chest again, flawlessly sealing the hole. “One of only two in existence. The other one is currently inside Doctor Arlen Hogg—the same man who created me in a Nazi bunker just outside of the Buna work camp, back in ’43.

“Hogg was working as a research scientist for the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei back in those days,” he continued, the words coming slowly, uncertainly. Clearly, this wasn’t a story Levi told often, if ever. “He was part of Hitler’s occult Research and Development unit, the Ahnenerbe, which later became the Thule-Society. He built me with the help of a rabbi by the name of Yitzchak Tov Ganz. Cobbled me together from the remnants of the original Golem of Prague.”

“No. Get the hell outta here,” I said, setting my roast Hell-critter down, running a hand through my hair, then fishing a cigarette from my crumpled pack of Reds. “Hogg was a Nazi? And he built you in 1943? And, also, he has a no-shit-Philosopher Stone? Holy crap this is heavy.”

I needed a smoke, now more than ever. I lit up, taking a few deep puffs, staring at Levi through the drifting gray smoke. “That’s the wildest thing I’ve seen in a long, long time—and I just fought my way through a sea of Hellion Derby girls. How does the Stone play into the story?” I asked, genuinely curious.

Levi unfolded his legs and pulled his knees into his chest, wrapping his big arms around his shins. Though he didn’t say so outright, clearly this was touchy territory for the MudMan. “That’s how they brought me to life in the first place. Rabbi Yitzchak built my body, but Hogg, he built my heart and soul. The Stone was the only thing powerful enough to imbue an inanimate object with life.” He tapped on his chest again, his voice quiet and mournful.

“Man. That’s something else,” I said, shaking my head then taking another long drag on my cigarette. “You’re like a lost wonder of the world. A living relic.” I paused, rubbing a hand along my jaw. “Don’t suppose that thing really turns lead into gold?”

He looked up and offered me a weak, half-hearted grin. “The ichor can turn anything into just about anything else. Lead’s just easiest because it’s cheap and available in large quantities. Anything would do, though, with enough time and ichor.” His grin widened into a goofy, uneven smile. “Just between you and me? I have a crate of gold holed up in my basement, saved for a rainy day. That’s how the Guild found me. They followed the gold.” He shook his head ruefully.

“Incredible. Seriously.” And I meant it. First, a Hand of Glory, then a friggin’ Philosopher Stone. This day couldn’t get any wonkier.

Levi’s grin slipped, and he dropped his bald dome, staring at the ground. “It’s only incredible until you hear how Hogg built the damned stone.” He reached down and absently traced lines on the dusty floor with one hand. “Three hundred sixteen,” he mumbled. “That’s the number of Jews Hogg murdered to build it—one for each of the sacred names of God. He butchered people—old men, mothers, little children. He ripped their souls out and bound ’em to the stone. One big battery powered by the dead. Now they all live inside my head. Bits and pieces of ’em, anyway. Memories, mostly.”

He fell silent, contemplating his beefy knees as the fire crackled, popped, and danced. I stayed quiet, too, because what could I possibly say in the face of that? There were no words for this situation, and anything I had to offer would be trite and hollow.

“The rabbi, he didn’t know about the butchery,” Levi offered with a noncommittal bob of his head. Like maybe that changed things somehow. “At first, he thought Hogg was a Jewish sympathizer, working to build a weapon against the regime. When he found out, though …” Levi faltered, mouth going suddenly slack as though he saw the events real-time. “When he found out, he went mad.” The words were a guttural whisper.

“He branded me”—the golden sword on his chest flared—“and used himself as a ritual sacrifice to turn me loose against the Nazis. He ruined Hogg’s plan. Spit right in his eye. I woke up in a mass grave, surrounded by bodies covered in powdered lime—the Nazis, they used the stuff to mask the smell of the dead. I didn’t know who I was or what I was, and for a long time, I just killed. Hunted down every Nazi I could find and murdered them. But then, I started to think.

“I became aware. Conscious. But I still didn’t know anything about who made me or why. All I had was the brand and the urge to kill. Until I stumbled onto Hogg. He was working with the Kobock Nation, murdering people in the Deep Downs beneath the Hub.” He paused, holding up his mutilated hand, examining the wounds, now caked with brown grime. “That was a few years ago. I stopped him, but the slippery weasel got away, and I’ve been looking for him ever since. If anyone deserves a long, slow, painful death, it’s Hogg, and I plan to see he gets his due.”

“What was he trying to accomplish? Creating you, I mean?” I asked, needing to know, but not really wanting to. There were scores of old rituals powered by blood sacrifice, and anything that required even a single human sacrifice was about as vile as you got. But a ritual that required three hundred and sixteen human sacrifices? That was a whole new level of evil.

“Same thing he was trying to accomplish in the Deep Downs with the Kobocks: creating a vessel capable of holding the demonic god he serves. It’s probably also the same reason he’s working with the Morrigan. He’s single-minded in his devotion, and the kind of resources he needs are hard to come by. Someone like the Morrigan, though? She could give him everything. And now that they have access to the Guild Vault?” He paused and tilted his head to one side, beady eyes narrowed in concern. “Well, it’s only a matter of time before he frees Cain from the Outer Darkness. That’s why I came to get you—to stop that from happening.”

I leaned forward and flicked my spent cigarette butt into the flames and pushed myself upright. I swayed and wobbled, but already my leg was feeling a helluva lot better. Not good, but better. I hiked up my jacket sleeve and eyed the tattoos scrawled over my skin. Nice and bright again, shining with golden light just like Levi’s crude brand.

“You should rest longer,” Levi said, eyeballing my blood-caked pants.

“I can sleep when I’m dead, partner,” I replied, hobbling over to the golem and offering him my hand. “We’ve got work to do.” And suddenly I meant it, as new resolve bloomed in me, hot and fierce. Sure, this mission hadn’t turned out exactly the way we’d planned, but we were alive, there were still people who needed us, and even more people who needed a good swift gunshot to the face. “We aren’t gonna get out of Hell and kill Hogg kicking our heels around down here. Let’s get back topside.”

Though Levi outweighed me by five hundred pounds, he accepted my hand for what it was—an offer of peace, friendship even—and stood.

A ghost of a grin graced his lips. “Alright.”

TWENTY-TWO:

Infernal Company

It took us a handful of hours to wind our way through the snaking passages and back to the surface. The trip was slow and tedious—Levi navigating through swooping halls, clambering up rocky cliffs, and inching through claustrophobic niches—but after our excitement with the Roller Nation, I didn’t mind a little downtime. Eventually, we wriggled through a fissure, which let out into the disheveled storage room of a Chinese restaurant on the east side of Pandæmonium called the Hot Wok.

Our sudden appearance caused quite the stir, but no one seemed especially interested in messing around with a couple of fellows covered in blood and gore who looked like they’d just battled their way through a legion of roller skating nightmares.

I picked up some fried wontons and a box of vegetarian lo mein to go, and from there, it was a half hour commute via a rusted-out Tri-skiff to the Crossroad Saloon. Levi—now back in his human mask—sat in silence as we rode, his eyes pressed shut, his face oddly pale and sickly, while I ate. Crunching on crispy dough, savoring the rich crab-cheese filling, slurping up noodles by the mouthful. The grub wasn’t the best I’d ever eaten, but after scarfing down charred Hell critter, it tasted absolutely aces. All I needed was a beer, and I’d be set.

More than a few times during the trip, though, I had to drop my face because I noticed small packs of black-clad Flesh Eaters roaming the busy, neon-painted streets. They prowled through the bustling crowds in little pockets of empty space, their long black tongues tasting the air.

Searching.

Eventually, the Tri-skiff driver swerved through a dense pocket of traffic—huge monster trucks jockeying for position with a swarm of brightly colored mopeds—and screeched to a halt in front of the saloon. Levi fished a handful of tarnished coins from his pocket and handed them to the potbellied driver before slipping out onto the curb. I followed suit, offering the driver a curt “thanks,” which earned me a bold middle finger as the Tri-skiff dropped into gear and peeled out, cutting off an old-timey buggy being pulled along by a scale-hided lizard the size of a buffalo.

Last time I try to be friendly to anyone, ever.

Levi stole a look at me over one shoulder, then jerked his head toward the door and shoved his way inside. I stepped back into the bar-turned-blues joint and immediately felt about a million times better. Even though I wasn’t hungry, the aroma of tangy barbeque and the sharp odor of bourbon were like perfume in my nostrils, and the gritty blues licks loitering in the air were a balm for my soul. An acoustic guitar warbled out an occasionally manic, occasionally melancholy beat, while Robert Johnson belted out an up-tempo version of “If I Had Possession Over Judgement Day.”

The song was a foot-tapping classic that always had a spot in my playlist. The melody conjured images of warm summer nights while drinking good booze on the back porch. The jangled notes were old friends, welcoming me home with open arms.

I breathed deeply, taking it all in, then turned toward the bar. Unlike last time, most of the tables were full of bar-goers of all stripes, eating food, chuckling over drinks, and most of all soaking up the tunes and good vibes. Ma Rainey, droopy-eyed as ever, stood sentry over the bar, leaning casually against the hardwood counter on her elbows. She glanced up at us, offering me a lopsided smile and a quick wink, but kept right on chitchatting with one of the few patrons camped out at the bar proper.

Her, I recognized too.

It was the hard-edged, golden-eyed gal from my last rendezvous with Hecate the Succubus Queen. One of Hecate’s personal assistants.

She was stout and well-muscled like an Olympic gymnast, and wore dark cargo pants, black leather combat boots, and a gray wifebeater, showcasing a host of swirling tribal tattoos covering sleek arms. A tactical holster rode on one hip, complete with a .45 Magnum, and a heavy-headed mace sat in a leather frog on her opposite hip. A bronze circular shield, vaguely Grecian, covered her back, and bulky spiked shoulder pads with matching gauntlets completed the look.

Even from across the room, she put me on edge. Something about her reminded me of a feral animal too long without a meal.

She turned on her barstool, flashed us a professional, thin-lipped smile, then beckoned us over with a lazy flick of her wrist.

Instead of waiting for Levi, I took point, dodging tables and customers as I carved my way across the floor, eager to be off my feet and to have a beer to take the edge off my frayed nerves. The lady smiled a little deeper as I drew closer, though the gesture never touched her predatory golden gaze. She motioned to the stool beside her before returning her attention to a half-full glass of amber suds. Ma Rainey fell silent as I slid onto the leather-padded stool, and Levi straddled the next seat over.

“I seen some down-and-out folks in my days,” Rainey said, eyeing me long and hard, her gaze noting the dried blood, dusty grime, and the myriad of tiny nicks and scratches adorning my arms and face. “And you look ’bout as down and out as they come. If I didn’t know no better, I’d say you took a damn good whoopin’. The kind my pa used to hand out for being out past curfew.” She paused, the ghost of a smile dancing on her lips.

“You should see the other guy,” I replied with the biggest shit-eating grin I could muster, feeling good despite being broken, bloody, and dead tired. It was the music, of course. A good song has a strange, almost preternatural power all its own; sure, it can drag you down to the deepest, darkest pit, but it can also pull you back up into the light.

A tune like “If I Had Possession Over Judgement Day” was so damn infectious, it was hard not to smile. To laugh, even. A song like that preached one truth: So, you’ve had a bad day, huh? Well, it’s only life, don’t take it so seriously. Pick yourself up and get back to dancin’.

“You been stirrin’ up more trouble,” Rainey said, fishing a smudged, questionably clean glass from beneath the bar top, “but dat’s what you do, I reckon. How ’bout a stiff drink? I’ll even put it on da house.”

I sat up a bit straighter and arched an eyebrow at her. “What’s the catch? This is the Inferno—nothing’s ever on the house.”

“No catch,” she replied with a sly sideways glance. “Truth be told, I like lookin’ at you. You a bit roughed up ’round the edges, but them muscles are easy on the eyes.” She paused and licked her lips while her gaze roved over me with hungry lust. “Now, what’s your poison, sugga?”

I blushed—couldn’t help it. This was Ma Rainey, after all. “That’s damn decent of you,” I said, slouching forward, resting my forearms on the polished bar top, trying to cover up a bit without making a big deal of it. “You know what, it has been a helluva day,” I mused, consciously avoiding eye contact with Hecate’s assistant. “I was leaning toward beer, but how about an Old Fashioned? If it’s on the house, I might as well get my money’s worth.”

Rainey nodded and turned to Levi. “And what about you, Muddy? Looks like keepin’ this hooligan on a leash has aged you ten years. You look ’bout as saggy as I do.”

“I’ll take the usual,” he grunted, which took me by surprise. It was hard to envision Levi as the kinda guy who had a “usual” at all, much less in a place like this.

Ma Rainey just nodded, though, and shuffled off, returning a handful of seconds later with an Old Fashioned for me and a sludgy glass of crap for Levi. Seriously, whatever he was drinking looked like the pile of goo you might discover beneath an old dumpster after a long, hot July day in the Big Easy.

“It’s a combination of motor oil and magnesium powder,” Levi said, noticing my lingering stare. “Good for regeneration. Tastes like old car tires, though.” He grimaced and took a big slug of the sludge, which left an oily stain on the glass. I could only imagine what something like that would do to the guts of an average person.

God, the guy was such a weirdo.

I put him and his oily concoction from mind, taking a long pull from my glass as I waited patiently for Hecate’s assistant to speak. For a long while she didn’t, though. She simply sat there, polishing off her beer while I nursed my Old Fashioned, savoring the burn of Jack and the soft nip of bitters and club soda. The silence was an uncomfortable thing, but I refused to be the one to break it. This was a test, a power move to establish dominance, and I refused to give in.

Eventually, she finished her drink, stifled a small belch with a closed fist, then stood, her face cold and calculating as she eyed Levi and me in turns. “So, did you get it?” she asked without preamble, her voice bored, the words coated with a vaguely European accent. “The scythe?”

I took a long slug of my drink and didn’t answer, not right away. If she wanted to play it cool, I could do cool in spades. “I don’t owe you a thing,” I finally replied, not wanting to admit we’d failed. Besides, it’s never, ever a good idea to offer your enemy extra information, especially if it’s about a potential weakness. “But here I am.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms, then absently examined her fingernails. “I suppose it’d be best if we took this somewhere more private,” she said. “Come.” The word was a stern command wrapped in a sheath of soft velvet.

“Not until I get a name.” I turned around and leaned casually against the bar while I sipped at my drink. “I don’t work with people I don’t know, and I sure as hell don’t take orders from ’em.”

The woman faltered, uncertain for the first time, and gave me a thorough once-over as she absently tucked an errant strand of hair behind a pointed ear with a tuft of fur on the tip. “Heckabe, Queen of Troy, and Mother of Lycanthropes,” she offered casually before heading for the basement staircase. “Now come,” she called out again. This time the words were a feral growl no human could ever manage.

Now, there was a twist I hadn’t seen coming. Mother of Lycanthropes? Yeah, that probably wasn’t a good thing. I’ve tangled with werewolves a time or two—they’re damn rare since the Judges nearly hunted their rabid, fur-covered asses to extinction—so I wasn’t looking forward to picking a fight with Mama wolf. But hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, especially with how banged up and exhausted I was.

I killed my drink in one long gulp, slipped from my seat with a grimace, and followed her. Levi trailed at my heels, but said nothing.

I had a brief flash of déjà vu as Heckabe ushered us through the ancient stone doorway marked with the words Neither here nor there, but everything betwixt and between. This time, though, the place was empty. No music pumped in the air. No bondage-clad Flesh Eaters lounged around tables, eating unspeakable things while the dead danced on stage. Even the Succubus Queen was absent, her booth abandoned and lonely.

“Where is everyone?” Levi grunted from behind me, his words brimming with barely veiled suspicion. Not that I blamed him—warning bells were clanging in my head too, and my hand naturally fell on the butt of my pistol, ready to draw and fire at the drop of the hat. Pro tip for you: The number one rule of surviving any preternatural situation? Shoot first, and go for the scorched-earth policy.

TWENTY-THREE:

Game Plan

“You don’t need to do that,” Heckabe said, pausing mid-step to glance at me over one armor-clad shoulder. “This is not a setup. We heard about your raid on the Roller Nation hours ago. The queen simply felt it unwise to be in the same room with the only man in Hell who can kill her.” She spread her hands, and there we are. She turned and made for a small circular table near the empty bar at the back.

“So, Hecate found out we jacked Tezrian, then she sent you to do the dangerous, dirty work for her?” I cocked an eyebrow at her and whistled softly. “You must be in the doghouse”—dog, wolf, get it?—“with your boss to get stuck with that job. I mean, what’s to stop us from just nuking your smarmy ass off the face of the map, huh?” I didn’t want to pick a fight with her, but in my experience showing a predator any hint of fear is a good way to get disemboweled.

She smiled, eyes drawn to dagger slits, and traced her fingers along the surface of the table. “You are certainly welcome to try, fresh meat, but I’ve been around since before Troy fell. I’m quite resilient.”

Levi slid up next to me and leaned in, his lips damn near next to my ear. “Best to just let this one go,” he whispered. “Trust me, there’s nothing I’d like better than to carve her up and feed her body into the Phlegethon”—he ground his teeth as he stared murder and death at her—“but best not to pick this fight if we don’t need to. Her aura’s as dark as a black hole. There’s nothing to her but death, killing, and mayhem. Maybe she was something else once, but not anymore. Things like her, they’re hard to kill. Might be we could do it, but it’d be costly.”

“Yeah, but can we trust her?” I whispered back, covering my mouth with one hand so she couldn’t read my lips.

“You don’t have much choice,” she replied tersely, tapping one pointed ear with her finger. “Mother of Lycanthropes has its perks. Now sit so we can discuss our business arrangements.”

I dropped my hand and frowned, but took the chair directly across from her. “I’m willing to listen, but if we’re gonna have a working relationship, I’ll need a little honesty from you first.”

She shrugged and spread her hands again. “I’m an open book, and I have nothing to hide.”

“If Hecate’s so worried now that we have the scythe”—I shot Levi a play-along glance—“then what are you doing here? Why not just leave us be?”

The woman waved the question away as unimportant or, perhaps, self-evident. “Just because she doesn’t want to risk an untimely demise doesn’t mean she isn’t in your corner. Quite the opposite. She wants Asmodeus dead, you gone, and as little collateral damage to her assets as possible. Raiding the Roller Nation was a final test, and since the pair of you have proven your”—she paused, tilting her head, searching for the right word—“indomitable spirit and ingenuity, she’s willing to back you openly. And so, for the remainder of your time in Pandæmonium, I’ll be tagging along. Helping out with logistics, resources, and perhaps a few other things.”

She grinned, her mouth suddenly near to bursting with needle-sharp fangs as she examined her fingers, now tipped with wicked curved talons. Neat trick, and pretty damned intimidating.

“What makes you think we need your help at all?” I said, pretending I was unimpressed by her display. “I don’t know you, and I don’t trust you.”

“You need me.” She pulled a folded manila envelope from her cargo pocket and set it on the table. “We share a vested interest, Lazarus, and breaking into the Flesh Palace isn’t going to be as easy as breaching the Roller Nation. Tezrian is reckless, but not Asmodeus. He’s devious, and more importantly, cautious.

“He rarely stays in the same place for long, and tracking his movements is as unpredictable as the migration of the great Wyrms. But there is one time a year when we know exactly where he’ll be. The Great Flesh Reckoning—Pandæmonium’s version of your American Superbowl.”

She pulled a glossy black-and-white photo free from the dossier and placed it on the table. A looming colosseum stared up at me, an easy rival to the original in Rome, though made from blocks of polished black stone and studded with thick spears like a humongous porcupine. Except these earthen spears weren’t merely for show; each one held a Hellion, impaled through the guts while a swarm of overgrown ravens with too many eyes tore at their flesh.

“In two days, the Reckoning will commence, and Asmodeus will be ringside in the Imperial Podium. It’s the only time of the year we can be certain of his whereabouts, and, even better for you, Pandæmonium’s nexus to Outworld is located above the colosseum. Everything you’ll need in one convenient place.” She pulled out another photo, this one of a circular amulet on a thick chain.

“This is the key you need to trigger the nexus, which will transport you to the Inferno Gate. From there, you can travel to any city in Hell or to the edge of Outworld itself. But Asmodeus wears it religiously around his neck. You want out? This is the way. I’ll confess”—she grimaced—“I don’t know how you’re going to kill Asmodeus, but my queen has devised a way to get you close enough to do the deed.” She paused and fished another pair of pictures from the envelope, placing them carefully over the others.

The first was an interior shot of the colosseum.

The arena was a dead ringer for what I’d seen in the Southside Blood Pit—a giant, sandy, gray pit—only a thousand times larger. A black stone retaining wall, thirty feet tall, encircled the area, and thousands of seats rose up toward the sky like a football stadium made of stone, sand, and dried blood. At the far end of the pit, just above the retaining wall, was a private viewing box, edged with great black pillars meticulously sculpted to look like writhing bodies.

“That”—Heckabe said, tapping the private seating area—“is the Imperial Podium. Asmodeus will be there with an unobstructed view of the fighting pit. He delights in many things, but the Reckoning is his favorite pastime. That is the only time he will be vulnerable enough to attack.”

“So what,” I said, leaning forward, my eyes restlessly scanning the glossy photo. “We just get seats nearby, then take a poke at him when he’s got his back turned?”

Heckabe’s lips pressed into a thin, thoughtful line as she shook her head. “No. Unfortunately, it won’t be quite so simple. The second-tier seating, the maenianum primum, is reserved for honored Demons of Hell—Infernal royalty who travel in from all nine levels for the Reckoning. Getting in there will be impossible even with your formidable shapeshifting abilities. And the next tier, the secundum imum, will be just as difficult. Perhaps more so given the security measures Asmodeus usually employs.”

She clicked an ebony nail against the upper-tier seating, which consisted of a standing gallery encircling the top of the amphitheater. “Perhaps we could access the summum in ligneis, but at that point, we’d be too far to make the hit anyway.” She traced her nail down to the pit’s impressive floor. “No. The only way for you to get close enough is to be a participant in the games.”

I slapped a hand down on the tabletop, leaning in until I could stare her dead in the eye. “You want me to go in as a fighter? That’s the stupidest, most reckless idea I’ve ever heard, and I’m the chief architect of stupid, reckless ideas. It’s sorta my thing.”

She nodded, her jaw tight. “There’s no other way. And where it is impossible to infiltrate the lower decks, there are many ways to get you into the pit. The queen has an inside man working in the Flesh Palace who can smuggle you into a holding cell. You will have to go in unarmed, which might prove problematic, but that is the biggest hiccup. Few people know what you actually look like as a human—though Asmodeus will—but a simple helmet should take care of that. Then, once we get you in, it’s simply a matter of waiting.”

“Even so,” Levi said, slouching forward, running one hand over his balding head. “Let’s say that works—that we can get him into the arena. What then?” he grunted, nostrils flaring. “You expect Lazarus to assassinate the King of Pandæmonium in front of an arena full of the most powerful demons in Hell by himself? It’s impossible. No one could manage that. No one.”

“No one said it would be easy,” she replied coolly, crossing her legs. “If it were, someone would’ve done the deed long ago.”

“There’s a difference between not easy and impossible,” Levi replied.

“Doesn’t your own book teach that all things are possible?” she quipped.

“You’re missing part of it,” Levi grunted in reply. “All things are possible with God. God isn’t here, he isn’t in this place. And this is suicidal.”

“No, it’s not suicidal, and it’s not impossible,” I said, feeling butterflies kick and swoop inside my gut. “There’s one guy that could do it. Azazel.” I leaned over and pulled the book I’d scavenged from Azazel’s desk from the drop pouch at my side. “He was planning to kill Asmodeus. I’m not a hundred percent sure how he was planning to do it, but I think it has something to do with the colosseum. Look at these.” I flipped the book open and set it on the table. “He’s got a metric ass-load of stuff in here, most of it having to do with the colosseum.”

I started pulling out pages of blueprints. Some for the Flesh Palace. Others for the animal cages, situated below the first- and second-tier seating. Even some for a sprawling labyrinth called “the Nekropolis,” located directly beneath the colosseum itself. Very interesting.

“Obviously, he had some kinda plan in the works,” I said, gesturing toward the pages. “The three of us just need to figure out what the sneaky bastard had in mind.”

“I’ll put coffee on,” Heckabe offered, sliding from her chair, and heading to the empty bar.

For the next three hours, we pored over the material, guzzling down cup after cup of hot joe as we searched for any insight into Azazel’s plan.

Heckabe was hunched over the animal cage schematics while Levi examined the Nekropolis blueprints for the thousandth time, tracing over the delicate lines with a pudgy finger. “I don’t know what Azazel was planning,” he finally said, “but I might know how we can do this thing. Look.” He hunched forward, spread the sheet out across the table, then carefully smoothed the edges down. “There’s a whole cavern located below the arena floor, and those?” He jabbed at a ring of fat lines. “I think those are columns.” He paused, waiting expectantly.

“And why exactly does that matter to us?” Heckabe asked, rubbing at her temples as though she couldn’t bear to look at the damned blueprints for another second.

“It means whatever’s down there is man-made, and those pillars are probably supporting the arena floor. And if that’s true, then I have an idea. Might do the trick, but we’ll need bombs. C-4 probably. Dynamite. Det-cord. A few other things as well.”

My eyebrows threatened to invade my hairline as I heard him talk. Levi struck me as a soup-kitchen volunteer, not a demolitions expert.

Heckabe offered a feral grin, stood, and headed over to the back wall.

Near the bar was a bookcase filled with old tomes and topped by bronzed idols from a multitude of ages. She slipped a single volume free from the bookcase, and suddenly the whole shelving unit groaned and bucked, pulled back, then slid into the wall. Behind was a steel-plated door with a keypad boldly displayed in the center. She punched in a numeric code and pulled open the door, which moved on silent hinges.

An emergency exit sat against the far wall, but the rest of the small room was a full-on armory. Guns. Ammunition. Swords. And, of course, explosives. A lot of explosives. “Weapons shouldn’t be a problem. Now, why don’t you share what you’re thinking with the rest of the class.”

Levi rubbed his palms together in nervous anticipation as he surveyed the Nekropolis schematics. “Okay, here’s what I think we should do …”

TWENTY-FOUR:

Sleep Well, Sweet Dreams

After another three hours of planning, followed by a scalding hot shower, I flopped down onto one of the gaudy velvet couches and pulled over a silky soft throw pillow edged in gold. I had no idea what time it was here—there didn’t seem to be days or nights, just endless toil—but I was exhausted to my soul, and every inch of my body ached and throbbed in time with the beating of my heart. Levi’s magic ichor was some truly incredible hoodoo, but it didn’t fix everything.

It felt like years since I’d had a decent night’s sleep. And considering what I’d been through since waking up on that friggin’ toilet, I felt I’d earned a little shut-eye.

“Yancy,” Levi said, shuffling over with a chair in his dinner-plate hands, then taking a seat. “We need to talk about the scythe. I understand not wanting to clue Heckabe in”—she’d finally left half an hour ago, heading back to her sleeping quarters above the bar—“but this is serious. Even with the best plan in the world, we can’t beat Asmodeus without that. So, what do we do here?”

“The only thing left to do,” I replied while stifling a yawn with my fist. “I’m gonna go have a chat with that shitheel Azazel and find out where he stashed it.”

His jaw clenched tight, and the chair creaked beneath his weight as he hunched forward, elbows planted on his thighs. “You know it’s dangerous, right? You’re vulnerable to his influence. If he gets control …” He trailed off, not finishing the thought. He didn’t need to. If Azazel got loose again, it would probably be game over for me.

“We don’t have another option,” I mumbled, already drifting off. I reached up and pulled down a thin blanket resting on top of the sofa. “It’s this or stay in Hell while the world spins outta control.” I heard him mutter some vague response filled with words like idiot and reckless, but it was all gibberish in my ears. I breathed out, letting the tension drain from my shoulders, and closed my eye for what felt like only a heartbeat.

When I opened my eye again, however, I wasn’t in the glitzy basement of the Crossroad Saloon. Instead, I stood on a narrow street, lined on either side by two-story buildings with balconies jutting out over the wide sidewalks. Bourbon Street, smack-dab in the French Quarter. Except, everything was wrong here.

Broken.

Instead of glowing streetlights, the city was dead and powerless. The shop windows were all busted out, shattered glass decorating the sidewalks. Several buildings leaned drunkenly on their foundations, while a few more were nothing but charred piles of blackened debris. The ones that remained standing were covered with bullet holes and marred by deep fissures that pulsed with angry violet light. Rubble and garbage adorned the narrow alleyways and streets, and creeping vines wound their way through the wreckage, reclaiming whole sections of the city.

Shit. I turned, taking it all in. What had happened here? It looked like a drunk Arnold Schwarzenegger had ridden a friggin’ tornado through town while simultaneously firing a Ma Deuce with one hand and a rocket launcher with the other.

The crunch of rubble caught my ear, and I wheeled left, instinctively reaching for my pistol, which wasn’t there.

A dark figure, obscured by deep shadow, shuffled out from the surprisingly intact doorway of a nearby brick-fronted eatery. As the figure moved closer, the shadow fell away revealing the familiar face of Cassius Aquinas. He was a creature of water and spirit, permanently grafted into a piece of my soul.

And boy did he look like a bag of month-old ass.

He was supposed to be my mirror image: a typical guy in his late forties with cropped hair and an unremarkable height and build. Pretty average—aside from the sea-blue skin and shimmering emerald eyes, which marked him out as the Undine he was. Like I said, though, he looked bad. Real bad. His skin was pallid and waxy, too thin in places, and crisscrossed with a host of scars, some old and faded, others new and vibrant. One eye was gone, just like yours truly, but his left arm was also missing, cut away just below the elbow.

In many ways, Cassius was the embodiment of my subconscious mind, and, as a result, he tended toward the finer things in life—good cigars, great hooch, Italian suits, silk pajamas. No jeans or Wild Turkey for him. Now, though, his outfit seemed more appropriate for a post-apocalyptic refugee than an easygoing, blue-skinned Playboy from Glimmer-Tir. He wore shredded, dirt-caked BDUs with bulky riot gear strapped in place. The word “WARDEN” was stenciled across his vest in glowing letters the color of hot coals.

Other sigils—each offering a weak trickle of light, like a bulb on the verge of burnout—ran over heavy shoulder pads, razor-edged gauntlets, and steel-plated shin guards. The whole outfit looked so worn out that a stiff breeze might unravel every stitch. In his remaining hand, he clutched a formidable broadsword pulsing with golden energy the exact color of Levi’s ichor, while the barrel of a tactical shottie poked up over one shoulder.

“Yancy,” he said with a nod, his voice a harsh, exhausted whisper. “Good to see you back in the driver’s seat.” He faltered, glanced around the desolate city street, then shuddered. “Now come give me a hand. Livin’ is a bitch these days.” He stumbled forward a step, then two. I rushed over, relieving him of the golden sword as I slipped beneath him and slung an arm around his shoulders. Steadying him. He leaned his weight into me and gave me a tired grin of gratitude as we awkwardly staggered over to the side of the street.

An overturned table lay on the sidewalk between two buildings, next to a pair of dilapidated chairs—broken but serviceable. I leaned the strange broadsword against the table, then carefully, slowly, lowered Cassius down, easing him into one seat before righting the other and dropping down with a groan.

“Thanks,” Cassius said, slipping a hand into a cargo pocket on his thigh and pulling out a fat stogie with frayed edges. Even his cigar looked down and out. He slid the smoke between his lips, and instantly the tip flared to life, a bright cherry shining in the night. “Be a gent and get me something to drink, will you?” he asked, slumping back in his seat, puffing contentedly as he stared hazy-eyed at the rubble and destruction. “Manifesting just about anything is damned tough these days.”

I nodded and focused on my empty hand, imagining a frosty glass filled with a generous dollop of Pappy Van Winkle. For a moment nothing happened, but as I fixed the image in my mind, brow furrowing in concentration, a glass appeared in my palm. It was perfect and indistinguishable from the waking world. I handed him the drink, which he accepted gratefully, then formed one of my own, leaned back, crossed my ankles, and sipped slowly.

You don’t shoot Pappy, you savor it.

“I’m glad to see you’re alive too,” I finally said over the restless drone of cicadas in the background. “After what happened with Azazel … Well, I wasn’t sure how you’d manage.”

“Not well,” he replied tersely, throwing his head back and draining the rest of his glass in a single pull. He hurled the glass aside with a contemptuous flick of his hand. It shattered on the sidewalk nearby with a crunch, but Cassius didn’t seem to give two shits.

“Is that what happened, here?” I asked. “Did Azazel do all this?”

“Most of it,” Cassius said, standing with a groan. “It’s bad, Yancy. About as bad as things get. He’s spent the last six months setting up shop, building his fortress and dismantling ours bit by bit. And what he didn’t destroy, Levi’s exorcism did.” He faltered, looking left then right. “Don’t get me wrong, we probably wouldn’t have survived but for another month without the golem’s intervention, but the cure was almost as bad as the disease. Like chemo. Nearly killed me in the process. Not sure I’d survive another round.”

He reached down, snagged his golden sword, slipped it into a leather sheath at his hip, then rested his hand on my shoulder, fingers digging down. “Time for you to see the full extent of the change.” Without asking for permission, he wheeled around, dragging me with him. In a single step, we shifted, vanishing from Bourbon Street and manifesting high overhead, suspended like a cloud, held in place solely by Cassius’ mastery of this world.

We twirled in a slow circle, surveying the landscape with an eagle-eye view.

The French Quarter stretched out directly beneath us, and from this vantage, it was easy to see the network of cancerous, violet fissures running over the asphalt and crisscrossing the brick-fronted shops. Looking at the damage made my brain ache and burn. It was almost like seeing a broken limb for the first time after a bad accident. Jarring. Surreal. The extensive damage probably also went a long way toward explaining my memory loss.

Off to the west, the edge of the city ended abruptly, cut away by a dusty stretch of barren earth maybe two hundred meters wide and chock-full of trenches, uneven berms, machine gun nests, and endless spools of razor wire. On the far side of No Man’s Land was a towering stone wall, fifty feet high, with a single massive gate. Lining the top of the wall was a host of weaponry—everything from medieval ballistae and trebuchets to modern day Howitzers and heavy-duty rail guns that looked like they belonged on a destroyer.

Suddenly, the devastation made a bit more sense.

Beyond the wall was a familiar landscape: all yellow hardpan and towering black termite mounds, dotted with fiery windows like a thousand winking eyes laid out in a circular pentagram a mile in diameter. It was a pretty good imitation of Pandæmonium—Flesh Palace and colosseum included—though strangely devoid of life. No cars. No markets. No hawkers or freakish pedestrians trundling along from nowhere to nowhere.

It was Hell if Hell were truly a place of the dead.

“That,” Cassius said around the fat cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth, “is all Azazel’s work. The Big Easy is the physical representation of your mind, and that”—he jerked his head toward the megacity—“is the representation of Azazel’s mind. That shithole’s been my only view for the past six months.”

“Where’s Buné’s mindscape?” I asked, squinting as I searched for some sign of the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse.

“That’s probably the only good news,” he replied grimly. “Turns out, Azazel ain’t no dummy. He used all of his influence while we had him locked up to build an underground bunker to hold that nutty son of a bitch—and it’s a good thing too, ’cause I think Buné might be even worse than Azazel. That entire city down there is one giant containment seal, and Buné’s prison is beneath the surface. The seal allows Azazel to harness Buné’s power, which is how he’s managed to knock off all those demon knuckleheads.”

I grunted noncommittally, eyes running over the lines of the hellish metropolis, lingering on the edges of the massive pentagram encircling the buildings. Now that Cassius mentioned it, I did recognize a few demonic sigils meticulously carved into the hardpan like old scars.

“And Azazel?” I asked, folding my arms against a sudden chill, despite there being no breeze. “Where’s he at?”

“Down below, right in the center of the colosseum. Levi’s exorcism locked that son of a bitch up. I’ve never seen anything like it, Yancy. One minute I’m hunkered down in the French Quarter, doing my absolute damnedest to weather another attack, and then? Then the whole earth starts to rattle and shake, my teeth quivering inside my head. I thought it was finally over. The end of the world. My world anyway.” He paused and stole a sidelong glance at me. “And yours, too, I suppose.

“But once the world stopped shaking long enough for me to pull myself off the floor and look up, I saw a wave of golden light sweeping in from the east. A tsunami of power, a hundred feet tall, just rushing through everything. I thought Azazel had pulled some kinda fast one on me. But when the wave hit, it went after Azazel’s corruption. Eradicating it like alcohol killing a bad infection.” He glanced down at his missing arm. “That’s how this happened—Azazel’s power had even started to get into me. But as hard as Levi’s power hit us, it absolutely hammered Azazel’s little fortress over there.”

Cassius paused, shrugged, looked away. “After a while, I finally got ballsy enough to go take a peek, and that’s when I found ol’ Azazel locked up inside this crazy-ass dome. Like a supermax for spirits. Your mind came back online not long after, and I started piecing things together a bit.”

“Can you show me the prison?” I asked, feeling a flutter of worry in my gut. “I need to talk with Azazel.”

“Seriously?” he replied, anger simmering just below the surface of his words. “After all this, you still want to talk to that ugly bastard? After what he did to you?” His voice rose, the rage boiling over. “After all he did to me? Look at me, Yancy!” he screamed into my face, fingers digging painfully down. “Look at me! Do you see what he’s done to me? He took my eye. Took my arm. Every day since you brought him on has been a fucking war zone—one I never wanted to be a part of.”

He was shaking violently, his blue lips pulled back in a snarl. “You never asked me to fight this battle, you just accepted the damned Seal like a sucker, and enlisted me to mop up your mess. If it weren’t for me, you’d be dead already. That or a brain-damaged husk with Azazel permanently calling the shots.” His voice dropped low, his face contorted in pain and hate. “Do you even care? I know you saved my ass all those years ago, and I’ve tried to pull my weight as a thank you. But this? This is goddamn treason, Yancy.”

I glanced away, unable to meet his angry glare, unable to look him in his worn and tired face.

He was right, of course.

I treated him like he was just another piece of myself, but he wasn’t. We were bound—a parasite and its host—but he was still a living, thinking being. And I’d done this to him. After I’d accepted the Second Seal from Chief Chankoowashtay, the leader of the People of the Forest, he’d slugged me in the jaw, but I hadn’t understood what was in store. Not then. I’d brought this trouble down on our heads, and he’d been the one to suffer the constant war against Azazel and his corrupting influence.

Still, I needed to talk to Azazel.

Between me, Levi, and Heckabe, we had a pretty damn good game plan in place, but without the scythe it was useless. Doomed. Picking that evil douche-waffle’s brain would be unpleasant, sure, but not as unpleasant as dying in a giant gladiatorial ring only to have my soul fed to a bunch of demonic monsters. That would serve no one. Not me. Not him. I looked up at Cassius, jaw tight, resolution written across my face.

“I need to see him, Cassius. It’s not a question of what I want—it’s about survival. Our survival.”

Cassius’ face screwed up in fury. “Fine.” He whispered the word like a curse. “You wanna see him so bad? You can go by yourself.” His fingers opened, and suddenly I fell, the wind beating at my face and plastering my clothes against my chest as the world streaked by. I don’t know how long I plummeted, but eventually, I smashed into the earth like a meteor, a crater forming in the cracked ground around me.

A fall like that back in the waking world would’ve turned me into a meat patty, but here it merely stung like a full-body belly flop off the diving board.

I pushed myself upright and pressed my fingers against my lips. When I pulled my hand away, I noticed a bright smear of red decorating my fingertips. The fall didn’t kill me, but I suspected the whole stunt was Cassius’ not so subtle way of reminding me that what happened here had consequences. Real, devastating, even deadly ones. I wanted to be mad at him for being an asshole, but I couldn’t blame him—not after all the shit I’d put him through. I probably would’ve done the same damned thing in his place.

With a disgruntled sigh, I stood and brushed my hands off as I spun in a circle.

The colosseum.

The pictures Heckabe had shown me hadn’t done the thing justice. Not even close. It was so big, so much more impressive. The ebony stands rose up like an impenetrable, unscalable wall. I continued turning, my feet crunching on loose gravel, and all thoughts of Cassius left my mind as I spotted the giant golden dome protruding from the ground like a half-buried asteroid.

It was similar to the prison I’d constructed for Azazel so many months ago, just better. Much better. Instead of steel plating with ancient signs of power carved into the metal, the prison was constructed of cloudy crystalline glass, covered from top to bottom with shimmering, swirling golden lines like a living, moving tapestry. After spending so much time with Levi, it was obvious whose workmanship it was, though this was a whole new level of insane. It was like staring at the magical equivalent of the Sistine Chapel.

Unlike the last prison I’d built, this one had no door, no openings of any sort, but I still felt a flutter of worry as I crept closer to the intimidating structure. The opaque glass prevented me from seeing Azazel, but I knew he was in there, waiting for me. I edged all the way up to the side of the dome and pressed my hand against the glass; an electric tingle crept into my palm as streaks of dark purple stained the tips of my fingers. A clear patch appeared beneath my hand, forming a little window I could see through, though just barely.

And there, in the middle of the dome, was Azazel, the great demonic dickhead who’d caused so many problems for Cassius and me over the past year. In some legends, angels are beautiful, swoon-worthy even—the stuff of romantic dreams. Based on what I’d seen so far in the Inferno, there might’ve even been some kernel of truth to that. But Azazel? Yeah, not so much.

Red skin like the blistered flesh of a burn victim covered a frame deformed with thick muscle. Splashed across his body were profane tattoos, deep gouges that bit through the skin and bled light the color of a toxic waste spill. All those markings hurt to look at—they seemed to slither and writhe in my vision like an angry brood of snakes. The only marking I recognized was the one directly in the center of his forehead: a strange diamond slashed through its center with a jagged line. Azazel’s demonic sigil.

I noted with some small measure of satisfaction that the formidable prison walls weren’t the only safety protocol keeping Azazel in check. He was trapped in a golden containment circle—a mirror image to the one Levi had used on me—and bound with thick golden chains that connected to the arena floor. Those chains wrapped around his arms and legs, encircled his biceps, strained over his massive neck, and prevented him from so much as unfurling his leathery wings.

The bastard looked about as secure as a demon could be, but despite that, he seemed remarkably unconcerned by his current predicament. He simply sat cross-legged, examining the ceiling above as if he were on a retreat and had no cares in the world. As I inched closer, he finally looked down, acknowledging me with a tilt of his head.

“I knew you’d come back,” he said, his voice deep, primal. It was the rumble of an earthquake and the crash of thunder on the horizon. A voice built for solitude and unaccustomed to speech. “Even after all the damage I’ve caused, you couldn’t resist. It isn’t in your nature. You’re too curious, which is why I like you so much. Easy prey.”

“You didn’t leave me much choice—you know why I’m here. Where’s the scythe?”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he replied, ignoring my question. “About choice. There’s always a choice. You didn’t need to give in to me when fighting Ong—you could’ve let your friends die. Likewise, you don’t need to be here. There are other ways, even if the consequences are dire for your world. Nevertheless, the choice remains. It always remains.”

“Shut your mouth,” I growled, glancing down at my hand still pressed against the crystalline cage. The deep purple smear had spread, worming its away across the back of my hand, clawing all the way up to my wrist. “I didn’t come here to talk philosophy with you, dickweed. Where’s the scythe?”

He laughed a deep belly chuckle. “Of course I’ll tell you where it is. I want Asmodeus’ death far more than you do. I’d hate to see my efforts wasted.” His eyes flared with hatred as his lips pulled back, revealing rows of broken-glass teeth. “And the answer to your question is so close at hand.” He offered me a contemptuous grin. “You’ve been trudging all over Pandæmonium, but the scythe has been with you the whole while.”

Confusion sprinted across my face.

“The pistol, Disciple,” he offered, the words dripping scorn at my ignorance. “Did you not think the new upgrades odd? I reforged the scythe, combining it with your weapon of choice.” He raised a hand, pointed a finger at me, and mimed pulling a trigger.

“The gun is the scythe,” I said, voice flat, dry as an Arizona summer.

“Just so. A perfect disguise. But it is not only the gun. The gun can fire standard rounds, but only specially forged bullets will eradicate the soul, and only when the weapon is wielded by your hand. When the MudMan captured me, the chamber was full. Six rounds, all capable of inflicting Soul Death. How many are left?” His sneer widened as the question left his mouth, as if he already knew the answer.

Suddenly my stomach dropped out as my mind raced, replaying every shot I’d fired. I’d blasted one Flesh Eater during the chase in the market and another in the Southside Blood Pit—but I’d used two rounds on that douche-nozzle. Shit. That left me three rounds. Three. “Where can I find more ammo?” I said, eye narrowing into a thin slit, my free hand curling into a tight fist.

Azazel stared at me with the cold, calculating gaze of a reptile. “There are no more. I make them in batches of six, and I alone know the secret of their creation. It was a precaution I took on the off chance you managed to break free. Now, if you want to have the power of Death at your fingertips, you need me. You. Need. Me. And I think you know exactly what my price is.” He raised his hands and rattled the chains strapping him down.

“I don’t need you,” I yelled, fury invading me. All I wanted to do was pummel that asshole—just wipe that smarmy know-it-all smirk right off his ass-ugly face. “I sure as shit don’t need more than three bullets to kill Asmodeus, and then I’m gone. Outta Hell, and I won’t need you for jack shit.”

“So you think,” Azazel replied. “But you’re wrong. In your heart, you belong to me. I am the Lord of war, of chaos, of hate and rage. I live inside every heart”—he thrust out a finger toward me—“yours most of all. You are hate. You are a monster, and even when you try to help you only cause more harm. Perhaps you have what you need to kill Asmodeus, but you also have the power to kill immortals, Disciple.

“Have you really considered what that means? You can take vengeance on Old Man Winter and ensure he’ll never hurt your friends again. Or what of the Morrigan? Would you not like to see her flame snuffed out for good? With the scythe you can do it, and I think we both know you’ll be back when the time draws nigh. There’s always a choice, but you will always choose death, Lazarus.”

Even in defeat, this bastard had a way to put the screws to me. I ripped my hand away from the glass, noting the creeping corruption had traveled past my elbow.

“One final word of advice,” came Azazel’s voice, badly muffled now that the glass was slowly clouding over again. “You can’t just shoot Asmodeus and expect him to die. The scythe only works for a killing blow. He must be near death, clinging to survival by the tip of his talons. Only then can you finish him off with the pistol. Don’t waste your chance—” The sentence cut off mid-word as the window I’d created disappeared completely, swallowed by mist.

TWENTY-FIVE:

Rise and Shine

The world around me shook and trembled, a miniature earthquake. “It’s time,” a blunt voice barked at me. The world shook again.

Reluctantly, I pushed up onto my elbows and cracked my eye, only to see Levi looming over me, his fat hand latched onto my shoulder. “Leave me alone, dick-noodle,” I grunted, shoving his hand away and flipping over onto my side. “I don’t know what time it is, but I sure as shit know what time it ain’t. And that’s time to get up.”

“Not asking,” he replied. “We’ve got a lot to do and only so much time to do it. Up. Now.”

I offered him a middle finger in reply and snuggled my face more deeply into the pillow, pulling the ridiculously soft throw blanket up over my shoulders. Gaudy or not, this couch was better than my bed, and I intended to enjoy it.

Just as I was on the verge of maximum comfort, Levi’s sausage fingers curled around my bicep and jerked me from the couch in one quick pull. I hit the floor with a thump and a squawk and rolled over, ready to mule-kick that asshole in the kneecaps on principle, but of course, he was already lumbering away.

“You slept well, I take it,” Heckabe asked, sounding vastly amused by my sudden wake-up call. She was sitting at the same table from the night before, nursing a beer and devouring her way through about ten pounds of pork and a small mountain of scrambled eggs. I sniffed at the air and my stomach grumbled in response. Yeah, I could eat.

“Yeah,” I grumbled, glowering at her and Levi in turn as I clambered to my feet. “Just not enough. I could use ten more hours, easy.” I winced, my muscles still achy, my skin covered in vivid yellow bruises.

“Stop whining,” came her thoughtful and gracious reply. “You already slept ten hours—and you have your inarticulate friend to thank for that, by the way. I would’ve had you up ages ago, had he not physically thrown me into a wall.” She cocked an eyebrow at the MudMan. “He has a temper, that one.”

I paused, stealing a glance over one shoulder at Levi, who stoically ignored the conversation. The MudMan shambled off to the corner and plopped down on an overstuffed chair, pulling out a beaten and battered copy of the Bible. We were in Hell, and the guy was reading the Bible. I snorted at the sheer irony, unable to contain myself. Hands down, Levi was the biggest dork I’d ever met. But in an endearing sort of way.

“If you want any of this food,” Heckabe said, “you better get a move on. I’ve got a big appetite.” She patted her stomach and issued an eye-watering belch, which was the absolute height of classy.

“Oh, don’t you mind her none,” Ma Rainey said, shuffling into the room, bearing a silver platter loaded down with all kinds of wondrous things: crispy toast slathered in butter, a bowlful of bright yellow eggs, a tray of fat breakfast links, and a tottering pile of crisp bacon. And best of all? Coffee. Delicious aromatic coffee. A whole pot of the stuff, sitting next to a mug that had my name on it—well, not literally, but you get the idea. Tired and grumpy as I was, I could get on board with a wheelbarrow worth of fried meat and high-octane joe.

She plopped the tray on the table, offered me a quick wink, then bustled off, disappearing back the way she’d come.

I headed for the bathroom, took a quick leak, and splashed some lukewarm water across my face before rinsing my mouth.

When I left the bathroom, I found Levi waiting for me in a cramped little hallway connecting the bathroom with the lounge. He reached out and grabbed my right hand, lifted it up, then carefully inspected my fingers. “Your hand started to turn black last night,” he whispered so low it was almost impossible to hear. “Thought Azazel must’ve gotten to you.” He let my hand drop, then cupped my chin and lifted my face, searching my eye for any sign of Azazel’s presence.

I slapped his mitt away in annoyance. “I’m fine,” I whispered. “And I got what we needed to boot.” As briefly as I could, I explained what I’d learned. The revelation left the poor guy shell-shocked—not that I could blame him. To know we’d had the damned scythe the whole time was a bitter pill, though in hindsight, without the plans we’d scored from Azazel’s desk, we’d still be screwed. “Now get outta my way before Heckabe gets suspicious,” I muttered under my breath.

Levi begrudgingly moved aside as I beelined for the table, dropped into a chair, and eyeballed the food with greedy hunger, trying to decide where to start. Bacon. Of course, I started with the bacon. I picked up a thick slice covered in hot, delicious grease and shoved it between my teeth, letting the flavor explode over my tongue like a hand grenade of awesomeness. Oh. My. God. I’m something of a foodie: ribs are amazing, and you can’t go wrong with charred brisket. But bacon? Bacon is the absolute bee’s knees.

I worked my way through piece after piece, taking a few breaks to stuff eggs into my pie hole, then washed it all down with scorching hot coffee.

Thankfully—blessedly, even—Heckabe let me eat in peace. Which is good because I’m not a morning person, not even a little. I’m more of a set-things-on-fire-in-the-morning kinda person.

When I was finally done, I slouched back in my seat and picked my teeth with a wooden toothpick, surveying the werewolf lady.

“Done?” she asked flatly, sliding out a new dossier, which she flopped onto the table. “Busy day today.” She flipped the cover and pulled out a stack of glossy photos. “Today, we head down to the Undercroft and see if we can get access to the service tunnels beneath the colosseum. I know a guy over in the floating markets who can probably get us into the Nekropolis. It’s going to be a difficult fight from there, but we’ll be well provisioned.” She bent over and lifted a black duffel from the floor. “I’ve got everything we need in here for the demo.”

“Good enough,” I replied, pushing away from the table and heading for the couch. I donned my leather jacket—I was instantly sweaty, even with the AC on—slipped the tactical flak jacket over the top, then double-checked all my weapons. I had a new set of flashbangs. A Colt 1911 with an extra mag. The drop pouch with the Hand of Glory stashed away inside, now wrapped in a piece of black silk. And, of course, the scythe. I brass checked the deadly pistol, fingers trembling as I traced the new etchings.

Three rounds, just like I’d thought.

“Alright, let’s do this—”

I fell silent as Ma Rainey rushed in from the back room behind the bar. She clutched the edges of her skirt in a tense grip. “Flesh Eaters. Upstairs,” she said without preamble.

Heckabe was on her feet in a flash, hoisting the duffel and slinging it over one shoulder. “How many?” she snapped, gaze darting toward the main basement door.

“Ten. Maybe fifteen,” Ma Rainey replied, cool as an autumn morning. “They sniffing around topside, but Johnson and the boys are keepin’ ’em occupied. Probably buy y’all ’bout two minutes. Best get movin’.” She hobbled over to the bookcase on the back wall, pulled down a book, then punched the code into the keypad on the vault door. It whooshed open on silent hinges, revealing both the armory and the emergency exit. “They got a couple sentries posted up out by the front door, so I’m thinkin’ the back way.”

Heckabe nodded, shot Levi and me a quick glance, then jerked her head toward the exit. “Our time here is done. Let’s move.” She quickly disappeared into the secret room, trailed by Levi, still in his dumpy human suit.

I followed last but stopped short as Ma Rainey’s hand landed on my forearm.

I turned toward her as she tugged on my sleeve, but was woefully unprepared as she strained up on her tippy toes and planted a hot, wet kiss right on my lips. The kiss didn’t last long, thank God—she’s a nice enough lady and crazy talented, but she also looked ninety years old. Before I could properly react, she pulled away, chuckling softly, running one hand over her hips.

“You taste good, bluesman. Now you get on outta here, but when you shuffle off the mortal coil for real, you stop on by and pay ol’ Ma Rainey a proper visit.” She shot me a sly smile, then shoved me toward the emergency door, followed by a hard smack right on the ass. “You get. Go kill that shit-sucker Asmodeus.” I hustled forward feeling incredibly conflicted and even more confused. I paused and stole one final look back as the metal door clanged shut, blocking out Ma Rainey’s face and the trickle of light from the basement.

I had a feeling that was probably the last I’d ever see Rainey, and surprisingly it bothered me. First Skinless Jim, now her. What was happening to me? I beat back all those fuzzy, demanding emotions and soldiered on through the exit and into a twisting tunnel, fitted with miner’s lamps hanging from the right-hand wall at ten-foot intervals. I picked up my pace and quickly caught up to Levi and Heckabe. We took winding turn after winding turn, before eventually climbing a set of narrow stairs that let out into a sketchy back alley about a block away.

We padded toward the street, keeping our heads low. We were far enough away from the Crossroad Saloon to put me at ease, but still close enough for me to get an eyeful. A trio of Flesh Eaters loitered out front, preventing anyone from going in, while other Flesh Eaters marched patrons out through the front door. Everyone who exited was frisked, searched, and smell-checked by a skeletal Flesh Eater with gangly arms and bright pink liberty spikes running down the center of his head.

Heckabe tugged at my arm, urging me to follow, but I swatted her hand away with disdain, committed to watching how this thing played out. Committed to seeing that Ma Rainey and the Blues gang made it out in one piece. Those were my heroes in there. I crept over to the alley wall and pressed my shoulder into the black stone. It only took a few minutes for the club to empty—Rainey, Johnson, and the rest of the crew were the last to leave. Then, just as they cleared the entrance, an explosion rocked the street, flames bellowing through the front door like dragon’s breath.

They’d blown the place up.

Those dirty, brohole dickbaskets.

Liberty Spikes took a can of spray paint and hastily marked the wall while the rest of the Flesh Eaters dispersed the crowd, shoving them away from the burning building. Even from a block away I could read the giant warning painted onto the wall. TRAITORS BURN! LONG LIVE KING ASMODEUS! I watched in silent shock as Robert Johnson grabbed Rainey by the arm and dragged her off into the ebb and flow of foot traffic, disappearing before the Flesh Eaters could question them further.

A relief, though only a small one.

“Let’s go.” I turned my back on the scene, ready to barbeque Asmodeus over an open flame. Up until now, I’d been after the Demon King because I wanted to leave Hell, but now it was personal. No one messes with the Blues, dammit.

We slipped into the throng of looky-loos lining the street and headed uptown, away from the saloon. Even three blocks away, I could see the choking plume of smoke drifting skyward. Yep, those bastards were gonna pay big time—ol’ Liberty Spikes had better pray I never saw his lanky ass again. We headed deeper into the city, cutting through narrow alleys and shady red-light districts filled with unspeakable visual horrors, until we finally came to what could only be described as the asshole of Pandæmonium.

The road was packed full of garbage: broken bottles, piles of rubble, bits of rusted steel, burning tires, and the charred husks of smoldering cars. And shit. Literal puddles of waste so vile I had to plug my nose with one hand to keep from vomiting. Lining both sides of the street was a shantytown of lopsided houses built from rusted rebar, pieces of cardboard, and warped plywood covered in mold and mildew despite the terrible heat.

Tight pockets of Hellions roamed the roads, searching for any sign of trouble. That or looking for easy marks to take advantage of. More Hellions, these completely naked or dressed in tattered scraps of clothing, huddled in narrow alleyways or cowered in their dilapidated homes. Their cheeks were gaunt, their flesh paper-thin, their eyes too big and often vacant. These pitiful creatures looked less like the spawn of Satan and more like refugees fleeing a war zone. I spotted a scrawny girl of maybe thirteen, sitting behind a broken pallet, clutching a scruffy blanket to her sunken chest.

I tried to ignore her and push on—to focus on the mission—but just like with the Skinless, I couldn’t do it. A wave of guilt burned in my gut as I looked at that kid. What was she doing here?

“Give me your money,” I said, slapping Levi on the arm.

The MudMan frowned, but complied, digging into his coat pocket and liberating a handful of the foreign coins. I took them without comment or explanation and headed over to the poor Hellion kid with her pitiful blanket. She recoiled as I got closer, scooting farther back, trying to will herself invisible. I didn’t want her to bolt, so I stopped at the mouth of the alley and squatted down. The kid eyed me through a mop of brown hair, lips trembling.

But she didn’t run.

When I was sure I had her eye, I opened my hand, revealing the glint of gold.

Still, she scooted back, suspicion splashed across her features as she pulled coltish legs into her chest like a shield. There are no free lunches in Hell, that look said. I knew there was nothing I could do to reassure her, so I didn’t try. Instead, I simply stacked the coins into a neat little pile in plain view, then raised my hands and slowly backed away. I caught Levi looking at me askew as though he wasn’t quite sure what to make of me—eventually, he just shook his head, mumbling under his breath as he trudged on.

We carved our way through the shantytown to a set of uneven stairs, which ended at a crimson door with no hinges and no doorknob. There was, however, a glowing black handprint burned into the center of the surface.

TWENTY-SIX:

Floating Market

“Hold on tight,” Heckabe said as she headed for the strange door. “And prepare for some pain.” She purred the words, as though she were looking forward to it. “These things tend to have a kick.” She grinned at us over one shoulder and pressed her palm against the charred handprint. And then? Then, she was gone. Poof. Disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving behind only a subtle crackle of power and the faint scent of ozone.

“The crap is that?” I asked, hunching forward to study the door.

“Purgatory gate,” Levi said, shrugging his Carhartt-clad shoulders as though that explained everything. He headed on without another word, and followed suit, pressing his palm into the door just as Heckabe had done. A second later, he too was gone, the scent of ozone growing stronger in the air. I ground my teeth in frustration, sick to death of not remembering things and not knowing what everybody else seemed to, but there was nothing left to do except suck it up and play follow-the-leader.

Begrudgingly, I inched forward, sweat breaking out across my forehead as I grumbled under my breath.

Curiously, I ran one finger over the surface. It looked like wood, but it was actually some sort of metal, cold to the touch. Next, I traced a finger along the handprint, feeling a potent thrum of power buzzing beneath the mark—equal parts radiant heat, earthen force, and raw, twisting Nox. A gateway, if I had to guess. After another brief moment of hesitation, I took a deep breath and pressed my sweaty palm against the charred handprint. The world vanished in an explosion of light as a bolt of electricity flowed through my hand and into my arm.

My teeth chattered, my muscles went rigid, and suddenly the hair on my arms and legs stood at attention as every molecule in my body ripped apart all at once. It felt like some colossal dickhead had tossed me face-first into a wood chipper. A wood chipper built from razor blades, lemon juice, and Tasers. The light faded, guttered, and died as darkness invaded in all around me, the only sound in the world the thunderous beating of my heart.

Then, just as quickly as the darkness had come, it burned away as I stumbled onto a stone pad, wreathed in bloody red light. I dropped to a knee, hunching forward, one hand pressed into my gut as the world spun around me like a top, and a wave of soul-crushing vertigo beat the shit outta me. Eventually, the dizziness passed, and I glanced up to find Levi staring down at me, his arms crossed and the faintest hint of amusement playing across his usually dour features.

Asshole.

“They have a way of doing that to you,” he said, stalking over, offering me a hand, and rudely pulling me to my feet.

“What is this place?” I asked, squinting against the harsh red light and rubbing at the bridge of my nose, trying to clear my head.

He turned, slinging an arm around my shoulders as he motioned to the black void all around us. “Told you. That was a Purgatory gate. And this is Purgatory. Well, some folks, they call it Purgatory anyway. It’s just sort of the empty spaces that exist between the different levels of the Inferno. Sort of a no man’s land. A place to avoid the politics. It’s an outlaw haven run by the Free-Folk. It’s also the easiest way to move around the Pit. To travel between the different cities.”

He paused for a moment, surveying the space with an unreadable look on his face. “I’ve been to a couple of different parts of Purgatory, but not here. Heard of it, though. The Floating Market.”

It was easy to see where the place got its name.

Blackness stretched around us in every direction, interrupted by pockets of wandering red light, which flashed into and out of existence like miniature lightning storms, washing everything in flickering crimson. The blackness wasn’t empty, though. Jagged stones, each the size of a small battleship, floated in the air. Suspended from nothing, held by nothing, as though the laws of gravity didn’t exist in this place. The rocks held shops in a hundred different makes and models. Sandstone shrines with golden minarets. Mud huts. Sprawling wooden stalls.

The floating islands themselves were linked together by a myriad of different means—a haphazard iron staircase here, a bit of free-standing scaffolding there, a rickety wooden bridge farther on, which looked one step away from evaporating into dust. Everything was a chaotic jumble that looked like a cross between an MC Escher painting and a Bangkok construction site. Despite the yawning blackness and the haphazard walkways, Hellions bustled along. They chitchatted idly with friends while leaning on precarious handrails. Some drank booze or smoked cheap cigarettes, which filled the air with a sharp reek of stale nicotine.

“Should we be on the lookout here?” I asked Levi, stealing a suspicious look around.

“You should always be on the lookout in Hell,” he replied, nudging me into motion with his fleshy palm. “But it’s a little better here. Safer. Sure, there are things that’ll eat you—maybe even steal your soul—but there won’t be any Flesh Eaters. Not here. Nobody owns Purgatory, not even Lucifer. This is”—he seesawed his head to the left and right, searching for the right word—“neutral territory, or as close as you’re gonna get down here.”

We trailed after Heckabe, navigating the warren of ascending metal staircases, wobbly wooden bridges, and crude ladders, passing by a host of bizarre shops and odd Hellions. One knickknack stand, presided over by a Hellion with mottled green skin and translucent bat wings, offered to sell me a Hand of Glory—go figure. When I politely turned him down, he tried to sweeten the pot by tossing in the Spear of Destiny, because apparently, I have “Sucker” tattooed across my forehead.

I brushed him and his bogus offers off, slipping across a rope bridge before he could follow.

Heckabe strolled through the market like she lived there, guiding us to a tiny stall with wooden walls and a rusted roof.

The dried husks of small scorpion-like creatures dangled from the ceiling on thin pieces of fraying twine, while dead bats swung lazily in an unfelt breeze, their desiccated crimson wings bound tightly to their shriveled bodies. A series of rough shelves ran along the left-hand wall, crammed from top to bottom with jars, books, and bits of old, yellowing bone. A thick round carpet adorned the ground, and lounging on it was a slug. But not your normal, run-of-the-mill garden slug.

Nope. This thing was the size of a man, with burnt orange skin, fifteen or so arms protruding from his amorphous body, and toad-like eyes nesting over a rough gash of a mouth.

“Welcome,” the creature gurgled, dipping its head in a bow despite not having a neck. “I have a cure for all that ails you. A bout of wormwood gut?” He waved one of his many hands toward a jar filled with green goop and a ball of hair. “A splash of pruhigrass will set you right in a week’s time. Or perhaps it’s bloodfire or ironbark pox, eh?” He waved at two more vials, each grosser than the last. “Witch’s cinnamon and blight petal will do the trick.”

“Cut the bullshit, Murkly,” Heckabe said flatly, her eyes flashing an angry gold. “You know me. You know I don’t want any of your silly tonics. What need do I have of such things?”

“Not bullshit,” the slug sneered, dropping his good-natured salesman pitch. He wormed forward, stealing a glance to the left and right, ensuring no one else was close enough to see or hear anything. “Now what do you and your queen want? This is neutral territory, your word doesn’t mean so much down here. We stay out of politics.”

“This is off the books,” she replied, then held up one hand, coarse brown fur sprouting along the back of her palm while her nails elongated into wickedly sharp claws. “And it’s not my words you need to worry about, Murkly. I want access to the Undercroft.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he gurgled, crossing several sets of arms at the same time.

“This doesn’t have to turn ugly,” she replied, apparently unconcerned with his denial. “I know you scavenge the Undercroft to make your little potions and brews. Let us through, and that’ll be the end of it.”

He hesitated, a giant black tongue protruding from his mouth, and he licked his barely-there lips. “There’s nothing back there but the dead. Plus, Flesh Eaters patrol the working parts of the Undercroft.”

“We’re not looking for access to the regular parts of the Undercroft, we want into the Nekropolis,” I said, shoving past Levi.

“Why would you want to go there? No one wants to go there,” he said, a furious pout filling his amorphous face. “Besides, the Flesh Eaters have the Nekropolis barred. There’s a magically reinforced door with a single runic key, and that key passes between watch leaders. There’s no way to open the door without that key, and no way to get that key without starting an unwinnable war.”

“And yet,” Heckabe said, her eyes a deadly bronze, tufts of chocolate fur springing up along her cheekbones, “that’s where you go to collect your ingredients. Everyone here knows you scavenge in the Nekropolis. So obviously, you must have a way in.”

“Had a way in,” he snapped, great beads of sickly green sweat oozing down his brow. “My makeshift key is gone. Stolen. A few weeks ago, someone else stopped by”—he shuddered at the memory, his whole body quivering—“and took it from me.”

Inspiration struck like a lightning bolt. On gut instinct, I reached down into the drop pouch at my side and pulled free the trinket I’d liberated from Azazel’s office. The Hand of Glory, wrapped in a silk kerchief. “Look familiar?” I asked, pulling aside the cloth to reveal the shriveled hand.

Murkly faltered, his reptilian eyes bulging in his head. “But how … the demon who took that …” He trailed off, the color draining from his skin as he looked at me for the first time. “You.” He said the last word like a fearful curse. “It was you.”

“Close enough,” I said, pointing a finger gun at his head. “Now show us the way to the door. And as an added incentive, if we make it back alive, I’ll even give this gross thing”—I lifted the Hand—“back.”

His frog-eyes narrowed to slits, and his bulbous tongue ran over his bottom lip, but he nodded. “Fine. This way then, this way.” He turned, his movements ponderous and labored, and guided us through his shop, past a hanging curtain, into a slime-covered living space, then through a padlocked steel door to what looked like a broom closet. At the other side of said broom closet, however, was another Purgatory gate with a burnt black handprint smack-dab in the center.

“They don’t know about this one,” he said, looking around furtively as though afraid of being overheard. “It lets out in a small alcove in the Undercroft with a false wall concealing it. It’s not far from the gateway to the Nekropolis. But tread carefully once inside. The area near the gate is relatively benign, but the farther in you go, the more dangerous it becomes. Where are you bound for?”

Levi took out Azazel’s map of the Nekropolis, unfolded it, and pointed at the section directly beneath the colosseum. “There. That’s where we’re going.”

Murkly’s gash of a mouth pulled back in a lipless smile as he laughed. The sound was disgusting—like hearing an oil spill in real time.

“What’s so funny?” Levi asked, his brow furrowed in concern as he carefully refolded the map.

“That’s the Bone Collector’s Nest,” the slug-man chortled. “It feeds on the remains of the Reckoning. And if that’s where you’re going, you’ll never make it out alive. Not in a thousand years.” He doubled over, gasping for air as his multitude of arms clasped at his elongated gut.

Heckabe scowled and shoved him aside. “We’ll see about that, you pile of shit,” she said, pressing her hand into the charred print and disappearing in a flash. Levi and I followed, pursued by the cackling sound of sludgy laughter as the world vanished around us.

TWENTY-SEVEN:

Locked Doors

Our little party skirted along the narrow catwalks lining a channel six feet wide and brimming with a knee-deep river of muck. It was actual shit, and smelled worse than a truck-stop bathroom with a sewage leak in August heat. Even worse than the terrible smell were the bits and pieces of bodies bobbing along like logs floating down stream. Most of the corpses were little more than a torso—arms and legs hacked away—the skin mottled and festering, but despite that, they were alive.

As alive as anything else in the Pit, anyway.

They had no eyes, no ears, no noses or tongues—all were missing, gnawed away by the rabid cat-sized gar-rats patrolling the waters, hiding just out of view.

Speaking of, a faint hissing squeal rose on my right, and I swiveled at the hips, hurling a spear of Nox-powered ice as one of the nasty gar-rats leaped from the water in a splash. Its lips were pulled back from a mouthful of rusty-red piranha teeth, and its gray scales shimmered in the light of my flashlight. The spear caught it through the throat, spilling a line of fetid black blood as it toppled back into the waters, disappearing below the surface with a burble.

“And here I thought the Undercroft was gonna be a challenge,” I remarked offhandedly as we rounded a bend, constantly sweeping my light across the surface of the water, looking for the glimmer of rodent eyeballs. The flashlights weren’t quite as good as a floating orb of Vis-powered awesomeness, but down here where Flesh Eaters regularly patrolled, it was important to stay under the radar.

“It’s easy now,” Heckabe replied, “but that’s because Asmodeus’ people routinely patrol this area. The Nekropolis, though technically part of the Undercroft, is a whole different animal. Don’t get complacent.”

“What makes it so different?” Levi asked, his feet thudding along like miniature earthquakes. “The Nekropolis, I mean. I’ve been kicking around here for a while, and this is the first I’m hearing of it.”

Heckabe glanced at us; the ambient light turned her face into a skull with golden eyes. “Not surprising,” she said. “It’s old history. History Hellions rarely talk about. Twenty-five hundred years ago or so, not long after the Trojan War, a plague broke out in Pandæmonium. That’s not unusual, of course. Sickness is worked into the landscape like a garden, but this? This was different. Bone-wyrm Fever, they called it. No one knows where it came from, but it hit like a hammer. Seeped into your bones. Corrupted the meat. Turned people mad. Rabid.

“Those with Bone-wyrm went crazy. They’d attack anyone and spread the sickness. Eventually, Asmodeus had the Flesh Eaters round up the infected. He forced them into the Undercroft and built containment wards to keep the sick in. That became the Nekropolis—the city of Second-Dead, filled with the half-living survivors. The Revenants. After a thousand years, once the plague died out, Asmodeus started using the place as a prison. Enemies of the state and losers of the Reckoning get tossed down there.”

Another rodent burst from a side tunnel up ahead, cutting our conversation short as its claws skittered over stone before it hurled its scaly, streamlined body at Levi. The MudMan—gray, fat, and in his true glory—whipped out one meat-cleaver hand and carved the critter in two like a butcher digging into a shoulder chop. One half of the rat landed on the walkway in front of me with a meaty thump while the other half splashed into the water. I stepped right over the severed corpse and kept right on walking.

We moved on in silence after that, Heckabe taking point, me in the middle, and Levi bringing up the rear.

Another handful of minutes saw us to a new section of tunnel, this part blessedly dry, free of half-dead corpses, and built from yellow sandstone blocks carved with ancient glyphs, worn down by the long passage of years. “Not far now,” Levi grumbled as he trailed his fingers over the wall. “I can feel something up ahead. Something different. A door, I think.” We crept forward for another hundred feet, following the tunnel around a sharp bend, which dead-ended at a hulking pair of steel double doors twenty feet tall and fifteen feet wide.

Bingo was his name-o.

The doors were covered in spikes, bolts, and brass rivets and looked like they’d been built to stop a herd of stampeding T. rexes. “You’re up,” Heckabe said, nodding at me as she posted up along the right-hand wall, crouching low on her haunches.

I cleared my throat and ran one hand over the grip of my pistol. Everything will be fine, I reassured myself as I slipped the Hand of Glory from my drop pouch and padded closer to the door. I was expecting to find a thick chain with a traditional padlock, but obviously, I was a naïve idiot. There was no chain. No lock. Not even a door knob. There was, however, a large golden square the size of a dinner plate right in the center where the doors met. On it was a glowing green sigil in a language I couldn’t even hazard a guess at.

Thankfully, since this was Hell, I didn’t have to. In my mind’s eye, the burning glyph morphed and changed, until a single word filled my vision. Open.

I licked my lips and swallowed hard as I reached out, the Hand of Glory trembling in my grip. The relic thrummed with unholy energy, which seemed to work its way through my outstretched arm, into my heart, and up into my head, setting my teeth on edge. When the withered Hand pressed against the golden plate, the sigil flared brightly in recognition, and the plate disappeared altogether as the doors swung inward on silent hinges.

The silence didn’t last for long, however.

As the doors crept to a halt, the sound of scraping, scampering bones drifted along the air currents, followed by inhuman shrieks reverberating down the sandstone-lined hall beyond.

“Revenants!” Heckabe hollered, except it was more of a feral growl—a noise no human throat could ever make. A pack of creatures rounded a corner and sprinted toward us. It was impossible to see them clearly in the wavering yellow beams of our flashlights, but I caught glimpses of red muscle and bits of old bone.

“MudMan,” Heckabe barked, “you’re with me. Lazarus, get through the doors and make sure they close—we can’t afford for these things to get loose. Then, get us better light.” Before the words were fully out of her mouth, she was sprinting forward, her legs kicking into high gear like an Olympic athlete. I watched, momentarily stunned.

Heckabe was no longer a woman, at least not a human one. In her place was a hulking monster of brown fur, rippling muscle, tearing teeth, and flesh-rending claws. Her gear had changed with her, stretching to accommodate her size, but that was the only thing letting me know this was the same woman.

She moved with a wolf’s speed and nimble agility, while the MudMan raced by me a moment later, the hallway rumbling at his passing, bits of stone and dust raining down from the ceiling above. I coaxed my feet into motion, heading into the passage as I slipped the Hand of Glory back into my drop pouch. The second I cleared the threshold, the colossal doors creaked and swung closed, cutting off any hope of a quick retreat.

That made the fight with whatever was tearing ass toward us very simple: win or die. No retreat, no other options.

Without the aid of Heckabe’s Maglite, the hallway was uncannily dark, though the Mother of Werewolves hardly seemed to mind. She probably saw better in the dark than I did in the light, and Levi navigated more by his sense of touch than line of sight, but I was at a huge disadvantage. Sometimes being a stupid human—all frail and squishy and oh-so breakable—sucks a whole bag full of asses. Thankfully, with the warded doors shut firmly behind us, I figured I could use my full range of power without worrying about the Flesh Eaters.

I opened myself to the Vis and conjured a tennis-sized ball of fire above my left palm, pumping more and more air and energy into the construct until it blazed like my own personal sun. That wasn’t enough, though. I pushed essence into the burning ball of gas, supercharging it with Nox until the heat was uncomfortable against my unprotected skin. Before blisters could form, I threw my hand skyward, willing the ball of flame up, up, up, affixing it in place near the apex of the tunnel ceiling. It loitered there for a moment, casting flickering light on the chaos below, then burst outward in a wave of sooty orange light.

The light didn’t fail, though, and wouldn’t for another few minutes. For the time being it strobed and pulsed and everything below was as clear as a cloudless day at noontime.

For the first time, I caught a good look at the creatures up ahead, and I sorta wished the lights had stayed off.

Most were humanoid in shape—though a few skittered around on all fours—but hulking, lopsided and deformed. They were put together like the work of a kid in art class that wasn’t sure how bodies were supposed to work. They were skeletons, or rather each one was a collection of skeletons cobbled together from bones, thin strands of glistening connective tissue, and what could only be old moss. A platoon of skulls decorated each creature, acting as kneecaps, elbows, or smashing fists. Empty eye sockets, devoid of hope or life, stared at us, showing only one emotion: hunger.

Heckabe was on them light-years ahead of Levi, dancing through their number like a cloud of raw death and primal rage. I’d expected her to be a hard-hitter like Levi, but no, she was all grace and elegance, her movements sharp, precise, and unbelievably efficient. Her round shield turned aside bone-breaking punches, while her heavy mace smashed through fragile arms and legs, removing whole limbs with ease. She never stayed in one place long, though, instead working the crowd, taking them apart one piece at a time without ever suffering so much as a scratch.

Damn impressive.

I drew the beefy Colt 1911 from the tactical holster low on my left side and took aim at one of the shamblers heading my way. The gun kicked and roared as I squeezed the trigger, spewing light. The rounds plowed into the creature, center mass, and blasted out the other side, leaving fist-sized holes in their wake. But the creature hardly faltered. It didn’t seem to feel pain—or if it did, it didn’t care—and the bullets seemed surprisingly ineffective. I planted my feet, readjusted my firing position, and used the remaining rounds to blast its head clear from its shoulders.

Still it walked on.

Time for a new tactic.

I stowed the empty pistol and drew deeply on my power, reaching down into the earth. The ground rumbled as a column of rock surged up beneath me, lifting me seven feet in the air until I loomed over everyone with an eagle-eye view of the battlefield. Immediately, a detachment of Revenants broke left and launched a hail of charred bone spears straight at me. I almost laughed. I mean, I’m a mage, wielding the powers of Creation, and a bunch of half-dead troglodytes thought they could take me out with a bunch of sharpened bones?

I drew in compressed air and razor-thin strands of radiant heat, whipping up a friction barrier in an eyeblink. The air around me shimmered and danced like the air above asphalt on a blazing hot day, and a hazy red mist bled into existence. The bone spears plowed into the construct with the force of a shotgun blast, but the friction barrier took it on the chin like a champ. Instead of merely deflecting the things outright, my handy dandy construct dissolved the bones into a fine spray of slow moving, harmless powder.

The Revenants just stood there, dull witted and uncomprehending—what had happened to their precious little bone spears? Brainless morons. I let them stand there, pondering the sudden turn of fate, as I pried a Toyota-sized chunk of rock from the ground and promptly smashed the lot of ’em into dust. I figured fire or anything supernatural probably wouldn’t do much against a bunch of shit-weasels built from bones and dark magic, but a big-ass rock? Yeah, that did the trick. I let the rock settle as Levi leaped over my impromptu wrecking ball and landed like an artillery round.

Bodies scattered, bones shattered, and skulls flew through the air as he laid in with sledgehammer fists, going to town and showing no mercy. Hell, he demonstrated a special brand of ruthlessness, purposely going out of his way to actively pursue the handful of Revenants smart enough to retreat. None got far, though. Not between Levi’s bludgeoning fists, Heckabe’s deadly speed and precision, and my ability to lift up heavy-ass shit and smash other shit with it. In minutes, the Revenants were nothing more than scattered body parts and bits of bone, ready to be swept up in a dustpan.

I hopped off my stone pedestal, not bothering to drop the rock column back into the earth, and strutted forward. I brushed my hands as I surveyed our handiwork, feeling about as cocky as an NFL player taking on a high school JV team. “And here you had me worried,” I said, voice bouncing off the high sandstone ceilings as I absently kicked a half-pulverized skull out of my way.

“There are a lot of them,” Heckabe growled, her predatory eyes gleaming over her stubby snout. “And quantity tends to have its own quality over time.”

Levi slapped me on the shoulder with his big ol’ gray hand and glanced toward the jagged car-sized boulder five feet away. A host of arms and legs stuck out from underneath it. “Being able to do that helps, too. Still”—he paused, frowned, then nodded—“let’s pray it stays this easy.”

“It won’t,” Heckabe said, her growl conveying supreme doubt. “These things”—she waved at the bone piles—“aren’t the big threat. They can do a lot of damage to anyone stupid enough to wander in, but the real threat is the Bone Collector. It roams these halls like the Minotaur in the labyrinth. If Murkly is right, and it does make its home beneath the colosseum, there’s no way we can avoid a fight. So, save your energy, because we’ll most definitely need it.”

She paused, raised her snout to the air, and sniffed deeply, her lips pulled back from impressive fangs. “This way, and stay close. There are traps down here. Nasty ones.”

TWENTY-EIGHT:

Nekropolis

We battled our way deeper into the heart of the Nekropolis, taking out bigger and bigger bands of roving Revenants. They weren’t hard to kill exactly, but Heckabe had been dead right when she said, quantity has its own quality. It was one thing to rip a thousand-pound boulder from the floor once, but doing it ten times or twenty? Yeah, that’s a whole different story. And these things just kept coming, like the waves of the ocean relentlessly battering against the shore, chipping away bit by bit, grain by grain.

Every time I used my power now, it damn near made me puke from sheer exhaustion, and every muscle in my body ached as though I’d been run over by a freight truck. Several times. Even Levi was showing signs of wear—minor lacerations littered his arms, chest, and legs. Pretty much, this place was the worst. The Nekropolis was a snaking warren of worn yellow sandstone, rusted-out torture equipment—metal cages suspended from the ceiling, iron chains with barbed meat hooks, and bits of dusty leather—and bones.

So many bones.

Rib cages, skulls, femurs, spinal columns. All of ’em lying in heaps.

I spotted another such heap and carefully inched my way around the pile, giving it a helluva wide berth. We’d learned the hard way that the Revenants had some wonky hoodoo, powered by ancient wards and the ambient life force lingering on in the bones themselves. And those powers could be converted into a real bastard of a bomb—many of Levi’s wounds were courtesy of the first IED we’d been unlucky enough to stumble across.

And it wasn’t just the bombs either.

Every tunnel, every turn, was a friggin’ death trap, fueled by the same power animating the Revenants: False floors with spits of sharpened rebar poking up at the bottom, just waiting for a complacent step. Ankle breakers, covered with subtle glamors that were nearly impossible to pick out until you were damn near on top of ’em. These assholes even had magical flamethrowers built right into the walls; only some quick thinking, fancy footwork, and a hasty force shield saved me from being roasted alive.

The Revenants themselves seemed like mindless husks, and I was having a very tough time envisioning those things doing anything other than shuffling around, bumping into each other, and swarming any living thing unfortunate enough to find itself down here. But someone or something had set those traps, and that was very concerning. We hadn’t seen any sign of the Bone Collector yet, but I was starting to think we were gonna have a nasty fight on our hands when it finally popped its head out.

“Hold up,” Levi grunted from my right, his feet coming to a stop as he hunched down. He traced his fingers through the thin layer of grit and bone dust decorating the floor, his eyes closed, his head tilted to one side.

“What is it, MudMan?” Heckabe growled, her predatory gaze tracing over the hallway up ahead. She was in pretty bad shape too, her clothes ripped and stained, her dark fur marred with dried blood.

“We’re close to the center now.” He pulled the map from a flesh pocket and carefully spread it across the ground. “This is us”—he jabbed a plump digit at the paper—“and if we follow this tunnel for another hundred feet, we should be in the cavern directly beneath the colosseum.”

I crouched down, gnawing on my bottom lip and absently running a hand along the handle of my hand cannon. The tunnel Levi indicated shot straight for another thirty feet, then banked sharply left out of sight.

“I also think something’s watching us.” His voice was suddenly a conspiratorial whisper. “I haven’t seen anything”—he looked up, glancing left and right—“but it’s with us. In the ceiling above us, I think. There’s another network of caves running above these, and something’s moving around up there. And it’s close now. Very close.”

“Well, there’s no point putting it off any longer,” Heckabe growled. “I’m already sick of this place. Let’s just do what we came for. Asmodeus isn’t going to kill himself, gents.” She readjusted her tattered shirt, then lifted her lupine muzzle to the air, taking several long sniffs before nodding in satisfaction. “Keep close,” she said over one shoulder before stealing forward as silent as a ghost and as graceful as a big-game cat.

I followed along, making more than enough noise for three people.

We rounded the corner and found ourselves in a twisting passageway, far more cramped than anything we’d seen so far. Here, the walls weren’t covered with strange hieroglyphs from a different age, but with bones, like morbid decorations on an archaic Christmas tree. It felt like we were passing through the gullet of some long-dead creature, heading straight into its belly. The hallway, in turn, connected with a cavernous bowl-shaped room larger than a football stadium.

Inside was a sanctuary dedicated to some dusty, long-forgotten godling who belonged inside of a horror novel.

The walls were all rough-cut blocks of sandstone with a series of arched doorways spread out at regular intervals, revealing poorly lit passageways that snaked out of view, connecting with the greater labyrinth. There were bones here, too. Piles and piles and piles littered the room like garbage in a junkyard. Haphazard stacks six and seven feet high edged the walls like giant snowdrifts of death.

Circular columns also littered the hall, reaching endlessly up to support the vaulted ceiling above. I paused, mouth agape, knowing the floor to the Flesh Palace’s Colosseum had to be directly overhead. In a little over a day, that’s where I’d be, fighting for my life on the sands with Asmodeus as my audience. And that cheery little scenario was what happened if everything went right.

I tore my gaze away from the ceiling and focused on the ginormous lopsided mound in the center of the room. I say mound, but it was more like a Mongolian yurt, built from broken rock, shattered bone shards, and, most disturbing of all, skin. A wide opening faced us, covered with a tapestry of human leather, stitched together with crude black catgut sutures.

“It has been a long time,” a voice echoed from the bone yurt, “since any creature has been foolish enough to venture into my lair willingly. And here we have three.” The voice sounded like an industrial-sized blender filled with cinder blocks and nails. “Usually,” the creature said, “I have to fight for the scraps left over from the Reckoning.”

The voice drew closer, louder, as the human skin drape pulled open like the velvet curtain at a movie theater. “A bottom feeder, they call me. Not fit for the world of demons and the damned, they say. And so it has been. I’ve hidden below, my body stolen by the powers that be, but my mind sharp. Alive. Active and given new form.” The last word, form, reverberated in the air like a shotgun blast as the speaker finally scuttled into view.

A pair of massive, crushing yellow pincers emerged from the yurt followed by a thick body, the size of a VW bus, sitting on eight arachnoid legs, all cobbled together from bone and meat. A huge tail protruded from its back and arced gracefully into the air, capped by a wrecking ball of stone covered in hundreds of black, barbed spikes, glistening with what had to be venom.

A giant demonic scorpion. Yep, why hadn’t I seen that coming?

“I don’t know who or what you are,” I said, stepping forward, resting my hand on the butt of my pistol, feeling a certain ease knowing I could put this son of a bitch down for keeps if I really needed to. Though only as a last resort. As much as I hated to admit it, Azazel was right. I only had three bullets left, I still needed to cap Asmodeus, and there were a few sons of bitches back topside who really deserved a Reaper bullet to the face. Like the Savage Prophet and the Morrigan, for starters. Hmm, maybe I could get those two to line up in a row so I could take ’em out with a single shot.

“Our business down here has nothing to do with you,” I continued. “Zip. Zero. So just stay out of our way, and you can go right on being a gross, disgusting bottom feeder. Understand?”

“How diplomatic of you,” the creature droned, its mandibles flexing open and shut as strings of drool leaked from its tooth-studded gullet. “And what business is it you three are about then? What mission is so pressing you would venture here? To this place where man-flesh does not tread and is not welcome?” He scuttled minutely closer as he spoke, just inches at a time, but soon he’d be within striking range.

“Our business doesn’t concern you, there’s nothing else you need to—”

“We’re going to murder Asmodeus,” Levi said flatly, cutting me off. Jerk bag.

The scorpion creature faltered, hesitation marring its motions. “Lies,” it hissed, its host of red eyes squinting. “No one can kill him—I would know since I’ve tried for eons.”

“Wrong,” Heckabe said, her ears lying flat against her skull. “This man”—she thrust a talon toward me—“can kill him. And my mistress, Hecate, has dispatched me to help him. But we need access to this room.”

“The Succubus Queen is involved, then,” the creature said, more to itself than to us, its mandibles quivering in anticipation. Then, it shook its head. “No, if you think you can kill him, you’re all bigger fools than I am. Murdering you and eating your miserable souls will be a mercy compared to what Asmodeus will do to you.”

“We don’t need to fight,” Levi said, a small frown on his face saying he hoped it would come to a fight. “But we’ll do what we need to. And if that means wiping you off the map, then so be it.”

“Aw shit,” I said, stealing a look at each of the archways connecting to this place. Skeletal Revenants, hidden in pools of inky shadow, had crept into position. This asshole had just played us using the oldest trick in the book: villain monologuing. There are only two reasons villains monologue—because they’re overconfident morons, or because they’re stalling. The Bone Collector had done the latter.

“It’s a trap!” I yelled as the Revenants flooded into the room, bony fingers reaching toward us as the Bone Collector in all its disgusting, scorpion glory charged us like a junkyard dog.

A pincer the size of a wheelbarrow whipped out in a brutal horizontal arc, catching the MudMan square in the chest and swatting him up like a pop fly despite his bulk and weight. Levi sailed through the air, his flabby arms waving frantically before he collided with one of the support columns with a thunk. But I didn’t have any time to worry about Levi since I needed to worry about myself at the moment.

The Collector’s barb-studded tail zoomed toward my head like a scud missile, and I dove to the side just in time. The mace of rock, bone, and spikes whipped through the space I’d occupied seconds before, but even as I hit the deck, a lightning fast leg, tipped with a spear of bone, slashed down at me. I rolled right as the razor-sharp tip smashed into the ground, leaving a divot in the earth the size of a baseball. This clown wasn’t playing around.

I rolled again, narrowly evading a second thrust, then flipped onto my belly and scrambled to my feet before this asshole could skewer me like a shish kebab.

As soon as I gained my feet, I bolted forward—this thing was a murder machine close up, so distance was definitely my friend.

I made it about fifteen feet before the first of the Revenants converged on me. I was damn near tapped out from all our previous skirmishes, and I wanted to save what little juice I had left for the Bone Collector. So instead, I channeled a trickle of Nox and a whiff of air, bending them into a weapon, which took shape in my palm. This wasn’t the single-edged katana I’d used against Tezrian. Nope. This was a burning, violet warhammer, blunt on one side with a cruel spike jutting out from the other. Azazel’s favored weapon, perfect for smashing through heavy plate armor and epically effective against a bunch of brittle bones.

A bony fist lashed out at my head. The attack packed the wallop of a jackhammer, but the Revenants were slow as snails in molasses, and I sidestepped with ease. I shot inside the creature’s guard and swung the hammer in a vicious arc, smashing the blunt face into an ankle-thick section of spinal column that connected the creature’s torso and legs. Bones snapped, and down the boneman went, its upper body smashing into the floor while the legs staggered around drunkenly, suddenly directionless.

Even broken in two, however, the creature still clawed for me with bony fingers, but one quick twirl of the hammer ended all of that as I smashed its skull into a pile of bone chips and chalky white powder. Instead of celebrating my victory, I juked left, dodging another Revenant, and kneecapped it with one solid swing of my hammer. Most of its femur exploded from the sheer force, and I pressed in with a follow-up thrust that obliterated the creature’s lower jaw and most of its nasal cavity. Down it went in a heap, the power animating it fleeing.

A sucker punch to the jaw caught me a second later, and I slammed into the wall as white spots exploded across my vision like a hail of shooting stars. I reeled unsteadily for a moment, which earned me a brutal front kick to the gut, forcing the air from my lungs in one fell swoop. I clutched at my stomach with my free hand, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as I struggled to stay upright. This Revenant was smaller than the others—quick and nimble—with one hand that looked like a medieval mace made from a skull riddled with finger bones, all sharpened to deadly points.

The creature darted in, hoping to take advantage of the opening, and I let it, pretending I was too weak to defend myself. But the moment it got in range, I threw out a front kick right to the sternum, knocking it back a step, then slammed my shoulder into its stupid face. It stumbled, unprepared for the sudden rush, and then—because I was feeling pissed and this thing had landed a cheap shot—I struck with a javelin of pure, invisible force. The construct sand-blasted the sonofabitch in the face, leaving only a cloud of gritty gray and yellow dust in its wake.

The Revenant toppled seconds later.

I doubled over, one hand braced against my thigh, still struggling to breathe as I scanned the battlefield.

TWENTY-NINE:

Bone Collector

Levi had recovered from the Bone Collector’s lucky shot and was off to the left, spinning, kicking, and smashing like the Incredible Hulk on a drunken, rage-filled bender. His fists flashed out with uncanny power; torsos and rib cages exploded like smoke grenades whenever he landed an attack. Ebony spikes now protruded from his chest, back, arms, and shoulder like a porcupine’s quills. The spits of gleaming rock looked delicate, almost fragile, yet whenever one of the Revenants landed a blow, bits of bone and dust broke off like dry wood.

Levi was one tough sumbitch, no doubt about it.

Heckabe, by contrast, had somehow managed to avoid the Revenants altogether and was on top of the Bone Collector. She was down on all fours, her shield and mace gone, her claws digging into one of the rigid armor plates lining its back, pulling and wiggling at it like a little kid working on a loose tooth. The Bone Collector bucked and flailed like a rodeo bull as his spiked tail stabbed down again and again. As fast as the scorpion was, though, Heckabe was faster. Nimbler. She avoided each strike by inches, doing everything she could to find some weakness, some opening.

But her efforts seemed wasted.

I conjured a javelin of red-white flame, thick as my wrist. The column of fire smashed into the Bone Collector’s face, but rolled up and over its exoskeleton, not leaving so much as a scorch mark on the creature’s bony exterior. I might as well have sprayed the thing with a squirt gun for all the good it did. Obviously, this ugly bastard had a natural resistance to all things Vis, which was bad news for me. And even worse, the flames plowed into Heckabe, setting her hair and clothing on fire.

She howled in agony, letting go of her death grip on the Collector’s armored plate, and a sudden twist from the bucking creature sent her flying through the air while she burned like a dumpster fire. She hit the ground with another muffled howl and immediately began thrashing, rolling left and right, extinguishing the hungry preternatural-summoned blaze. I felt like a real shitheel, let me tell you. “Sorry,” I called out, knowing she was never gonna let me live that down—assuming we survived, which was a damn big assumption.

Time to try something else. I thrust my left hand forward—fingers splayed open, sweat beading on my forehead, a snarl gracing my lips—and used the little strength left in my body to pry a flat, rune-covered slab of sandstone from the wall. This giant bug needed a good squishing, and the rock would make an excellent impromptu Shoe of Justice. The giant slab hovered in the air for a moment, slowly spinning as I wrestled to push the damn thing higher into the air.

“Lazarus! Heads up!” Levi called.

His warning was too late, though. Some sneaky, dickhole Revenant slammed into me, lanky arms wrapping around my waist, lifting me up into the air in a crushing bear hug, then suplexing right into the ground like a pro wrestler playing it up for the crowd. Thankfully, the move was as sloppy as a pulled pork sandwich, so instead of landing on my neck—which almost certainly would’ve put me out of my misery for good—I came down on one shoulder with a sickening crack.

I lost all concentration as pain lanced through my arm, radiating up into my head and back. The sandstone slab plummeted with a boom, and, for a split second, I thought I’d pass out. But then a new wave of hurt brought me back as blunt teeth sank into my bicep. This new asshole was trying to eat me. My jacket protected me, preventing its gross teeth from breaking the skin and undoubtedly giving me a lethal combination of tetanus, rabies, and dysentery. With that said, it still hurt worse than getting hit in the face with a sock full of nickels.

I screamed and bucked at the hips, off-balancing the Revenant just enough to get my left hand free. With a thought and a whisper of will, I surrounded my fist with condensed air before promptly hitting the son of a bitch right in its empty eye socket. The blow caved in part of its face, and the pressure around my bicep mercifully vanished. I scooted away and swung the warhammer awkwardly with one hand, landing a glancing blow to its head that managed to lay that asshole skeleton out.

A moment later a clawed-tipped hand shot out—Heckabe. She looked much worse for the wear: her clothing mostly charred tatters, most of her fur burned down to bristly black nubs, patches of twisted red skin peeking through in places. She looked like a thoroughly unhappy camper. Still, I accepted her hand and let her pull me to my feet.

“Sorry again, about setting you on fire and all,” I mumbled.

She snarled, her wicked sharp teeth looking especially terrifying against the backdrop of her burnt face. “We’ll square up later,” she grumbled. “But first we need to put this thing down. Your power is as good as useless here. The only way to beat this thing is through sheer brute for—”

The words died on her lips as Levi charged the Bone Collector like a runaway semi-truck, bellowing a frenzied and guttural war cry. He was covered in bones, bits and pieces of Revenants pinned to his body by the black quills sprouting from his arms, chest, and back. In the flickering light, covered in body parts, spikes, and held together by gray goop, he looked far more demonic than anything else in the cavern. He had the upper half of a Revenant in his meaty mitts, swinging it around his head like a gigantic flail by a length of spinal column.

“DIE!” Levi bellowed at the top of his lungs as he lunged in, smashing the Revenant directly into the Bone Collector’s skeletal face like a living club. The Bone Collector staggered back with a throaty bark as chips of bone exploded out like shrapnel. Most of the Revenant’s head disappeared on impact, but the MudMan kept right on going, twirling the bony body, clubbing the creature into submission. And when the rest of the Revenant’s corpse was little more than a few bits of rib stuck to the spinal column, Levi charged in, darting beneath the colossal Bone Collector.

His fists—one in the form of a blocky mallet, the other resembling an oversized meat hook—beat and pried at the Collector’s undercarriage. Levi worked methodically, as though he intended to crack the scorpion open like a crab, find whatever made the thing tick, then smash the shit out of that, too. And he was doing a pretty admirable job despite the shambling Revenants closing in on every side. As powerful as the Bone Collector was, it seemed unprepared for the ferocity and utter fearlessness of Levi’s assault.

Like a mean-ass honey badger, Levi just didn’t give a shit. The only thing that mattered to him at this point was murder.

“New game plan,” Heckabe growled, eyeing the chaotic battle with cold calculation. “You get close, use that hammer of yours to take out its legs and dismantle the tail—make it vulnerable. I’ll handle the Revenants, keep them off your back long enough to put this thing down for keeps.”

“Got it,” I replied, but she was already moving. In a blink, she was ten feet away and flipping through the air like a burn-ward gymnast. She touched down as light as a feather in the middle of a shambling group of Revenants ten strong, and immediately set to work, teeth and fangs flashing out while she spun and twirled like a Yuletide top. The flashy and deadly display seemed to draw the ire of every half-dead schmuck in the room, and soon, all the shuffling bonemen were beelining toward her.

Giving little ol’ me a clear path to Levi and the Bone Collector.

Even though I was tired and banged up, I shook it off and bolted toward the monstrous creature. The scorpion was scuttling around in circles, bone-tipped legs shooting in, trying to skewer Levi, but the MudMan ignored the glancing blows with stoic grunts and continued his grisly work. Somehow, he’d managed to pry off one of the bony plates protecting the creature’s belly and was busy ripping gobs of brown meat and gray guts from the nasty opening.

With the Bone Collector so thoroughly distracted, I angled right, into its blind spot, and went to town. I grasped the warhammer in both hands and laid into one of its back legs, putting my full body weight into the attack. The weapon reverberated in my hands as the strike landed, and a network of hair-fine cracks rippled out across the armor-plated leg. The creature roared, the inarticulate scream brimming with rage and pain in equal measure. I planted my feet, squared my shoulders, and struck again as if I were chopping down a sapling instead of a huge leg.

The cracks spread dramatically on the second impact, and pieces of hard enamel chipped away. I slammed my hammer home once more—third time’s the charm—and the lower portion of the leg snapped and shattered, the spear tip falling away as a flood of thick, phlegmy green goo oozed out. The leg, it seemed, was hollow. The creature twirled in a flash, though, not giving me time to ponder the new revelation, as a deadly clawed appendage shot out, ready to decapitate me. I ducked low, snagging the three-foot hunk of broken leg lying on the floor, and dipped beneath the creature.

Levi was still hammering away at the thing’s underside, though he paused momentarily as he caught sight of me from the corner of his eye. I blundered right into him, thrusting the amputated limb into his hands, then hastily hooking a thumb toward the opening. He nodded, instantly understanding my plan, and I kept right on going, heading for the next leg in the line. I skidded to a halt just as Levi thrust the bony leg up into the creature’s exposed guts with impossible strength.

The Bone Collector screeched, the sound of a bone saw blasted through a bullhorn, as more green blood cascaded down, showering the MudMan below. Yep, glad he did that part of the plan and not me—I’ve been splattered in monster guts more times than I’d care to count.

Once more I went to work, battering another leg, this one neighbor to the one I’d hacked off a minute ago. Thwack, thwack, thwack. The hammer rose and fell in time with my breathing, and after four solid hits, the second leg snapped, dropping to the floor as more gore splashed over my boots. Gross. I ignored that, though, kicking the fallen limb back toward Levi as I went to the next leg in the line. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Another torturous scream as Levi crammed the second leg into the thing’s guts right next to the first.

Heckabe continued tearing through the shambling Revenants like a twister in a mobile home park: merciless, uncaring, and utterly destructive.

And I went to work on the third leg gracing the Bone Collector’s left side.

The creature still scrambled—bobbing, weaving, hooking, jabbing—but it was slower now, its movements marked by both hesitation and low-grade panic. I got the sense it understood exactly what we were up to, and realize just how excruciatingly vulnerable it would be if we managed to hobble it. The third leg came away with the sound of a rifle report, and suddenly the creature above me was wobbling dangerously; though all of the legs on the right were intact, only a single leg remained on the left.

“Get ready,” I screamed at Levi as I shoved the third leg across the rough floor with a grunt. “This asshole’s about to go over.”

Levi grunted his reply and shot me a hasty thumbs-up before hefting the third limb from the floor and rudely jabbing it up, wiggling it in deeper and deeper as the Bone Collector howled. I didn’t want to be beneath the thing when it came crashing down, so I inched forward, then darted into the open. The spiked tail immediately descended, nearly taking my head off in the process, but a lightning fast drop and roll saved my neck.

I shot to one knee and smashed into the fourth leg as though I were a major leaguer swinging for the fences.

“No!” the Bone Collector bellowed as it swerved, desperate to prevent me from finishing the job. “Get the mage! Stop them. STOP THEM!” it screamed at its minions, but at this point there weren’t many left to respond. And the ones still tooling around were thoroughly occupied by Heckabe’s persistent harrying. She darted through their ranks as agile as a plume of smoke and as quick as the wind.

I ducked low beneath an incoming pincer, rolled past another sweep of its deadly tail, then pivoted and slammed the hammer home again. The leg bowed unnaturally, the cracks in the chitinous armor spreading like cracks along a windshield. “Fire in the hole!” I yelled as the last hammer blow landed with the force of a car crash. The leg gave way, and the creature pitched to the side, crashing down with Levi trapped below the Bone Collector’s significant bulk. I backpedaled, holding my breath as I scanned for signs of the MudMan.

Levi was tougher than mountains—he’d made that much clear a thousand times over—but that freak show scorpion had to weigh in at five tons.

But then, just when a real tremor of worry started to wriggle its way through my guts, the Bone Collector shifted and rose steadily into the air. My jaw dropped: Levi was standing beneath the creature on trembling legs, his muscles bulging and straining under the immense weight of his load. With one guttural, wordless roar his arms surged up, sending the scorpion flipping through the air. It landed on its back with a boom that shook the floor and rattled the walls, sending pieces of bone cascading down in a shower.

The MudMan promptly pitched over, the black spikes retreating into his body as golden blood oozed out from a thousand wounds. He’d done it, though, or close enough it didn’t matter. I glanced toward Heckabe and noticed that only a handful of Revenants lived, and those stood stock-still, directionless without the hive mind of the Bone Collector feeding them instructions. Still, though, I needed to make sure this thing was well and truly over. I marched forward, turning the hammer in my hands until the deadly barbed spiked was facing forward.

The Bone Collector stared at me through a multitude of watery, blurry red eyes. It was alive, but one look told me it knew this was game over. I planted my feet again and raised the hammer high, ready to drive the spike into its head until it was dead—or, at the very least, no longer even remotely a threat.

“Wait,” the creature mewled through its damaged jaw. “Wait, I can help you.” The words came out slowly and badly distorted, but I understood. Just barely.

“You can’t even help yourself,” I snarled back, exhausted, tired, and sick to death of demonic bullshit.

“I can help you kill the great lord, Asmodeus. There are more tunnels than those penned on the old maps and blueprints. I can get you and your friends anywhere. Anywhere. Into the animal cages. Into the Flesh Palace. Into the prison. You name it, and I’ll show you the way.”

Ding. Ding. Ding. We have a winner. I lowered my hammer just a skosh.

“And, and, and I can help you fight,” the Bone Collector continued, sensing my hesitation. “Your hatred for Asmodeus cannot be greater than my own. He put me here. Made me into this thing. Stripped me of my flesh. Of my mind. Of every good memory. I can repair my forces. I can help you beat the Flesh Eaters. I can give you an army, and if you want to kill the Demon King, you will need an army.”

“Kill it,” Levi said, trudging over, holding a broken section of leg like a spear. “It’s evil. An irredeemably vile creature.”

“Besides,” Heckabe added, “we don’t need it, and we can’t trust it.”

“Lies,” it mewled again, the noise clawing at my ears like a wounded cat. “I’m useful and trustworthy.” The jagged stump of one leg crept out and began tracing out a series of harsh symbols and crude lines in its green blood. “By blood and bone, by ash and stone, I swear upon the White King above and the Great Wyrms below to do you and yours no harm, to hate that which you hate, shun all which you shun, and seek the just punishment of Asmodeus the vile, King over Pandæmonium.”

The creature paused for a moment, its wounded leg scritch-scratching across the floor—drawing ever more complicated sigils of binding. “Nor will I ever with will or action, through word or deed, subvert this oath. And if I should, let all the fiends of the Phlegethon fillet my soul and take my eyes. Let them cast me to wander, deaf and senseless, into the blinding darkness and the bitter frost of the outer pits. So mote it be, so mote it be, so mote it be. Thrice sworn and thrice bound.”

The sigil on the floor, traced in blood and bound with deep magic, flared to brilliant life, an opalescent light filling the air and settling over the Bone Collector like a silk blanket, then sinking down, into its skin. The creature shivered and shuddered as the power worked its way in deeper, like a sliver digging into the skin.

For a time, everyone was quiet, shocked into silence.

The Bone Collector had just sworn a binding oath of power not only to not hurt us, but to help us murder Asmodeus the Demon King. In the supernatural community, trust was a fickle thing, and the only way you could be sure someone was on the level was with an Oath of Power. But almost no one did them—they were too damned binding, and the consequences for breaking an oath like that, if you even could, were too heinous to even think about. And what the Bone Collector had done? Well, that was the next level up: an oath of power, sworn in blood.

This creature was desperate, sure, but now it was firmly in our corner.

“Alright,” I said, stepping back as I let the hammer vanish in a puff of violet light accompanied by a brief whiff of sulfur. “You sold me, bub. But a word of warning: if I sense even a hint of bullshit outta you, you’re gonna wish I’d just smashed your head in.” I pulled back my coat, flashing the handle of the revolver riding my side. “’Cause this right here? This is the Reaper’s Scythe, and I’m the Horseman of War and Death. Now it’s time to get to work. Levi”—I glanced at the MudMan over one shoulder—“let’s break out the bag, and get this place rigged to the gills.”

THIRTY:

Rigged to Blow

I released a tiny trickle of pent-up Vis and oily Nox into the pitted sandstone wall, then wiped the dust and sweat from my forehead as I surveyed the circular runic sigil painstakingly scrawled onto the wall with black paint. In front of me was a softball-sized seal filled with flowing script, looping swirls, and strange arcane shapes all pilfered from the Clavis Salomonis, the Picatrix, and the Sefer Raziel Ha-Malakh Liber Razielis Archangeli. Try saying that last one five times fast—I dare you. It wasn’t a work of art by any stretch of the imagination, and not even in the same league as what Levi could make, but it would do the trick.

Back topside, I typically mass-produced these types of things on a pack of yellow Post-it notes, perfect for the savvy mage on the go. Unfortunately, since this was Hell and Post-its were about as elusive as angelic, rainbow-farting unicorns, I had to do it the old-fashioned way. One at a time, by hand, with an actual paintbrush. But it would be worth it.

I glanced left, surveying the long line of glimmering seals decorating the wall like war medals at evenly spaced intervals. Individually, none of the seals would do much damage. But there were hundreds of these things—an army of little Vis batteries ready to release their charge when I uttered the single Word of Power binding them all together: Dick-cheese. Okay, so it wasn’t super mystical or whatever, but the words themselves were less important than the intent. And intent is all about finding a word that taps into the primal emotion fueling a given construct.

Dick-cheese pretty much summed up my feelings toward Hell and Asmodeus.

I stowed the brush in my pocket with a tired sigh, then headed over to Levi, who was hunched over on his hands and knees, painting a thick line of gold onto the floor, then decorating it with splashes of beautiful Hebrew text. Prayers and passages from the Old and New Testament, imbued with both the power of alchemic magic and potent faith.

“How goes it?” I asked, plopping down on the ground, pressing my back up against the wall, and pulling a cigarette from my pocket—I was down to less than a handful of smokes. Highly concerning.

“Fine,” he offered absentmindedly, his fingers dipping back into a deep, self-inflicted wound carved into his opposite forearm. “I’ll need to break soon, though. To recuperate. Heal.” He shook his blocky, Cro-Magnon head. “I’ve never done a containment ward this big. Never heard of anyone doing one this big.” He fell quiet, muttering a silent prayer under his breath as his pudgy fingers began a new line of text.

I pressed the cigarette between my lips, lit up, and took a deep, steady inhale as I surveyed the room. Levi was right. He’d only finished about half the room, but even half done, it was impressive. A thick line of gold ran around the perimeter of the room, edging the wall, and on the inside, the circle was an entire grimoire’s worth of prayers, incantations, and arcane symbols of power. It was beautiful really, the patterns glimmering with a faint golden life just like the tattoos snaking around my right arm.

I took a drag, savoring the smoke in my mouth, then pushed it through my nose as I glanced at Heckabe, who was hanging from the roof of the cavern. She was suspended from a length of black rope, digging out a small, pre-marked hole with her talons. She was back in human form and looking far worse for the wear. Her clothes were in tatters, but instead of revealing copious amounts of sexy skin, everything was fresh pink scars, a mosaic of yellow and purple bruises, and thick swatches of charred flesh.

Looking at her was physically painful, even though she didn’t seem particularly annoyed by the wounds. I mean, she punched me in the face after the battle as a matter of principle—I totally had it coming—but then, she’d just shrugged and muttered existence is pain, followed by a half-hearted I’ll heal in no time. I’m tough, but if someone accidentally set me on fire, I very much doubt I’d just walk that shit off like a twisted ankle. Another example of why it’s best to avoid the supernatural if at all possible.

“Do you think this is gonna work?” I asked Levi, pulling the cigarette away and ashing the cherry on the floor. “Bringing a section of cavern down?” I stole an uneasy look at the bricks of C-4, rigged with det charges, duct-taped to the support columns. There was a shit-ton of explosive down here, and Heckabe was plugging the ceiling with sticks of dynamite.

“It’ll work,” Levi muttered, scooting over a few feet as he went to work on a new portion of the ward. “I can read the earth like a map. I know every fault line, every cave, every crack—the earth is my mother and father—and they tell me every secret. Most of the rock above us is shale and limestone, with a few pockets of chalky feldspar. Assuming Heckabe places the charges right, it’ll all come down like a controlled demolition. But that’s the least of your worries. If it works, you’re going to be trapped inside this place with Asmodeus. That’s what you oughta be concerned about.”

“Well, good thing you’re not me,” I said, snubbing my smoke on the floor, then flicking the butt away as I stood with a groan. “Maybe I’m not as tough as Asmodeus without Azazel riding in the driver’s seat, but I can prepare. Most of the time I’m working on the fly, shooting from the hip, but if you give me the element of surprise and the time to get my shit together, I can bring the friggin’ thunder, man. You’ll see.”

He grunted a noncommittal reply, thoroughly engrossed in his work. The sigils on the walls were only the first step in my game plan, and I still had loads of work left to do yet—it was gonna be a long, long day. I headed off toward the entryway, avoiding a pair of docile Revenants clearing away bony debris from our earlier scuffle with the Collector. I headed over to a pile of human heads near the front entry and went back to work, picking up a chalk-white skull and turning it over in my hands.

The brush came out again, and a few minutes’ worth of doodling saw the forehead decorated with more sigils—these meant to hold explosive force and a few other nasty surprises. A dash of energy, stored in the haphazard seal, set the skull glowing with soft blue light like a dying glow stick. One down, nineteen more to go.

Hours passed that way: Heckabe meticulously placing charges along the support columns and into the ceiling. Levi, working his way along the floor inch by inch to complete the impressive binding circle. The army of Revenants, presided over by the Bone Collector himself, cleaning up the area, preparing it for the inevitable battle to come. And all the while, I slaved away, placing more wards—on skulls, the floors, the walls—turning the cavern into one part armory, one part death room.

By the time we were finally done, the cavern looked almost nothing like it had when we first arrived. The whole place glimmered with the light of primal Vis, violet burning Nox, and golden ichor invested into just about every damn inch of stone. And boy was I tired as a result. Even breathing felt like a labor, and trying to keep my damned eye open was an effort of sheer will. Knowing I’d done everything that could be done, I finally pulled my hand cannon from its holster, eyeing it long and hard as a pang of panic washed through me at the thought of stashing it.

But there was nothing else to be done. I needed to make it into the colosseum, and the only way to do that was to get arrested. Heckabe seemed to have a way in, but no way would they let a prisoner into lockup with a monster-killing pistol at his side. So, reluctantly, I shuffled over to the left-hand wall and stashed the weapon in a little niche in the sandstone Levi had been kind enough to carve out for me. The hole wasn’t deep, just the right size for the gun, and I’d already gone through the trouble of warding the damned thing to the gills.

If any hand but mine went into the compartment, they wouldn’t have a hand for much longer. Probably wouldn’t have much of a torso or head, either. I laid the gun down, glanced around to make sure no one else was watching, then cast a hasty illusion to cover the opening. In seconds, the divot vanished, and the section of wall was seamless and whole, indistinguishable from the rest of the stone around it. To anyone but me, anyway. To me, the rectangular space burned with a soft crimson light—a signal flare to help me find the thing in a hurry.

“Alright,” I called out. “That’s the best I can do here.” I headed for the exit, refusing to double-check the weapon. It would be there. Everything would be okay. It had to be. “Time for us to get moving, I think.”

Levi stood from his work, took one long, sweeping look around, then nodded in satisfaction at what he saw. Heckabe was already waiting at the cavern’s entryway, leaning against the wall as she munched on some very questionable-looking meat the Bone Collector had acquired for us. Most of her burns were gone, replaced by healthy golden skin, which was distracting to say the least. She might’ve been a crazy, psychotic werewolf who worked for a demon, but she was also stupid good-looking.

I averted my gaze out of courtesy and turned to Levi.

She laughed in response, just a soft chuckle, but a laugh all the same.

The MudMan, oblivious to anything with social nuance, blundered up, pulled out the familiar silver drinking flask, and thrust the container into my hands.

He didn’t say anything, but then he didn’t need to. I’d used a lot of energy getting this place ready, and I couldn’t go into the final showdown tapped out. I begrudgingly accepted, unscrewed the cap, and downed the gross metallic liquid within.

“The circle’s almost complete,” he finally said while watching me drink. I finished and wiped my mouth with my forearm. “Except here near the door.” He trudged over to the entry, crouched down, and pointed out a six-inch section of the golden circle that remained unfinished. A gap.

“This here,” he said in the tone of a professor lecturing a particularly dense student, “is going to be the most difficult part, and you’re going to have to do it quickly. Right now, the circle is useless. It won’t keep demons out, and more importantly, it won’t keep them in. You’ll need to complete this line”—he traced his digit over the empty arc—“then you’ll need to draw a dalet here.” He gestured at a string of Hebrew words with an open space. He carefully sketched a lopsided “T” in the dust on the floor. “That’s a dalet—don’t mess it up or all of this is for nothing.”

I nodded, licking my lips as I eyeballed the text. Although I can’t read Hebrew, the words blurred and swam in front of me until I could understand what was there—minus one letter, of course. Hear, Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.

“And you’ll get to the animal cages?” I asked, looking up from the floor.

“Do not fret,” the Bone Collector said, scuttling into view. He was looking surprisingly chipper considering how grievous his wounds had been. “I will ensure he gets to the cages unhindered by the Flesh Eaters.” His mandibles clicked and clacked, strings of drool dripping down as though he were hungry at the thought of confronting Asmodeus’ shitheel minions. “Everything will be in place, my minions are standing by …” The words trailed off as the creature emitted a shrill drone that could only be a laugh—one that left the hairs on my arms standing stiff.

“Alright then,” I replied, scooting away a step. Oath or no, that thing was still creepy as a two-headed goat wearing spandex pants. “I guess that only leaves one thing left. You ready to go get me arrested, Heckabe?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow at her.

“I’d love nothing better,” she replied, pitching aside a bit of gristle.

THIRTY-ONE:

Flesh Palace

Getting into the Flesh Palace was surprisingly easy with a cohort of Revenants to guide us through all of the secret tunnels and past the Flesh Eater patrols. In next to no time, Heckabe and I were squeezing through a tight, nearly invisible fissure, which let into a subbasement of the Infernal Casino. Once inside, we’d be mostly in the clear. Though the Flesh Eaters were Asmodeus’ best goons, there were only so many of them to go around, so the Demon King had to deploy them wisely.

According to Heckabe, there would be a small squad outside the main entrance, vetting everyone going in or coming out, but once inside the Infernal Casino, we’d only have to worry about run-of-the-mill Hellions on Asmodeus’ payroll. They were still dangerous, but they wouldn’t be able to identify me by smell like the Flesh Eaters.

The subbasement was lit by a single overhead halogen bulb, casting wan light on a set of shelving units and a massive incinerator, which occupied most of one wall. The shelves were rickety and filled with musty boxes that looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. Likewise, the incinerator was cold, lifeless, and heavily stained with old black char marks. If I had to guess, I’d say this particular room didn’t see much attention, which was probably why the Bone Collector suggested the fissure as a perfect entry point.

I couldn’t take my flak jacket with me—not without drawing a lot of unwanted attention—so I had to strip down to my jeans, shirt, and leather jacket, stashing the rest of the gear behind a teetering storage shelf, tucking it out of sight. Heckabe followed suit, hiding her mace, shield, and pistol. Unfortunately, the tattered state of her shirt was almost as likely to attract attention as a friggin’ machine gun.

After a long beat, I begrudgingly shrugged out of my coat and handed it over, muttering about how I wanted it back someday, and furthermore, how it better not smell like wet dog. She rolled her eyes, but accepted gratefully, slipping it on, then zipping it partway up, covering her tanned skin.

Then, because I’m a softhearted moron, I retrieved the Hand of Glory from the drop pouch and pressed it into Heckabe’s palm. “And make sure that slug-douche, Murkly, gets this back.”

She grinned, cocked her head to one side, then nodded. “It will be so.”

From there, we found a set of stairs up to a dull hallway with white tile floors and unremarkable tan walls and promptly headed for a set of employee elevators, likely used for moving furniture or carting off bodies. Heckabe mashed the up button with one thumb, then slipped her hands behind her back, rocking back and forth on her heels as we waited patiently. The elevator buzzed to life a few beats later, and the metal doors groaned open, revealing a large but unimpressive interior lined with steel.

We moseyed in, and Heckabe jammed the lobby button, marked with a star.

The service elevator let us out into another plain-Jane hallway meant for staff, but I could also hear the ching of slot machines, the clink of coins, and the muffled laughter of players nearby. It was the sound of a casino in full swing. Heckabe took one secretive look in both directions, then grabbed my wrist and hauled me toward a set of brown doors, which let out onto the casino floor proper. No one seemed to notice us as we stepped from the employee’s hallway and into the heart of the Flesh Palace.

The change, though, was jarring. One minute we were in a white tiled hall that could’ve belonged in a hospital, and the next, we were in a room filled with strobing lights and sharply dressed Hellions in every shape and size. Hundreds of circular chandeliers hung from the ceiling, all built from bones, all shedding weak yellow light onto the eye-searing blue-patterned carpet. Off to the right were row after row of bulky colorful slot machines, just like what you would find in Vegas—except these had names like Mayhem Machine, Adventures in Torture, and Voodoo Bones. Hellions hunched over those machines, feeding coins into the slot like junkies in need of a fix.

Heckabe slid her palm down into mine, twining our fingers together as she pulled me on—just a happy couple out on a date. At least I hoped that’s what it looked like to anyone passing by. She gave my hand a little yank, time to move, and drew me down a swath of vivid purple carpet that carved its way through the sea of blue carpet. We ambled past hundreds of mechanical one-armed bandits and into a section of the casino covered with tables. Long rectangular ones—where people tossed dice to the cheers and boos of a crowd of onlookers—and squat ones, where roulette wheels spun merrily away.

All of the tables were presided over by scowling men and women in black long-sleeved button-ups and silver vests. The epitome of professional, even if most of the dealers themselves looked like something you might fish out of the Black Lagoon.

Heckabe dragged me from the purple pathway, pushing through a gaggle of spectators surrounding a card table. For the first time, we passed close enough for me to get a good look at what they were playing. Five cards lay faceup near the dealer, while each of the four players had two cards, both facedown, in front of them. Even at a glance, I knew Texas Hold ’em when I saw it, but that was about the only normal thing going on. The table itself, instead of being green felt, was a sheet of oddly pink leather, covered in colorful tattoos.

Human skin.

And based on some of those tattoos, I’d say a lot of that flesh had come courtesy of the Roller Nation.

“Flip ’em,” the dealer—a pudgy, balding man with a lopsided face covered in thorns—called out.

Despite the fact that I was in enemy territory on a mission to break into a prison, my steps faltered. I love poker, and the gambler in me couldn’t pass up a chance to see who won. The players flipped their cards, and a prodigiously fat man with tusks chortled in glee as his plump hands strained for the pile of coins at the center of the table, scooping them over with barely constrained glee. “And her fingers,” he said offhandedly, shooting a conspiratorial look at the dealer.

“No, no. Please,” a hunchbacked woman sobbed, her skin a cloudy gray that reminded me of Levi’s. “I can pay, I swear. Let me just go back to my room. I have more money, I swear on my grave I do.”

I wasn’t sure what was going on here, but I couldn’t look away.

“The bet is the bet, the deal is the deal,” the dealer intoned formally, his hand flashing out with preternatural speed, snagging her frail wrist before she could pull away from the table.

Then, in a blink, the dealer had a meat cleaver in his other hand. The heavy blade dropped, sinking through the woman’s index, middle, and ring fingers, leaving her right hand mutilated, her thumb and pinky sticking out in a perpetual “hang loose” sign. Just as quickly as it had come, the cleaver vanished beneath the table, and the tusked pigman scooped the fingers over to him, popping them into his muzzle like they were cocktail treats. The crunch of bone beneath his teeth was particularly disturbing.

My jaw clenched tight, and the sudden urge to burn things down raced along my nerve endings, but Heckabe was suddenly pulling me away from the table with inhuman strength. “That’s the way things are here,” she hissed into my ear. “And you shouldn’t feel sorry for her. She made that bet knowing exactly what would happen if she lost. Most people only make Flesh Bets if they think it’s a sure thing, but there are no sure things. Not in your world and not in mine. Now let’s go. We can’t afford to attract attention.”

We left the sobbing woman behind, swerving around even more tables—some offering blackjack, others serving up Hold ’em, more still filled with baccarat. Even though the games were different, the stakes were all the same: money or flesh. Sometimes fingers. Sometimes hands. I even saw one person lose a nose as we slipped through the crowd. God, this place was horrible.

Past the card tables were stripper poles and fighting pits. “The Spectacle of Flesh,” Heckabe whispered in my ear, noticing my gaze. Women and men gyrated on silver poles, clad in little or nothing, while slaves battled below in sandy pits, killing each other or fighting off monstrous creatures, which were clearly natives of Hell. There were slick-scaled lionesque creatures in one pit and a no-shit hellhound in another. And the bloodthirsty crowds cheered as bodies fell, exchanging money while odds and stats flashed across a series of bright jumbo screens fastened to the far wall.

Of all the places I’d seen in the Inferno so far, the Flesh Palace was easily the worst. It was one thing to witness the horrors of the Skinless, but the violence here was so casual, so remorseless. These people weren’t hurting others out of revenge or anger—emotions I could easily understand—they were doing it out of boredom.

Heckabe hooked right, cutting between a pair of fighting pits and toward another pair of brown doors set against one wall, which had a “Flesh Palace Employees Only” sign affixed to the front. A pair of beefy men—well, closer to trolls, with their warty green skin—in black suits flanked the doors on either side, their hands crossed in front of them as their beady eyes continuously surveyed the room. Security guards if ever I’d seen one.

I was wondering which of them was Heckabe’s inside man, but she ushered me directly past them to a circular desk covered in security monitors, which butted up against the wall.

“Excuse me,” she said, leaning forward, wrapping her hands over the top edge of a video monitor.

I edged around to one side and stole a look at the guard, except he looked more like a customer service rep at a cable company than a goon in a hellish casino. He was short, bald, nearly as round as a blueberry, and an unfortunate shade of purple, which just reinforced the whole blueberry image. Unlike most Hellions—decked out in bondage leathers or weird spikes—this goofy schmuck was sporting khakis and a checkered button up, neatly tucked into his trousers.

I had a feeling he and Levi would’ve been good friends.

“Just a moment,” Blueberry replied, never taking his eyes from the computer screen as he furiously typed away.

“No problem,” Heckabe said casually. But then she leaned in, her chest pressed up against the top edge of the monitor. “But I’ll make sure the queen knows we had to wait.” The last was a muted whisper meant for his ears, and boy did it get his attention in a hurry. His fingers fell still as a sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead. He glanced up, his bottom lip trembling as he looked at Heckabe, then at me.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry,” he stammered, shooting from his rolling chair, then clasping his hands behind his back. “I just wasn’t expecting …” He trailed off, swallowing whatever his excuse had been. Good call—I didn’t know Heckabe well, but she didn’t seem like the understanding sort.

“It’s not a problem, Berry,” she said. I stifled a laugh. Of course his name was Berry, the poor sap. “Everything is fine, so long as everything is fine.” She reached out and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, or at least that’s how it looked. From my vantage, though, I could see her claws sprout, sinking down into his doughy skin—not enough to draw blood, but enough to dimple the flesh and let him know she could.

“No,” he said, dry washing his hands. “There’s no problem, and please tell Her Majesty that.” He stole a nervous glance around. “I have a cell ready for him, and all the paperwork is good. Flawless. No one will take a second look at him. Now all that remains is for the … ah. Well, the arrest.” He winked nervously at me. This guy seemed legitimately nice, but I was starting to suspect he was the worst double agent in the history of double agents.

Or did that make him the perfect double agent, since absolutely no one, anywhere, would ever suspect him?

Heckabe squeezed his shoulder one more time, then retracted her claws and dropped her hand. “Very good, Berry. You’ll be rewarded appropriately in time. Now, please see my friend gets to where he needs to go.” She turned to me as Blueberry Berry waddled out from behind the desk. “Don’t die,” she said solemnly. “And remember, you’ll have to survive without the use of your powers until Asmodeus shows up. He often misses the first few rounds, so just keep it together.”

“This way, sir,” Berry said, from beside me.

He was even more comical standing. His legs were itty-bitty little things compared to his plump body, and he couldn’t have stood over four and a half feet.

When I looked back to say goodbye to Heckabe—to wish her luck—she was already gone. I caught just the back of her head as she disappeared into a densely packed group of Hellions taking bets on a fight between a woman with no legs and a giant demonic rooster.

Apparently, she was even worse at goodbyes than I was. And I didn’t even get a chance to wave to my jacket, which was the real crime. I loved that jacket.

“Right this way, sir,” Berry said, waving a pudgy, blue-stained hand toward the towering troll-guards presiding over the employees’ door.

When we got closer, the two meatheads snapped to attention, their beady black eyes fixing first on me, then on Berry. “Sir,” they growled as one. “Do you need assistance?”

“Yes, in fact. This man here is one of the lucky winners—a big winner. The floor manager has decided to treat him to a free night in the hotel. In the Black Suite. Please escort him, won’t you? And make sure he gets the full-service treatment.” Berry smiled at me, then waved me toward the door. “Please enjoy your stay, sir. They’ll show you to your room.”

The sentries pushed open the doors, revealing a carpeted hallway lined with doors. “Please come this way, sir,” the thug on the right said, his fists clenched tight.

This wasn’t how I’d expected things to go down, but I complied, muttering a silent prayer that good ol’ Berry was really on the level. I stepped into the hall first, followed immediately by both guards. As soon as the brown doors swung shut, a giant fist flew in from left field and smashed into my jaw like a brick. I stumbled into the wall, shell-shocked and confused, only to receive a furious hook to the ribs, which doubled me over.

Before I could even think, one of the goons shoved me to the floor, wrenched my arms behind my back, and slapped cold metal shackles around my wrists. The other one slipped a coarse black bag over my head, which blocked out all light and muffled sounds. I lay on the carpet moaning from the blows as they thoroughly frisked me, checking my pockets, ripping off my boots, even shredding my shirt. Assholes.

Then, once that was done, the goons chuckled—both deep guttural sounds—as one lifted me from the floor and slung me over a fatty shoulder, which jabbed into my gut like a fist. “Come on, lucky winner. Time to get you to your complimentary room.”

THIRTY-TWO:

Colosseum

“Get your ass moving,” a gruff voice growled at me as the door to my cell swung open, letting in a splash of dim firelight, which was still painful to my eye after the complete dark they’d kept me in. I squinted, rubbed at my face, and pushed my knees away from my chest. The prison cell, lovingly called a Black Suite by the guards, wasn’t much more than a concrete box, four feet by four feet. Not enough room to lie down, not enough room to stand up, and nothing to sit on except cold stone.

There was a wooden bucket in the corner that served as a toilet, but that was the extent of the lavish furnishings. It was hard to say how long I’d been in custody, maybe a day if I had to guess, but I was glad it wasn’t another minute longer. I’d heard some of the guards chitchatting through the door, and apparently, they kept people in these things for months before the Reckoning—it just depended on when you got snatched up for the games. I shuddered involuntarily at the thought.

“Get your ass moving,” the guard said again, annoyed. “Don’t make me come in there, shithead, or you’ll regret it.”

I crawled on hands and knees into a hallway fashioned after a medieval dungeon: all old stone walls, hanging chains, and flickering torches set on black iron wall sconces.

The guard—a lanky Hellion with waxy skin stretched so tight he looked more skeleton than man—booted me in the ribs for not moving fast enough. I coughed up blood as he promptly hauled me to my feet with a deceptive strength that left a vivid bruise on my bicep. “Do you wanna be chained, boy?” he asked. “Do you wanna go into the arena without eyes or ears to see? Keep movin’ slow and I’ll see that it happens.”

Once again a flash of rage reared up in my chest, but I stomped it down and dropped my gaze. “No, sir,” I mumbled.

The guard grumbled something about turds and morons and pushed me into motion. I passed a host of boxy cells identical to the one I’d stayed in, through a massive iron gate that squealed like a giant rat when the guard pushed it open, and into a long rectangular room with a steep ramp leading up the far wall. The room was poorly lit like the rest of the shithole prison, but there were people here, sitting on creaky wooden benches running along the walls. Twenty of ’em at a glance.

There were also racks filled with weapons and armor, running along the center of the room. Not conventional weapons or armor, just old, shitty, rusted stuff that had seen its best days two hundred years ago.

The people on the benches, all presumably prisoners bound for the Reckoning, were already geared up and somber-faced. The lanky guard shoved me again. “Don’t just stand there, pretty boy. You’ve got five minutes until the first round starts, and if you aren’t ready, I’ll gladly send you out there naked as the day you died.” One more harsh shove sent me stumbling forward as the gate clanged shut behind me, the sound echoing through the room. I stole a hasty glance around. We were alone—no guards in sight—but there was no place to go except the ramp, and everyone knew what waited up there.

No one spoke to me as I headed over to the racks.

Armor came first.

I spotted a couple of metal breastplates riddled with puncture marks and rusty enough to make tetanus a genuine concern. Worse, they were bulky. Yeah, pass. I kept right on looking until I found a brown leather cuirass covered with brass rivets and straps. The armor was old, the leather cracked and worn in places, but serviceable, light, and relatively flexible. Good for movement. It wouldn’t provide me the protection a full plate of metal would, but it was a helluva lot better than fighting shirtless.

The copious bloodstains were a bit worrisome, though.

I slipped it over my head, wriggling it into place, then adjusting and readjusting the straps until everything was more or less where it was supposed to be.

Next came a helmet, the most important bit since Asmodeus knew my face even if most Hellions didn’t. There wasn’t a lot of selection, but you know what they say: prisoners forced to fight against their will in an Infernal colosseum can’t be choosers. Or something along those lines. I snagged a dented Viking-style helmet with curling ram’s horns. It was trimmed with gray fur and had a leather faceplate concealing the eyes and nose. It was about the most I could hope for. I slipped it on, feeling relieved that it fit okay, and buckled on the thin chin strap.

Last came weapons.

The assholes on the bench had already taken all the good stuff, but partially buried beneath a score of rusted-out halberds and morning stars, which looked one hit away from disintegrating into dust, was a sword. Nothing fancy. Not a katana, and certainly not a rune-etched blade of badassery, but something that would do the job. A Roman gladius with a grimy blade and a wooden handle. I picked it up, gave a few practice swings—which earned me some dirty looks from my fellow inmates—then nodded.

I headed over to an empty spot on the bench, but just as I turned to sit, the metal gate screeched open again, admitting fifteen guards all carrying sawed-off shotties and riot shields. They weren’t taking any chances here. “On your feet, dick-whores,” the lanky guard who’d escorted me in bellowed. “And don’t even think about tryin’ anything funny. I won’t hesitate, not for a second, to fill you full of shotgun slugs before tossing your sorry asses into the games.”

The rest of the prisoners—quiet, brooding, faces downcast in utter defeat—stood and moved to the ramp, lining up in two columns. Almost as though they’d seen this show before, though probably from the stands instead of inside this shitty, dank little room. I dropped my head too, not wanting to start my day off with a belly full of buckshot, and followed along, taking a spot at the end of the right-hand column. I gripped my battered gladius in a white-knuckled hand as the giant iron gate portcullis at the end of the ramp lurched up and green light flooded in.

“Move!” the guards commanded.

Up we went, climbing the sloping ramp into the nightmare colosseum, where most of us would likely die.

A cacophony of sound hit me in the face as we emerged into the dusty sands. The stands were packed full of Hellions, and all of them seemed to be on their feet, arms waving frantically in the air as they chanted and screamed, all of them eager for death and bloodshed despite the fact that Hell seemed to be nothing but death and bloodshed. You’d think these people would want something else, a reprieve from their shitty lives.

But no.

They just wanted to see someone else do the suffering for a little while.

A short vacation from their own misery.

I scanned the faces in the crowd. The upper echelons of the stadium were almost impossible to see clearly from the arena floor, but that was where all the regular, Joe-Blow Hellions were. If everything was going according to plan, that’s also where Heckabe should be—standing by with a remote detonator.

The seats closer in, however, were another story entirely.

Not only could I see the spectators, but it was painfully clear there was nothing average about ’em. The lower levels were filled with demons of all kinds, accompanied by their entourages. Some of them were beautiful—almost angelic—with flawless skin, gorgeous white wings, and flowing togas. Others, not so much: Hulking creatures with bat wings and too many teeth. Spindly monsters covered in swollen red eyes. Fur. Fangs. Scales. Claws. Everything in between.

Unfortunately, the Imperial Podium was painfully empty.

Asmodeus wasn’t here, and that meant I’d need to weather whatever shenanigans they had in store for me until he arrived.

Great.

The gate crashed down behind us with an echoing boom, kicking up a cloud of dust as we headed into the center of the giant ring. I ripped my gaze away from the morbid spectators and glanced up at the sky overhead. Though this was almost a mirror copy of the colosseum I’d seen in Azazel’s portion of my brainscape, there was one significant difference. Directly above me was a giant jade column of light, swirling slowly like a giant twister. Standing here, bathed in its glow, I could feel its gentle pull against my body.

I was standing at the mouth of the gateway outta this place.

This was it. This was everything. Now all I needed to do was survive long enough to kill Asmodeus, jack his key, collect Levi, and get outta Dodge.

“Welcome to the two thousand twenty-seventh annual Flesh Reckoning,” a voice boomed out over the crowd, amplified by a construct of pure Nox. The speaker was a woman, short and curvy, and perfect in every regard. Except she didn’t have a face. Yep, definitely no face. Where her features should’ve been was an empty black void, as though someone had taken a giant ice-cream scoop to her head.

“The Reckoning is a time to celebrate,” she said, despite not having a mouth. “A time to feast! To fight! To fuck! A time to revel in the pleasures and pain of the Flesh. To indulge in the greatest Spectacle of Flesh in all Nine Hells!” The crowd boomed in thunderous applause. “Please welcome our first wave of cannon fodder, brought here for your amusement.” She swept a hand toward my group. “A warm-up to whet the appetite of our hungry sands and ravenous fans.”

More applause, fierce and sharp.

“Yet,” she said, raising slender arms high, radiating dark power into the air, which instantly quieted the crowd to a low mummer. I didn’t know who this lady was, but damn did she scare the bejesus outta me. “Yet,” she said again, “let it never be said His Lordship Asmodeus does not appreciate the strength of the conqueror. You worthless things”—she intoned, turning her empty face on my fellow prisoners and me—“fight hard. Survive. Prove your fitness to live, and in doing so, earn a pardon.

“If you have the resolve and prowess to endure our illustrious competition, you’ll be exiled from Pandæmonium, but allowed to live out your days on one of the other levels of the Great Inferno. But fail …” She paused, letting the words linger in the air like a question. “And the Bone Collector waits below to harvest your pitiful bodies and enslave your souls into the stones of the Nekropolis.” Frantic, wild cheering went up this time, the clapping of hands as loud as a thunderstorm. “And now, without further ado, let the games begin!”

Across from us, a steel portcullis lurched up with a shriek, but instead of discharging more pitiful prisoners, a deafening bellow rang out. The ground vibrated and trembled as monsters exploded from a connecting ramp and onto the sands. “Hailing from the Dark Wood on the edge of the First Circle,” the announcer said, “welcome the Hetmalisko!”

For a second, my mind reeled, unsure what I was seeing, or what I was supposed to do. These creatures—two of them, each the size of a semi—were equal parts T. rex and houseplant. Seriously. Towering reptilian creatures built entirely of rotten leaves, twisting vines, dense bark, and wicked thorns. Friggin’ Tree-Rexes is what they were. Shit. And holy crap were they mad as hell. They charged our group, giant claws tearing great ruts in the earth, their maws stretched wide.

Yay for my life.

THIRTY-THREE:

Tree-Rexes

The prisoners around me broke like fine china, scattering in every direction. Some screamed for mercy, darting toward the towering arena walls as if salvation might be found there. Others retreated, not so much running toward anything, but rather running away from the creatures. Running, however, didn’t work so well because these things were fast. Giant feet ate up the distance, and in seconds the first Twig-Dino was looming over a portly Hellion in chainmail. The man turned on a heel, raising a pike as the last line of defense, which did absolutely nothing.

The creature batted the puny weapon aside and shot in with its massive jaws thrown wide. The prisoner shrieked as the jaws smashed closed, severing the Hellion in two, his upper half vanishing down the creature’s throat, the other half flopping to the sands.

Check. Plants or not, these things were killing machines.

Killing these things without fancy constructs was gonna be next to impossible on my own. To survive, my fellow prisoners and I would need to work together. Thankfully, a few of the other inmates realized the same thing. A tight pocket of resistance, four strong, formed up in the middle of the pit, their weapons drawn and at the ready. I bolted toward them without a second thought: they were my best chance of surviving this shitstorm. I slid to a stop and heard the bone-shaking roar of one of the creatures behind me.

I wheeled around, eyes wide, sword raised, bracing myself for an attack.

But the creature was fifteen feet away, harassing another prisoner—a scrawny woman in ill-fitting plate mail with a mace. She took a sloppy swing, but the Tree-Rex caught her arm in its tremendous jaws. I winced, fully expecting the limb to come away in a spurt of blood. But no. The creature flicked its head straight up, launching the woman like a rocket into the air. She seemed to float for a long moment, but then her body arched, and back down she came like a stone. The creature was waiting directly below, its face turned upward, its mouth wide and ready.

It was like watching a late-night drunk toss Cheetos to himself at the bar—except, you know, people, not Cheetos.

She vanished down the Vine-osaurs’ throat in a single gulp, and before the man-eater even had a chance to digest the meal, the creature was moving on, running down another victim, alone and woefully ill-prepared for the fight. I looked away, turning back to the second monster, quickly closing in on my group. “Brace yourselves,” a hulking ogre with blister-red skin shouted. The ogre planted his feet and turned his shoulders into the oncoming creature, raising a thick square shield into position.

Because physics matter, I knew exactly how that match-up was gonna go.

“On three, everyone needs to scatter and go for the legs,” I yelled. “If we hobble this thing, we have a chance to win.” The ogre on point shot me a nastygram over one shoulder, but I ignored the look—it was already too late for him, he never stood a chance. The creature lowered its thick head and used its snout as a battering ram, slamming into the shield and flinging the poor ogre halfway across the arena like a punted football.

I was already moving, diving to the right, avoiding a smashing foot by inches. I wasn’t lucky enough to avoid a wicked barb on its lashing tail, however. A line of fire exploded along the sole of my left foot as I rolled, and by the time I was upright, a small puddle of blood was already soaking into the sand beneath me. I ignored the pain, though. The Tree-Rex was busy digging into the guts of a man with goat horns, and I had a mostly clear shot at one of its legs.

Even better, another fighter—a beefcake black woman who vaguely reminded me of Ma Rainey—had taken my advice. She caught my eye and nodded, shooting in with a heavy double-bladed axe in her hands. I followed suit, bolting forward as I slashed at a thick clump of vines acting as ligament tissue between the upper and lower portion of the leg. The gladius, though rusty, pitted, and built for stabbing, had a damned good edge to it.

I sliced through a thick section of vegetation; hopefully a crippling blow. At the same time, the Hellion woman opposite me carved through most of the other leg in a single powerhouse chop. That leg, now held together only by a thin clump of vines, bowed under the weight of the monster. The Tree-Rex pitched forward, its massive jaws slamming into the ground in a spray of debris. Even down, though, it was still a force of nature, pulling itself along with its gimpy arms and its broken leg, jaws closing around another Hellion.

Not on my watch. “Go for the neck!” I roared at the woman while bounding forward. In four quick steps, I was next to the creature’s impressive snout. The man in its jaws was desperately trying to pull himself free, panic etched into the lines of his face as he clawed at the dirt and kicked at the creature’s nose with his free foot. But his other leg was lodged just below the kneecap, and the Killer Plant didn’t seem to have any intention of letting go.

It was time to change that.

With a snarl, I thrust the blade into one of the creature’s burning red eyes, driving it all the way to the wooden guard. On reflex the Tree-Rex's mouth popped open, letting out an ear-splitting roar, one part pain, one part fury, as it thrashed its head back and forth. The man wasted no time, pulling himself out of range, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Miraculously, his leg was still intact, though peppered with thick teeth wounds that almost resembled the bite of a great white.

If a great white was three times bigger.

The creature thrashed again, bucking wildly, but only for a second. A giant axe blade screamed through the air, sinking into its thick neck. The Tree-Rex was far too large to decapitate with a single blow, but whatever the axe hit was vital. The monster’s whole body seized up before exploding into a fit of violent spasms, sea-green foam oozing from beneath its teeth.

It fell still a moment later, the body seeming to deflate and melt away in double time: vines sagged and withered, leaves died, curling into blackened husks, and thorny barbs disintegrated before my eyes. I pulled my sword free, not wanting to lose the blade to the supernatural decay, and backpedaled. Once the creature was little more than a sludgy pile of green and brown, I wheeled right, preparing to take out the second Vine-osaur.

But much to my surprise, the other creature was down too, its legs hacked out from beneath it, while a trio of prisoners stabbed the shit out of it with swords and spears. It was still alive, but not for much longer. There were some survivors in this group—though only some. Of the twenty or so Hellions that’d marched into this nightmare, only eight of us remained. The attrition rate wasn’t so hot, especially considering this was only the first round.

The easy round.

And if this was the warm-up act, what did these sadistic pricks have in store for the finale? I didn’t want to know and prayed I wouldn’t have to find out.

The crowd let out a cheer as the second Tree-Rex finally expired, melting into a mess best taken care of with a mop and a bucket—a very large mop, and a very large bucket.

“Now that,” roared the female announcer, “is exactly the kind of fighting and showmanship we are looking for. Let’s give our spirited combatants a hearty round of applause.” The crowd was more than happy to oblige her, their cheers sounding like a hailstorm pounding against a tin roof. “And now that everyone is thoroughly warmed up and ready for the real show to begin, let us all stand for our great benefactor, and the King of Pandæmonium, Asmodeus!”

Somehow—almost impossibly—the crowd went even crazier, screaming at the top of their lungs, pumping fists in the air, and stomping feet or cloven hooves against black stone. I turned toward the Imperial Podium as a creature slithered onto the platform; the bottom dropped out of my stomach. I’d seen a lot of demons so far during my time in Hell, but I hadn’t seen anything quite like Asmodeus.

He was at least twenty feet tall—his skin a mottled, pasty white—and he crept forward on an army of fat squid tentacles. He had four arms each, like obese, dangling pythons, which nearly dragged on the floor as he moved. His face was flat and somehow reptilian, accentuated by a missing nose, the narrow eyes of a viper, and a flickering black tongue, which reminded me of the Flesh Eaters. Limp, fleshy wings protruded from his back, but just one look told me this creature wasn’t built to fly.

Maybe once upon a time, but no longer.

Asmodeus didn’t wear clothes, which was plenty disturbing, but he did wear plenty of jewels. A silver crown, bedazzled with shining gems, adorned his head, and thick rings festooned each finger, studded with diamonds and rough-cut blood rubies. He was subtle, Asmodeus—a very down-to-earth guy who valued the simple things in life. The real prize, though, hung on a thick iron chain around his neck: a silver, circular medallion, the size of my closed fist, pulsing with green light. The key to the gates of Hell.

There were only nine of those bad boys—one held by the ruler of each level of the Pit—and with that in hand, I could blow this popsicle stand for good.

My eyes widened slightly as a pair of Flesh Eaters made their way onto the podium with old Asmodeus, flanking the demon lord on either side as they scanned the crowd. One of them was none other than the assface with the bright pink liberty spikes from the saloon. Man, was that guy gonna get it if I had a say in how things went down.

“Now that our Lord has come,” the announcer boomed, “let’s kick off the second round. Open the gates!” As she spoke, a host of metal portcullises shot open around the colosseum, ready to spew new horrors into the arena for us stalwart prisoners to battle …

Except, nothing came out. No new fighters. No new animals. A whole lot of nothing. The prisoners around me turned hesitantly, trying to watch every gate at once. Meanwhile, the crowd grew restless, and the demonic movers and shakers in the first several rows shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Asmodeus just looked pissed.

“Unleash the animals!” the announcer shrieked, flapping her arms as though this were all still part of the show, even though she was fooling absolutely no one.

“Everyone,” I hissed at the few remaining inmates around me. “Things are about to get real, real crazy in here. If you want a chance at living, it’s time to go now. There won’t be any creatures waiting in those tunnels. Get out while you can.”

For a moment, none of them spoke or moved, but something on my face must’ve convinced them. The woman with the bulky battle-axe nodded and offered me a tight-lipped smile before beelining for the nearest open gate. The rest of the prisoners took a long, skeptical look at me, then reluctantly followed. A wise choice. The crowd’s restlessness grew, and in seconds the first wave of boos trickled down. Those boos grew louder and more persistent until it seemed like the Hellions on the upper deck were on the verge of rioting, but then those boos changed.

Morphed.

Transforming into screams of panic and pain as a commotion broke out in the higher levels of the stadium.

Only it wasn’t some barroom brawl, it was the beginning of the end for these shithead demons and the assorted Hellions reveling in the suffering of others. Suddenly, people in the upper ranks were fleeing as skeletal Bone Revenants flooded in, murdering anyone in their way with reckless abandon. The demons below stood, straining their eyes upward, trying to understand what was happening. But all they had to do was wait a few seconds, ’cause their turn was coming, and it was coming fast.

THIRTY-FOUR:

Distraction

A demon lord in black plate mail issued an angry warning cry as the first Tree-Rex broke through a spectator breezeway and directly into one section of the Big Wig seating. He pulled a sword, but was half a beat too slow as the Tree-Rex lunged, its enormous mouth clamping down over his horn-studded head. A spurt of blood rose from a stumpy neck, and the demon toppled, his arms still waving in the air—a reminder that demons are made of damned stern stuff.

More Tree-Rexes broke into the stands, followed by a host of other hellish creatures, all of which had been locked away in the cages below for the games. Out came giant rhino-like creatures with pebbled hides and a single twisted spike of ebony sharper than a surgeon’s scalpel. Friggin’ unicorns. A whole herd of ’em. Then there were lions the size of grizzlies, with manes of pure red flame flickering around their heads like halos. There was even a twelve-foot-tall ostrich covered in scales and sporting pointed teeth as big as steak knives.

In moments, everything was blood and chaos, screaming and madness.

Then to top it all off, Levi broke into the lower level, thirty feet from Asmodeus, careening into a tight pocket of demon lords and ladies, who’d formed into a loose defensive ring. He was impossible to miss since he was riding on top of the Bone Collector in all his ghoulish, scorpion glory. The MudMan was in his flabby gray form, and he didn’t sit. Oh no, he surfed on top of the Bone Collector, his feet planted wide, a sadistic grin stretching across his face. He had a brown leather bandolier running from shoulder to hip, and in it were a variety of small clay pots.

A lesser Hellion threw herself at the Bone Collector from the upper decks, but its wrecking-ball tail caught the unfortunate soul mid-leap, batting her through the air like a tennis ball. Levi didn’t even seem to notice. The Bone Collector continued on its rampage, claws lashing out, tail acting as a deadly battering ram, while Levi calmly pulled the pots from their pouches and took aim. He threw like a major league pitcher, and whenever a pot landed, it exploded in a shower of golden ichor, which quickly morphed into something new.

Black obsidian spikes erupted beneath the feet of a petite demoness with green skin and white hair, pinning her in place as she screamed. Another pot burst, spewing out red-hot magma, which scorched arms and legs, burning through armor like it was paper. It was amazing to watch.

But I had a demon of my own to deal with.

I ripped my eyes away from the butchery and sprinted, balls to the wall, toward Asmodeus, who was slinking away, not even putting up a pretense of battle. I skidded to a halt ten feet from the retaining wall, threw one hand forward, and unleashed a lance of violet Nox and burning Vis as thick as my wrist. The construct sliced through the air like a scalpel and slammed into Asmodeus’ back, punching a small hole in his doughy white flesh.

The Demon King roared and wheeled around, hate and rage dashing across his inhuman, serpentine features. “Who dares attack the King of Pandæmonium!” His eyes fixed on me as his lips pulled back, revealing row after row of giant shark-teeth, black with old rot.

I grabbed the helmet covering my face and tossed it to the side, staring up at him long and hard, making sure he could see me. Really see me. His gaze seemed to pin me in place, parceling me up, wheels turning as he put it all together.

“Azazel,” he cursed, hands flexing open and closed. “You did this. All of this.”

“Close enough, pal!” I yelled back at him, conjuring a fireball and letting it linger above my left palm for effect, raising my sword with the right. Playing up the dramatic reveal. “I’m here to wipe your smarmy, two-faced, self-serving bitch-ass off the face of the map, son. Pax per sanguinem is the way of Hell, partner. Prove you’re fit to rule or vacate the throne and hand over the key. Time to put up or shut up, you douchenoodle.”

I could see the uncertainty in his face—clearly, this was a demon who only liked to play if he had a sure thing—but he couldn’t turn away from me, not here and now. Sure, a lot of the top demon brass were distracted by the animal escape, but enough would see his weakness, and weakness in Hell was no beuno. Weakness brought out the jackals. If he didn’t stop me right now, the Succubus Queen would be on the throne inside a week. Still, though, he hesitated, no doubt calculating the odds.

So I did something to help decide things.

I dismissed the fireball, bent over, scooped up a handful of colosseum dirt and used a trickle of Vis to transform it into a mudball. Then I threw that mudball with every ounce of power I could muster, helping it along with a subtle working of wind.

It splattered directly across Asmodeus’ face, turning a patch of white skin goopy gray.

“Yep, a great big ol’ chicken shit, just like I’ve been telling everyone that’ll listen. Here you are, in your seat of power, and you still won’t take on little ol’ me in shitty armor with nothing more than a sword to my name and a few magic tricks.” I paused, cocked an eyebrow at him, then I said the words I knew would get beneath his skin. “The Succubus Queen was right about you. You’re a dickless, spineless loser.”

And that was it. With a maddened roar, he lurched forward like a blob of Jell-O spilling from a bowl. His tentacle legs slithered over the Imperial Podium railing and down he flopped, landing in the dirt with a thud that sent a quiver up into my legs. And his Flesh Eater pals followed, leaping down like bondage ninjas, ready to do battle. Not that I was worried about them—not with all the surprises I had waiting in the wings.

“Yeah, that’s right, shitheel, come on over here and get some.” I raised the sword in defiance, lips pulled back as he scuttled toward me with lightning speed.

Just when I was starting to get nervous, a deep, dull BOOM shook the air and rattled the colosseum hard enough to knock me off my feet. For a moment, it felt like I was standing on the back of a giant who’d just woken from a long nap and decided it was time to get up and stretch sore muscles. Then, in a blink, the floor was gone, and my stomach exploded with butterflies doing aerial drills as I fell. I saw the same shock splash across Asmodeus’ face and felt a brief surge of primal satisfaction.

Good. Time for this guy to go.

Using the Vis pumping through my body, I wove an intricate construct of air and water, infused with the strength and suppleness of Nox. A shimmering dome of shifting green—emerald to pine to jade, and back again—popped to life, encompassing me in a tight globe of power, which exerted a slight pressure against my body. The construct was a small safeguard against pointy things and an air pocket to cushion my body from the inevitable impact.

I squeezed my eye shut tight and held my breath. A second later, I smashed into the ground, my neck jerking as the force of the fall pushed the air from my chest, and sent a wave of fire into my back and ribs. The construct absorbed the brunt of the fall, but not all of it. The working, strained by the impact, popped, unleashing a torrent of powerful air that kicked up a mini dust devil in its wake. As much as I wanted to lie there groaning, I couldn’t afford to.

Nope, this was the home stretch.

I rolled onto my stomach, ignoring my pain, pushed myself upright, and took a single second to survey the scene behind me. Although we were still technically on the colosseum floor, that floor was now inside the cavernous Nekropolis, where we’d battled the Bone Collector. Damn, Levi was good. I’d been skeptical this would work, but boy did that golem know a thing or two about the ground.

Meanwhile, Asmodeus and his two goons were lying on the floor, looking completely baffled and thunderstruck by what had just happened—frankly, they looked like victims of some awful natural disaster.

Tornado Lazarus.

While they were trying to figure out what in the holy Hell had just happened and where exactly they were, I sprinted toward the cavern entryway and—more importantly—toward the unfinished section of Levi’s golden containment circle. I baseball-slid to a stop, knees biting into bone shards, and hastily grabbed at a clay pot full of ichor, which Levi had stashed near the wall. I stole another look over my shoulder. Asmodeus and his boys were moving now, slowly gaining their feet—or tentacles in the Demon King’s case.

I unstoppered the jar and tilted it to the side, splashing a bit of golden blood onto my fingertips, the metallic scent wafting up to my nose.

“What is this?” Asmodeus demanded, his voice as loud and domineering as a foghorn on an aircraft carrier. “What have you done to my colosseum?”

I ignored him, even though sweat beaded on my forehead, and my heart thundered, beating a million miles per hour. Was I gonna lock myself in here with this asshole? Almost of their own volition, my fingers closed the golden circle and scribbled the missing Hebraic symbol into place just as Levi had shown me. The instant I finished tracing out the letter, the whole world filled with a terrible buzz as the epic containment seal burst to life, golden light shooting straight up, radiating into the air.

Unlike Levi’s other containment shields, this one covered every inch of the cavern and arched fifty feet into the air, forming a flawless dome above us. And though I couldn’t see it, Levi had assured me the dome went fifty feet down as well, creating a perfect sphere, impenetrable by anything demonic—including the Flesh Eaters and yours truly. At this point, the only person who could get through the shimmering barrier of power was Levi, and he was somewhere up above, raining down holy terror and murderous justice from the back of a giant sentient scorpion.

“I’ve just evened the odds, dickwad,” I said, spinning toward the demon lord and his goons. “Now it’s just us. No backup. No escape. And instead of being in your seat of power”—I paused and glanced around—“we’re in mine.”

“Kill the usurper,” Asmodeus yelled, throwing one huge hand forward. The two Flesh Eaters shot toward me like bullets, but I just offered them a lopsided smile and made for a small pile of human skulls stacked nearby—their foreheads decorated with Sharpie, their empty eye sockets glowing with soft light. I picked one up, turned it over in my hands, then fast-balled it into a stout and powerfully built Flesh Eater with broad shoulders and rippling muscles.

The Flesh Eater’s hand flashed out to bat the incoming skull aside—

Another boom, accompanied by a blinding flash of blue-white light, filled the room as pieces of Flesh Eater rained down like gory confetti. The little skull-bombs were better than hand grenades, and since I’d stored the power inside the sigils on the foreheads, they cost me nothing to use. The next Flesh Eater changed course, zigzagging his steps. I hefted another pair of skulls from the pile and lobbed the first one. Liberty Spikes was quick as a cockroach and somehow managed to juke and spin, avoiding the devastating blast that left a scorched crater on the floor.

But I had another skull ready and waiting.

This one I pitched into his path, about four feet in front of him.

He was quick, but not quite quick enough.

That one burst too, but instead of a deadly fireball, a wave of curling, white mist flooded up like a geyser of steam. This steam bank wasn’t hot, though. Even from fifteen feet away, I could feel the finger-numbing cold as the white cloud danced and swirled. When the mist faded a moment later, Liberty Spikes was stuck and unmoving, his legs flash-frozen into worthless meat-popsicles. The creature struggled to move, but its skin was rigid and black with frostbite; no amount of wiggling was gonna fix what ailed him.

Which suited me just fine. After all, this guy had helped torch the Crossroad—he had everything coming to him and then some.

Before I could finish him off, however, a giant beam of purple fire, bigger than a sewer pipe, exploded toward me, courtesy of Asmodeus’ outstretched palm. Unfortunately for the Flesh Eater, he was directly between the Demon King and me, and that beam of searing death didn’t discriminate between friend and foe. The hapless goon went up in a sooty puff of black, and the cloying scent of burning meat wafted up. But this was Hell, I reminded myself—he’d probably walk that off given enough time.

I wouldn’t though, so I threw myself to the right, avoiding the beam and rolling back to my feet, right next to another pile of inscribed skulls.

I picked up two, one for each hand, and darted toward Asmodeus.

“We don’t need to do this,” the Demon King said as he slunk forward on his forest of fleshy tentacles. “You’ve proven yourself amazingly resilient—there is a place for you in my cabinet. Or, if you’re more ambitious than that, I could help you take out another of the Great Monarchs. Perhaps even the Morning Star himself.”

I ignored him and his bullshit speech. He was speaking out of fear—he knew how bad this looked for him. “Eat a dick,” I yelled, lobbing the first skull.

THIRTY-FIVE:

Death Shot

Asmodeus was a slow learner, because a wriggling tentacle met the skull midair; the skull exploded on contact, obliterating a chunk of flesh, leaving behind a gnarly wound, which promptly began leaking black blood all over the damned ground. The Demon King howled, unleashing a wave of Nox like a tsunami, powerful enough to take out a friggin’ dragon. Under other circumstances, I would’ve been worried. Instead, I backpedaled, pressed myself against the wall, and triggered one of the myriad of runic sigils I’d painstakingly scrawled onto the sandstone.

With an uttered word, obex, the sigil flared to life, unleashing a powerful barrier construct. A dome of shimmering blue burst from the wall, enveloping me in a bubble of protection seconds before Asmodeus’ construct landed like a wrecking ball. The waves of Nox battered against the barrier, momentarily transforming into a blazing wall of light. But though the sheer size of the Demon King’s construct was supremely impressive, it was unfocused, and quickly lost its staying power.

The flames died, and with a whisper of will, I dismissed the barrier around me, juking right as I hurled the second skull.

Asmodeus was smarter this time, conjuring a hasty force shield, similar to the one I’d just sheltered behind. The makeshift bomb exploded with exuberant force, but with the barrier in place, it did all of jack shit.

“Let’s see you stop this one, Dick-cheese,” I shouted, triggering a hundred different sigils running along the back wall, directly behind Asmodeus. The world shook as all of those offensive wards released their power in the same instant.

A freight train of raw, unseen force shot out like a giant’s closed fist, smashing into the Demon King with enough power to lift him into the air and slam him down, temporarily pinning him against the ground as incredible pressure crushed him like a mountain. An attack like that would’ve killed any mortal outright—flattened ’em into a pancake—but Asmodeus glowered and fought, his muscles bulging and straining against the force bearing down on him. He might have been the King of Luxury, but he was also one tough SOB.

I used the scant time I had while he was pinned down to bolt along the edge of the golden barrier, circling the cavern, heading for the small section of wall burning with soft crimson light: the storage compartment for the pistol—no, the scythe. I slipped my hand into the divot, invisible to everyone but me, and fished the hand cannon out as a surge of relief invaded my body. It was here. We’d done it. And sure, Asmodeus was still kicking, and kicking hard, but we had a chance.

I shoved the weapon into the back of my pants, then bent over and picked up another pair of skulls stashed along the wall. There was a huge thud as Asmodeus finally broke through the construct holding him down, gaining his feet like a weary prizefighter after a five-count. “I’ll strip the flesh and meat from your bones,” Asmodeus growled, turning toward me with hate written into every line of his inhuman face and body.

“Strip this, asshole,” I said, hurling another skull.

This time the Demon King didn’t even bother with a shield; the bone-bomb detonated against one of his tentacles, blowing away a wheelbarrow-sized hunk of pasty flesh. But he kept right on charging with an inarticulate roar, moving with a slithering serpent-like grace despite his tremendous size and bulk. He was hoping to maneuver me into a corner, pin me down, and use his sheer size, strength, and reach to beat the holy-living-shit outta me. And if he did pin me down, he probably would club me into a pile of goop.

I hurled the next skull—the last one within reach.

This one landed with a whomp, unleashing a golden net that burned like the noonday sun. The burning web wrapped around one of his beefy appendages and constricted like a noose, biting deeply into his skin, carving out cubes of pale meat, which fell away as he moved. That had to hurt worse than getting repeatedly shot in the groin with rubber bullets, but Asmodeus didn’t even slow down. Didn’t even seem to notice. He was focused like a laser, ready to murder me in the most painful and horrendous way possible.

I had one last trick up my sleeve, though. Hopefully, it would be enough. It had to be, or I was screwed.

I planted my feet, pulled on the Vis flowing through me, and triggered my last big construct, buried beneath the colosseum floor. The massive sigil might’ve been out of sight, but the power was still there, just waiting. My trickle of energy completed the circuit and unleashed the terrible working: a forest of rocky spears exploded through the colosseum floor, stabbing into Asmodeus’ tentacles, impaling his lower body. Black blood spilled like oil—

But the rocky protrusions cracked and snapped as Asmodeus pressed on like a steamroller. That trap should’ve stopped him cold, but instead, he continued to charge, even though spits of earth skewered his flesh, and he was leaking worse than the Exxon Valdez. Oh shit. I thrust one hand out, unleashing a concentrated beam of violet Nox, which carved deep furrows in his chest and stomach. That didn’t stop him either. In a panic, I dropped the beam and darted left, hoping to outmaneuver him, but he was close now. So close.

I put on a renewed burst of speed, but a huge tentacle slammed into my calves, sweeping my legs out from beneath me. I crashed face-first into the dirt, trying to break the fall with my palms and forearms, but failing horribly. My nose smacked against the unforgiving ground, and a searing flash of pain erupted in my head as hot blood gushed. A broken nose. Exactly what I needed at the moment. I reached up on instinct to staunch the flow, but I should’ve been moving instead.

That careless move cost me precious time.

A tentacle slid beneath me and locked around one leg, cinching down like a vise. I struggled and fought, bucking and kicking, but it was too late. Asmodeus lifted me up; suddenly I was dangling upside down by one leg, only a few feet away from his serpentine face. “So much trouble you’ve caused me,” he growled, eyes pressed into thin slits. “You’ve killed esteemed members of my court, ruined my games, and embarrassed me in front of the other great Nobles of Hell. For that, you will pay in eternal suffering.”

Blood leaked down into my eye while he gabbed, making it damn tricky to see. But even through the haze of blood, I realized I wasn’t likely to get a much better shot than this. I was less than three feet from his head—at this range, I couldn’t miss, and though he wasn’t waltzing with death yet, he certainly wasn’t in good shape. I grinned as he droned on, right hand shooting for the pistol. But as soon as my hand wrapped around the grip, I was sailing through the air in a vicious arc.

The tentacle smashed me into the ground; stars exploded across my vision, my ears rang like a bell, and the gun slipped away, clattering across the floor.

“No,” Asmodeus said with a shake of his head. “No more tricks. No more games.” Another tentacle slithered around my neck, squeezing down. I’d come so close. All for nothing. As I lay on my back, dying, I reached up a trembling hand and wiped the blood from my eye. Then, even though I was on the verge of blacking out and I could hardly breathe, I started to laugh. A weak, frail sound, but a laugh all the same.

“What’s so funny?” Asmodeus hissed, his tentacle pressing down even harder on my throat.

I couldn’t talk, so instead, I just offered him a bloody grin and pointed upward with a wobbly finger.

Levi—covered in rocky quartz like medieval armor, with black spikes of obsidian sticking out like thorns—was diving straight toward us with his sledgehammer fists extended.

The MudMan passed through the golden barrier like an arrow and slammed into Asmodeus’ face like a cannonball. The demon lord stumbled as one cheek vanished in a spray of black blood, and down Asmodeus went, Levi clinging to his neck like a giant tick. The pair hit the deck with a boom, a cloud of dust billowing up around them. But the best part was Asmodeus’ tentacles released just enough for me to wriggle free and scramble for the pistol a handful of feet away.

I snatched up the gun and spun, rubbing at my throat, taking a half second to catch my breath while surveying the damage.

Asmodeus was on his back, huge arms waving desperately in the air, trying to swat Levi away, but the MudMan wasn’t having it. Nope. The great, gray murder-machine was kneeling on the Demon King’s chest, his blocky, stone-covered fists raining down devastating blow after devastating blow. Each hit landed with a wet thwack accompanied by a squirt of viscous blood. Levi might not have much of a sense of humor, and he might be weirder than a meth-head hobo, but holy shit could that guy kick some serious ass.

Time to finish this thing, before Asmodeus got a second wind. I broke into a shuffle-footed jog, swerving to avoid Asmodeus’ flailing tentacles as I skirted along the right side of the Demon King’s body. I came to a herky-jerk halt at Asmodeus’ head.

Levi glanced up at me, his fists still firing like pistons, and nodded. Do it.

I felt like there should be some quippy hero line here, but I was tired, sore, sick to death of Hell, and ready to see this shit-sucking demon dead and gone. So instead, I pressed the barrel of the weapon into his temple and pulled the trigger. The gun belched fire, and the bullet plowed through his skull, leaving a black burn and a gaping hole. In an instant, Asmodeus’ thrashing ceased, and purple flame bled from the wound, crawling over pale skin with living awareness, wreathing him in dancing light.

Levi stopped his pummeling, ripped the amulet from the Demon King’s neck, then dove from the body as the purple flame raced over Asmodeus’ neck, down his chest, across his arms, and onto his tentacles. Incinerating him. Killing him. No, more than killing him. Unmaking him. I grinned and lowered the pistol as the Demon King turned to a giant pile of sooty ash.

I glanced at Levi, who was smiling like a loon. He looked … well, happy actually. Or at least almost happy. Content might be a better word. “Why the good mood?” I asked, dropping down onto my ass, rubbing at the bridge of my nose and taking a much-deserved breather. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you look like a bag of literal shit right now,” I said.

His grin widened as he shuffled over to the edge of the golden containment circle and knelt down. “Because we did the right thing, Lazarus. And sometimes doing a little good, even in a bad place, is enough.” He smudged a line of Hebraic script with deft precision, dispelling the golden barrier with a thunderclap of displaced air, which blew away Asmodeus’ remains, leaving behind no trace that the shitheel monster had ever lived. He stood, nodded in satisfaction, then headed my way, helping me to my feet with one broad hand, stained black with blood.

“Now”—he paused and shot me a sly look—“as you are wont to say, let’s blow this popsicle stand.” He said the words far too formally, but I laughed anyway. The guy was trying. He lifted Asmodeus’ amulet into the air, and suddenly the jade beam of light was pulling on us. Lifting us up, up, up, drawing us toward the hellish sky above. We drifted out of the cavernous Nekropolis and into the colosseum proper, surveying the madness still unfolding as we ascended.

The demon lords had formed a proper resistance. Small groups patrolled the arena, killing the most dangerous creatures, before moving on.

But the upper levels of the colosseum were still a mess. Hellions and Revenants duked it out like there was no tomorrow. Blood flew. Bones snapped. Bodies plummeted over the guardrail, smashing on the lower decks like rotten pumpkins. And there, loitering near an exit on the upper level, was Heckabe. We were far enough away that it was hard to tell for sure, but when she turned toward us and offered a brief wave, I knew.

I waved goodbye, feeling a small pang of regret as she disappeared into a pool of inky shadow. Despite a rough beginning, she was alright.

In seconds, Levi and I were above the colosseum, floating up, until all of Pandæmonium stretched out below us like a perfectly rendered map. From this high, I couldn’t see the neon lights or the Hellions packing the streets; it was just black termite mounds, gray dust, and flickering orange fire …

And then that was gone, too …

Everything was burning green light and rushing, hurricane-force winds, and then we were in a circular weather-beaten cave with rough granite walls untouched by human hands. Ten portals surrounded us—each an opalescent shimmer marring the rock face, each marked by a single, burning green rune. Though I didn’t recognize any of the symbols offhand, my mind translated them all the same. Names. The nine great cities of Hell: Dis, Thule, Sodom, Pandæmonium, Niflhel, Diabolus, Babylon, Matabuhr, and Walohr.

And the tenth portal?

The tenth was a name I knew, too. Annwn.

A land in the deepest region of Outworld. Not exactly a fun place to be, but anywhere in Outworld was better than Hell. I slapped Levi on the shoulder, offered him a lopsided grin, and pulled him through the portal, away from Hell, and into the night-darkened, rolling plains of Annwn …

THIRTY-SIX:

Welcome Home

We stepped out onto lush green grass coated with dew that caught the moonlight above, and instantly I felt my hackles rise. It was one thing to escape Hell, but in its way, Annwn wasn’t much better—not with Arawn the Horned roaming around. The guy was batshit crazy, completely unpredictable, and served as a watchman over the gates, ensuring no guilty soul escaped the awful punishments of the Pit. We’d met once before, and I wasn’t eager to relive the experience.

I turned, glancing back at a sleepy town not far off, which could’ve passed as the grounds for a cheesy Renaissance Festival. A worn cobblestone street carved its way through a host of narrow wood-framed houses and shops. Silver starlight played over the shingled roofs. Even from the outskirts, the buildings looked dusty and worn, like the kind of places you might expect to find in some turn-of-the-century German village, tucked away in the backcountry, untouched by the onslaught of the modern world.

I’d spent time in four of the five fae capitals, and Tylwyth-Tir, the capital of Anwnn, land of the Unfettered, was definitely the dullest. At least when it came to looks.

After the last few days, though, I was good with dull. Any more excitement might kill me outright. And thankfully, the street behind us was quiet, the windows all closed and shuttered. No one was moving about, which made sense because during the nights in Anwnn, the Wild Hunt was liable to roam, and no one was safe from the hunt. Not unless you were part of it. My gaze landed on the only genuinely interesting building in the whole village: a gigantic structure at the center of the town cobbled together from old wood, chiseled stone, worn shields, and tattered battle standards.

The Black Lodge.

“High time we get the hell away from this place,” I said to Levi.

We set out across the hills.

Levi, though not exactly fast, could speed walk like nobody’s business and set a demanding pace that quickly left the village as little more than a glimmer on the horizon. But just when I was about to breathe a sigh of relief—sure we’d made a clean getaway—a deep, misty fog rolled in around us, obscuring the landscape, as a distant horn blared, followed by the meaty growls of hunting hellhounds. Levi wheeled in a circle, apparently as unsure about what was happening as I was, then crouched down, digging his fingers into the loamy soil.

“What do we do?” I hissed, pulling on rich, delicious, plentiful Vis while I drew my hand cannon. “Do we run?”

“No,” Levi grunted, glancing up and into the swirling fog. “It’s too late for that, they’re already here.”

“Indeed,” a deep, rich voice boomed. A second later the speaker stepped through the mist. Lord Arawn in the flesh. Unlike the hideous demons of the Great Below, this guy had the rugged good looks of a Greek statue. He was fifteen feet tall, with tussled ebony hair, a wicked set of stag antlers protruding from his head, and black-and-red armor adorned with spikes, chains, hooks, and blades of every shape and size. The guy was basically a mobile torture chamber. “The Hunt moves on the winds, gentlemen. No soul can escape us.”

I spun in a circle, searching for a way out, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Arawn was in front of us, sure, but he wasn’t alone. I raised my pistol to the ready—I wasn’t going back to Hell without a fight.

To our right was a ghostly horse: a decrepit, decaying creature made of dead flesh and gleaming white bones, its eye sockets empty and leaking streams of fog like gray tears. On its back was a headless rider, dressed in tattered finery that would’ve fit right in on the battlefields of the Revolutionary War. Lord Griggs, a Dullahan, and Arawn’s right-hand man. On our left was a whip-thin woman covered in a thousand filthy rags, with dark hair knotted into a multitude of dreads and an ancient golden whistle hanging around her throat. Matilda of the Night, the keeper of the hounds.

And speaking of hounds … Spread out behind us in a loose semicircle were a host of Cwn Annwn. Hellhounds. Charming little fellas, really. They were huge, beefy things that were related to dogs in the same way a house cat is related to a tiger. These things had a lion’s build with blocky heads, crushing hyena jaws, and manes that burned with sulfurous blue flame. Their bodies were covered with bulky muscle, all wrapped in scaly plate mail. The creatures stared at Levi and me through molten yellow eyes, heavy-lidded and sleepy.

Yep, we were boned.

“We’re not souls,” Levi said, standing up nice and straight, squaring his shoulders. “Lady Fate, she told me you have no authority to throw us back in Hell because we don’t belong there. Man is destined to die once, and after comes judgement—that’s the rule. But we”—he waved a fleshy gray hand toward me—“haven’t died. No death. No judgement. No hunting.”

“Yeah, what he said,” I replied. “And also, if any of you sons a bitches get uppity, I swear to God I’ll set you all on fire.”

“Wait,” Arawn said, his amber eyes weighing me. “Those words. I know you. Yancy Lazarus—the Hand of Fate.” He dropped down to one knee so he could get a better look at me. “Yes. Much has changed about you. A hard road you’ve walked since last we spoke, but you are the same.” He paused, nose scrunching up in distaste. “Though you reek of demons.” He shot one hand out, and a huge hellhound materialized from the mist, padding forward with its lips pulled back, revealing deadly black teeth. “Be easy.”

The hound inched up to Levi first, its snout sniffing at him, before finally moving on to me. The beast circled me once, twice, its hot nose pressing against my jeans. Finally, it grunted and slipped away, back to the side of its master.

“You speak true it seems. Neither of you are souls. But you are trespassers on my land, and that makes you eligible for the hunt.”

I tensed, ready to fight, but then he grinned and raised one hand. “Peace, Yancy Lazarus. The smells I smell tell of the grandest story. One of battle and intrigue. I smell Asmodeus, and Hecate. The Bone Collector and the whiff of sulfur. Stranger still, I taste flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood upon you. You have seen Heckabe, daughter of mine?”

I nodded, feeling supremely unsure.

“I’ll strike a compact with you, Yancy Lazarus. I am easily bored. I have seen all manner of things in five thousand years, yet I must know your story. I simply must. Where have you been, and what things have you done, my curious friends?” He glanced at Levi and me in turn. “Tell me a story unlike any I have ever heard spun, and I shall grant you safe passage from my lands. Make me forget the tedium of existence for but a night and I shall even cast you a portal from this place, all the way back to Hub, should you so desire.”

“So, all he has to do is tell a good story?” Levi hedged. “And then you let us go?”

“Just so, my odd friend,” the horned godling replied.

Levi glanced at me and nudged me with a pudgy elbow. “What’ve we got to lose? Besides, you sure like hearing the sound of your own voice. Tell him.”

I grunted, shifted uncertainly on my feet, then cleared my throat.

“So, no shit, there I was …” I started, recounting my rude awakening on the toilet, my brush with Levi, and our subsequent trek through Pandæmonium. I told them about the Flesh Eaters, and my fanboy moment inside the Crossroad Saloon. I recounted my meeting with the Succubus Queen and our raid on the Roller Nation. When I got to the part about Azazel reforging the Reaper’s Scythe, which now rode my side in the form of a gun, everyone scooted back an inch or two, but they still listened.

By the time I was done, Arawn was sitting cross-legged a few feet away from me, his eyes shining like chips of amber, his chin resting in his hands. He looked enthralled. Like a little kid who’d heard the story of Santa Clause for the first time.

“By the gods, that is such a tale,” he finally said, pushing himself to his feet, a faint lopsided grin playing across his lips. “You are a strange mortal, Yancy Lazarus. Twice now you have entered my land unbidden and unwelcome. Twice now, you have entertained me and shall walk away unscathed—a feat no other mortal has ever accomplished. I do not know what the future holds for you, child of chaos, but I’m eager to find out.”

He thrust one hand out, fingers splayed back, and a shimmering portal erupted in the air, showing me a familiar bar, in a familiar corner of the Hub. The Lonely Mountain. “Fare thee well, Yancy Lazarus. Until we meet again.” He paused, eyes hazy and distant. “And somehow I feel certain we will meet again. Thrice cursed, thrice blessed, thrice our fates shall be entwined.”

I offered him a perfunctory bow, mumbled a hasty goodbye, then dragged Levi’s bulky ass through the portal before that crazy asshole could change his mind.

***

Levi and I stood on the sidewalk in front of a posh home a few blocks away from Colosseum Square in the Lower Garden District of the Big Easy. It was night, the moon nearly full overhead, and despite the muggy air of the South, it felt like the arctic after my time in Hell. I mean, sure I was sweating, but I wasn’t actively melting into a flesh puddle from the heat, so that was a huge win in my book.

Honestly, being there felt like an impossible dream. Somehow, we’d beaten Asmodeus, escaped Hell, charmed our way past Arawn the Horned, and gotten back to Inworld. Almost impossible, yet there we were.

I hooked my thumbs into the waist of my new jeans, fresh off the rack, and eyed the house as I puffed on a half-finished cigarette. The place was a sprawling two-story of white brick, edged with dark brown crown molding, blocked in by a huge front porch lined with square columns. Arched windows with heavy drapes lined the first floor, while more windows—these shuttered up nice and tight—adorned the second story. Despite the size of the home, the front yard was rather small, covered in vibrant green grass, edged with carefully manicured bushes, and sealed away from the street with a black wrought iron fence.

The house was a beauty, but not a standout. At least not in the Garden District where all the homes were big, well cared for, and expensive as shit.

Still, I puffed on my smoke, because though the house looked normal, it wasn’t. Maybe it would’ve fooled some Rube, or even the majority of the halfies tromping around the Big Easy, but I was a world-class mage, and I could smell the reek of arcane power from a mile away. Heavy-duty wards and high-powered offensive constructs radiated energy from the yard like the heat from a bonfire.

“It’s okay,” Levi said, nudging my shoulder, his hand that of a dumpy gas station clerk in need of a little sun. I turned and gave him a sidelong look, before nodding and snuffing my cigarette with a minute flow of air. With his hand still on my shoulder, I pushed my way through the gate. From one step to the next, the view changed. The house was still there, but now it looked like something out of a war zone. The white bricks were covered in meticulously painted on symbols:

Some that cast and maintained the elaborate illusion, concealing the premise.

Others that spurred on passersbys, urging them to keep right on moving.

More still that acted as safeguards against scrying.

The lush green grass was gone, replaced by loops of razor wire, which ran in front of raised earth berms. The front door had been reinforced with metal, and the windows were likewise covered with thick steel shutters, studded with heavy rivets. Cameras dotted the perimeter, sweeping left then right, left then right, accompanied by flashing red laser sensors, which would pick up movement even if covered by a veil. High-tech and expensive. On the upper balcony, several fortified machine gun nests looked out on the street—though none of them were currently manned.

I made for the door, Levi trailing behind me, but faltered as a patch of air on the porch shimmered, and a guard stepped out of thin air—except this wasn’t just any guard. Nope, it was a hulking female Sasquatch with burnt auburn fur and a pink bow in her hair. Winona Treesinger. She stared at me with giant emerald eyes, then her mouth opened in shock as she surveyed Levi and me in turn.

“You’re back,” she whispered, the sound like the buzz of a hive of bees. A heartbeat later, she was in front of me, her giant simian arms wrapping around me as she lifted me up in a bone-crushing bear hug that threatened to break ribs. “I told them you would return. Azazel is powerful, but your spirit is strong, Yancy Lazarus. Well-fortified.” She set me down, then scooted back, holding me at arm’s length, surveying me from head to toe. “You looked frayed. Changed from the last time I saw you, but you live, mage. That is good.”

She offered me a brilliant smile, which lit up her whole face, before turning to Levi, folding her hands in front of her chest and bowing deeply. “Cheauka, Brother of the Deep Earth. It is good to see your face again. You have brought him home.” She rushed forward, slinging her arms around Levi in a move that left the poor MudMan squirming, clearly uncomfortable. Obviously, Levi was not a hugger. Reluctantly, she let go, then reached up and wiped a fat tear from beneath her eye.

“Look at me, weeping like a young whelp,” she said, “while you—our honored guests—are forced to remain outside. Come, let me show you in. The War Conclave is in session, but for this, I think they will take a break.”

She turned and loped toward the entrance, her long legs eating up the ground. Levi and I had no choice but to follow. She pushed open the reinforced front door, which thrummed with primal energy—tightly constrained—and ushered us through a neat mudroom with hardwood floors and up a set of wooden stairs to a hallway lined with rooms. We passed a closed door on the left, and a plush bathroom on the right with a claw-foot tub, before finally stopping in front of a plain brown door no different from any of the others.

But once again, appearances could be deceptive. This room was also heavily protected—but with sigils to guard against eavesdropping ears and prying eyes. A perfect command center. Winona stole a quick look at Levi and me, her grin growing even wider, then knocked on the door with the side of her fist, thump, thump, thump. She waited for a count of five. When no one answered, she turned the knob and shouldered her way in.

“Winona,” barked a familiar voice, icy and severe. “We are in War Council—this had better be a matter of life and death.” The door swung all the way in, revealing Arch-Mage Borgstorm, glowering at us from behind an enormous wooden table covered with a slew of maps and papers. She was a striking woman with smooth skin, high cheeks, and bright green eyes, always searching and judging. She opened her mouth to speak, but whatever she was going to say died as she spotted me.

I edged past Winona and headed into the room, feeling dizzy as I swept my gaze around the space. Everyone was there. Ferraro. Greg. Chief Kong. Drukiski. Even Sir Galahad— knight of King Arthur’s Court, and protector of the Holy Grail. They all stared at me, speechless. Thunderstruck. But it was the last man in the room that stopped me dead in my tracks. A sharp-dressed fella with movie-star good looks, thick muscles, and a wavy 1920’s hairdo, who looked like he’d just stepped off the set of The Great Gatsby.

James Sullivan. Battle Mage. Badass. Traitor. And son of a bitch.

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

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If you want to read more awesome Yancy Lazarus adventures right this minute, check out Flashback: Siren Song, and Flashback: The Morrigan—two great Lazarus novellas that offer glimpses into Yancy’s strange and wild past. Already read those? Then be sure to check out MudMan! a novel entirely devoted to the great-gray Murder Machine, Levi Adams!

Yancy Lazarus Reading Order

Strange Magic (Yancy Lazarus Episode One)

Cold Hearted (Yancy Lazarus Episode Two)

Flashback: Siren Song (Yancy Lazarus Episode 2.5)

Wendigo Rising (Yancy Lazarus Episode Three)

Flashback: The Morrigan (Yancy Lazarus Episode 3.5)

Savage Prophet (Yancy Lazarus Episode Four)
Brimstone Blues: A Yancy Lazarus Novel

***

MudMan (A Lazarus World Novel)

Other Works by James A. Hunter

MudMan (A Lazarus World Novel)

***

Viridian Gate Online: Cataclysm (Book 1)

Viridian Gate Online: Crimson Alliance (Book 2)

Viridian Gate Online: The Jade Lord (Book 3)

The Artificer DLC 1.1: A Viridian Gate Online Novel

About the Author

Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s a real thing. I’ve also been a missionary and international aid worker in Bangkok, Thailand. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

Okay … the last one is only in my imagination.

Currently, I’m a stay at home Dad—taking care of my two kids—while also writing full time, making up absurd stories that I hope people will continue to buy. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.

Dedication

This one is for the true-blue Yancy Lazarus fans—the folks who love this series and these wonky characters. I couldn’t do this without your constant support and continual motivation!

Special Thanks

I’d like to thank my wife, Jeanette, and my wonderful kids, Lucy and Sam. They are my constant motivation and inspiration. A special thanks to my parents, Greg and Lori. A quick shout out to my brother Aron and his whole brood—Eve, Brook, Grace, and Collin. Brit, probably you’ll never read this book either, but I love you too. Here’s to the folks of Team Lazarus, my awesome Alpha and Beta readers who helped make this book both possible and good:

Megan Meyers (aka Teal Canary), Bob “Gunslinger” Singer, Dan Goodale, Nell Justice, Jen “Ivana” Wadsworth, Amber McKee, and the amazing eden Hudson—the coolest writer on the planet. They read the messy, early drafts so that no one else had to; thanks guys and gals. And of course a big thanks to my editor, Tamara Blain who rocked this book (if you need editing, go to her, she’s seriously awesome: www.acloserlookediting.com/ ).

—James A. Hunter, October 2017

Copyright

Brimstone Blues: A Yancy Lazarus Novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by James A. Hunter and Shadow Alley Press, Inc.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

JamesAHunter@outlook.com